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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14103-0.txt b/14103-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d6dc696 --- /dev/null +++ b/14103-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3667 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14103 *** + +PROSE FANCIES + +(SECOND SERIES) + +BY + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE + + + +LONDON: JOHN LANE + +CHICAGO: H.S. STONE AND CO. + +1896 + + + + +TO + +MAGGIE LE GALLIENNE + +WITH LOVE + + Poor are the gifts of the poet-- + Nothing but words! + The gifts of kings are gold, + Silver, and flocks and herds, + Garments of strange soft silk, + Feathers of wonderful birds, + Jewels and precious stones, + And horses white as the milk-- + These are the gifts of kings: + But the gifts that the poet brings + Are nothing but words. + + Forty thousand words! + Take them--a gift of flies! + Words that should have been birds, + Words that should have been flowers, + Words that should have been stars + In the eternal skies. + Forty thousand words! + Forty thousand tears-- + All out of two sad eyes. + + + + + CONTENTS PAGE + + A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN, 1 + SPRING BY PARCEL POST, 20 + THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND, 27 + THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET, 39 + VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT, 49 + THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE, 58 + ABOUT THE SECURITIES, 67 + THE BOOM IN YELLOW, 79 + LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN, 90 + A POET IN THE CITY, 98 + BROWN ROSES, 108 + THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR, 112 + ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES, 119 + THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE, 125 + THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX, 135 + THE FALLACY OF A NATION, 145 + THE GREATNESS OF MAN, 154 + DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS, 171 + A SEAPORT IN THE MOON, 187 + + + + +A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN + + +At one end of the city that I love there is a tall, dingy pile of +offices that has evidently seen more prosperous fortunes. It is not the +aristocratic end. It is remote from the lordly street of the fine shops +of the fair women, where in the summer afternoons the gay bank clerks +parade arm-in-arm in the wake of the tempestuous petticoat. It lies +aside from the great exchange which looks like a scene from _Romeo and +Juliet_ in the moonlight, from the town-hall from whose clocked and +gilded cupola ring sweet chimes at midnight, and whence, throned above +the city, a golden Britannia, in the sight of all men, is seen visibly +ruling the waves--while in the square below the death of Nelson is +played all day in stone, with a frieze of his noble words about the +pedestal. England expects! What an influence that stirring challenge +has yet upon the hearts of men may be seen by any one who will study the +faces of the busy, imaginative cotton-brokers, who, in the thronged and +humming mornings, sell what they have never seen to a customer they will +never see. + +In fact, the end I mean is just the very opposite end to that. It is the +end where the cotton that everybody sells and nobody buys _is_ seen, +piled in great white stacks, or swinging in the air from the necks of +mighty cranes, cranes that could nip up an elephant with as little ado, +and set him down on the wharf, with a box on his ugly ears for his +cowardly trumpeting. It is the end that smells of tar, the domain of the +harbourmasters, where the sailor finds a 'home,'--not too sweet, and +where the wild sea is tamed in a maze of granite squares and basins; the +end where the riggings and buildings rise side by side, and a clerk +might swing himself out upon the yards from his top-floor desk. Here is +the Custom House, and the conversation that shines is full of freightage +and dock dues; here are the shops that sell nothing but oilskins, +sextants, and parrots, and here the taverns do a mighty trade in rum. + +It was in this quarter, for a brief sweet time, that Love and Beauty +made their strange home, as though a pair of halcyons should choose to +nest in the masthead of a cattleship. Love and Beauty chose this +quarter, as, alas! Love and Beauty must choose so many things--for its +cheapness. Love and Beauty were poor, and office rents in this quarter +were exceptionally low. But what should Love and Beauty do with an +office? Love was a poor poet in need of a room for his bed and his +rhymes, and Beauty was a little blue-eyed girl who loved him. + +It was a shabby, forbidding place, gloomy and comfortless as a warehouse +on the banks of Styx. No one but Love and Beauty would have dared to +choose it for their home. But Love and Beauty have a great confidence in +themselves--a confidence curiously supported by history,--and they never +had a moment's doubt that this place was as good as another for an +earthly Paradise. So Love signed an agreement for one great room at the +very top, the very masthead of the building, and Beauty made it pretty +with muslin curtains, flowers, and dainty makeshifts of furniture, but +chiefly with the light of her own heavenly face. A stroke of luck coming +one day to the poet, the lovers, with that extravagance which the poor +alone have the courage to enjoy, procured a piano on the kind-hearted +hire-purchase system, a system specially conceived for lovers. Then, +indeed, for many a wonderful night that room was not only on the seventh +floor, but in the seventh heaven; and as Beauty would sit at the piano, +with her long hair flying loose, and her soul like a whirl of starlight +about her brows, a stranger peering in across the soft lamplight, seeing +her face, hearing her voice, would deem that the long climb, flight +after flight of dreary stair, had been appropriately rewarded by a +glimpse of heaven. + +Certainly it must have seemed a strange contrast from the life about and +below it. The foot of that infernal stair plunged in the warm +rum-and-thick-twist atmosphere of a sailor's tavern--and 'The Jolly +Shipmates' was a house of entertainment by no means to be despised. +Often have I sat there with the poet, drinking the whisky from which +Scotland takes its name, among wondering sea-boots and sou'-westers, who +could make nothing of that wild hair and that still wilder talk. + +From the kingdom of rum and tar you mounted into a zone of commission +agents fund shipbrokers, a chill, unoccupied region, in which every +small office bore the names of half a dozen different firms, and yet +somehow could not contrive to look busy. Finally came an airy echoing +landing, a region of empty rooms, which the landlords in vain +recommended as studios to a city that loved not art. Here dwelt the +keeper and his kind-hearted little wife, and no one besides save Love +and Beauty. There was thus a feeling of rarefaction in the atmosphere, +as though at this height it was only the Alpine flora of humanity that +could find root and breathing. But once along the bare passage and +through a certain door, and what a sudden translation it was into a +gracious world of books and flowers and the peace they always bring. + +Once upon a time, in that enchanted past where dwell all the dreams we +love best, precisely, with loving punctuality, at five in the afternoon, +a pretty, girlish figure, like Persephone escaping from the shades, +stole through the rough sailors at the foot of that sordid Jacob's +ladder and made her way to the little heaven at the top. + +I shall not describe her, for the good reason that I cannot. Leonardo, +ever curious of the beauty that was most strangely exquisite, once in an +inspired hour painted such a face, a face wrought of the porcelain of +earth with the art of heaven. But, whoever should paint it, God +certainly made it--must have been the comment of any one who caught a +glimpse of that little figure vanishing heavenwards up that stair, like +an Assumption of Fra Angelico's--that is, any one interested in art and +angels. + +She had not long to wait outside the door she sought, for the poet, who +had listened all day for the sound, had ears for the whisper of her +skirts as she came down the corridor, and before she had time to knock +had already folded her in his arms. The two babes in that thieves' wood +of commission agents and shipbrokers stood silent together for a +moment, in the deep security of a kiss such as the richest millionaire +could never buy--and then they fell to comparing notes of their day's +work. The poet had had one of his rare good days. He had made no money, +his post had been even more disappointing than usual,--but he had +written a poem, the best he had ever written, he said, as he always said +of his last new thing. He had been burning to read it to somebody all +afternoon--had with difficulty refrained from reading it to the +loquacious little keeper's wife as she brought him some coals--so it was +not to be expected that he should wait a minute before reading it to her +whom indeed it strove to celebrate. With arms round each other's necks, +they bent over the table littered with the new-born poem, all blots and +dashes like the first draft of a composer's score, and the poet, deftly +picking his way among the erasures and interlineations, read aloud the +beautiful words--with a full sense of their beauty!--to ears that deemed +them more beautiful even than they were. The owners of this now valuable +copyright allow me to irradiate my prose with three of the verses. + +'Ah! what,' half-chanted, half-crooned the poet-- + + 'Ah! what a garden is your hair!-- + Such treasure as the kings of old, + In coffers of the beaten gold, + Laid up on earth--and left it there.' + +So tender a reference to hair whose beauty others beside the poet had +loved must needs make a tender interruption--the only kind of +interruption the poet could have forgiven--and 'Who,' he continued-- + + 'Who was the artist of your mouth? + What master out of old Japan + Wrought it so dangerous to man ...' + +And here it was but natural that laughter and kisses should once more +interrupt-- + + 'Those strange blue jewels of your eyes, + Painting the lily of your face, + What goldsmith set them in their place-- + Forget-me-nots of Paradise? + + 'And that blest river of your voice, + Whose merry silver stirs the rest + Of water-lilies in your breast ...' + +At last, in spite of more interruptions, the poem came to an +end--whereupon, of course, the poet immediately read it through once +more from the beginning, its personal and emotional elements, he felt, +having been done more justice on a first reading than its artistic +excellences. + +'Why, darling, it is splendid,' was his little sweetheart's comment; +'you know how happy it makes me to think it was written for me, don't +you?' And she took his hands and looked up at him with eyes like the +morning sky. + +Romance in poetry is almost exclusively associated with very refined +ethereal matters, stars and flowers and such like--happily, in actual +life it is often associated with much humbler objects. Lovers, like +children, can make their paradises out of the quaintest materials. +Indeed, our paradises, if we only knew, are always cheap enough; it is +our hells that are so expensive. Now these lovers--like, if I mistake +not, many other true lovers before and since--when they were +particularly happy, when some special piece of good luck had befallen +them, could think of no better paradise than a little dinner together in +their seventh-story heaven. 'Ah! wilderness were Paradise enow!' + +To-night was obviously such an occasion. But, alas! where was the money +to come from? They didn't need much--for it is wonderful how happy you +can be on five shillings, if you only know how. At the same time it is +difficult to be happy on ninepence--which was the entire fortune of the +lovers at the moment. Beauty laughingly suggested that her celebrated +hair might prove worth the price of their dinner. The poet thought a +pawnbroker might surely be found to advance ten shillings on his +poem--the original MS. too,--else had they nothing to pawn, save a few +gold and silver dreams which they couldn't spare. What was to be done? +Sell some books, of course! It made them shudder to think how many poets +they had eaten in this fashion. It was sheer cannibalism--but what was +to be done? Their slender stock of books had been reduced entirely to +poetry. If there had only been a philosopher or a modern novelist, the +sacrifice wouldn't have seemed so unnatural. And then Beauty's eyes fell +upon a very fat informing-looking volume on the poet's desk. + +'Wouldn't this do?' she said. + +'Why, of course!' he exclaimed; 'the very thing. A new history of +socialism just sent me for review. Hang the review; we want our dinner, +don't we, little one? And then I've read the preface, and looked through +the index--quite enough to make a column of, with a plentiful supply of +general principles thrown in! Why, of course, there's our dinner for +certain, dull and indigestible as it looks. It's worth fifty minor poets +at old Moser's. Come along....' + +So off went the happy pair--ah! how much happier was Beauty than ever so +many fine ladies one knows who have only, so to say, to rub their +wedding-rings for a banquet to rise out of the ground, with the most +distinguished guests around the table, champagne of the best, and +conversation of the worst. + +Old Moser found histories of socialism profitable, more profitable +perhaps than socialism, and he actually gave five-and-sixpence for the +volume. With the ninepence already in their pockets, you will see that +they were now possessors of quite a small fortune. Six-and-threepence! +It wouldn't pay for one's lunch nowadays. Ah! but that is because the +poor alone know the art of dining. + +You needn't wish to be happier and merrier than those two lovers, as +they gaily hastened to that bright and cosy corner of the town where +those lovely ham-and-beef shops make glad the faces of the passers-by. O +those hams with their honest shining faces, polished like mahogany--and +the man inside so happy all day slicing them with those wonderful long +knives (which, of course, the superior class of reader has never seen) +worn away to a veritable thread, a mere wire, but keen as Excalibur. +Beauty used to calculate in her quaint way how much steel was worn away +with each pound of ham, and how much therefore went to the sandwich. And +what an artist was the carver! What a true eye! what a firm, flexible +wrist! never a shaving of fat too much--he was too great an artist for +that. Then there were those dear little cream cheeses, and those little +brown jugs of yellow cream come all the way from Devonshire--you could +hear the cows lowing across the rich pasture, and hear the milkmaids +singing and the milk whizzing into the pail, as you looked at them. + +And then those perfectly lovely sausages--I beg the reader's pardon! I +forgot that the very mention of the word smacks of vulgarity. Yet, all +the same, I venture to think that a secret taste for sausages among the +upper classes is more widespread than we have any idea of. I confess +that Beauty and her poet were at first ashamed of admitting their vulgar +frailty to each other. They needed to know each other very well first. +Yet there is nothing, when once confessed, that brings two people so +close as--a taste for sausages. + +'You darling!' exclaimed Beauty, with something like tears in her voice, +when her poet first admitted this touch of nature--and then next moment +they were in fits of laughter that a common taste for a very 'low' food +should bring tears to their eyes! But such are the vagaries of love--as +you will know, if you know anything about it--'vulgar,' no doubt, though +only the vulgar would so describe them--for it is only vulgarity that +is always 'refined.' + +Then there was the florist's to visit. What beautiful trades some people +ply! To sell flowers is surely like dealing in fairies. Beautiful must +grow the hands that wire them, and sweet the flower-girl's every +thought! + +There remained but the wine merchant's, or, had we not better say at +once, the grocer's, for our lovers could afford no rarer vintages than +Tintara or the golden burgundy of Australia; and it is wonderful to +think what a sense of festivity one of those portly colonial flagons +lent to their little dining-table. Sometimes, I may confide, when they +wanted to feel very dissipated, and were _very_ rich, they would allow +themselves a small bottle of Benedictine--and you should have seen +Beauty's eyes as she luxuriously sipped at her green little liqueur +glass; for, like most innocent people, she enjoyed to the full the +delight of feeling occasionally wicked. However, these were rare +occasions, and this night was not one of them. + +Half a pound of black grapes completed their shopping, and then, with +their arms full of their purchases, they made their way home again, the +two happiest people in what is, after all, a not unhappy world. + +Then came the cooking and the laying of the table. For all her Leonardo +face, Beauty was a great cook--like all good women, she was as earthly +in some respects as she was heavenly in others, which I hold to be a +wise combination--and, indeed, both were excellent cooks; and the poet +was unrivalled at 'washing up,' which, I may say, is the only skeleton +at these Bohemian feasts. + +You should have seen the gusto with which Beauty pricked those +sausages--I had better explain to the un-Bohemian reader that to attempt +to cook a sausage without first pricking it vigorously with a fork, to +allow for the expansion of its juicy gases, is like trying to smoke a +cigar without first cutting off the end--and oh! to hear again their +merry song as they writhed in torment in the hissing pan, like Christian +martyrs raising hymns of praise from the very core of Smithfield fires. + +Meanwhile, the poet would be surpassing himself in the setting-out of +the little table, cutting up the bread reverently as though it were for +an altar--as indeed it was,--studying the effect of the dish of +tomatoes, now at this corner, now at that, arranging the flowers with +much more care than he arranged the adjectives in his sonnets, and +making ever so sumptuous an effect with that half a pound of grapes. + +And then at last the little feast would begin, with a long grace of eyes +meeting and hands clasping: true eyes that said, 'How good it is to +behold you, to be awake together in this dream of life!' true hands that +said, 'I will hold you fast for ever--not death even shall pluck you +from my hand, shall loose this bond of you and me'; true eyes, true +hands, that had immortal meanings far beyond the speech of mortal words. + +And it had all come out of that dull history of socialism, and had cost +little more than a crown! What lovely things can be made out of money! +Strange to think that a little silver coin of no possible use or beauty +in itself can be exchanged for so much tangible, beautiful pleasure. A +piece of money is like a piece of opium, for in it lie locked up the +most wonderful dreams--if you have only the brains and hearts to dream +them. + +When at last the little feast grew near its end, Love and Beauty would +smoke their cigarettes together; and it was a favourite trick of theirs +to lower the lamp a moment, so that they might see the stars rush down +upon them through the skylight which hung above their table. It gave +them a sense of great sentinels, far away out in the lonely universe, +standing guard over them, seemed to say that their love was safe in the +tender keeping of great forces. They were poor, but then they had the +stars and the flowers and the great poets for their servants and +friends; and, best of all, they had each other. Do you call that being +poor? + +And then, in the corner, stood that magical box with the ivory keys, +whose strings waited ready night and day--strange media through which +the myriad voices, the inner-sweet thoughts, of the great world-soul +found speech, messengers of the stars to the heart, and of the heart to +the stars. + +Beauty's songs were very simple. She got little practice, for her poet +only cared to have her sing over and over again the same sweet songs; +and perhaps if you had heard her sing 'Ask nothing more of me, sweet,' +or 'Darby and Joan,' you would have understood his indifference to +variety. + +At last the little feast is quite, quite finished. Beauty has gone home; +her lover still carries her face in his heart as she waved and waved and +waved to him from the rattling lighted tramcar; long he sits and sits +thinking of her, gazing up at those lonely ancient stars; the air is +still bright with her presence, sweet with her thoughts, warm with her +kisses, and as he turns to the shut piano, he can still see her white +hands on the keys and her girlish face raised in an ecstasy--Beata +Beatrix--above the music. + + 'O love, my love! if I no more should see + Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, + Nor image of thine eyes in any spring-- + How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope + The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, + The wind of Death's imperishable wing!' + +And then ... he would throw himself upon his bed, and burst into tears. + + * * * * * + + 'And they are gone: aye, ages long ago + These lovers fled away into the storm.' + +That seventh-story heaven once more leads a dull life as the office of a +ship-chandler, and harsh voices grate the air where Beauty sang. The +books and the flowers and the lovers' faces are gone for ever. I suppose +the stars are the same, and perhaps they sometimes look down through +that roof-window, and wonder what has become of those two lovers who +used to look up at them so fearlessly long ago. + +But friends of mine who believe in God say that He has given His angels +charge concerning that dingy old seventh-floor heaven, and that, for +those who have eyes to see, there is no place where a great dream has +been dreamed that is not thus watched over by the guardian angels of +memory. + +_For M. Le G., 25 September 1895._ + + + + +SPRING BY PARCEL POST + + + They've taken all the spring from the country to the town-- + Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow.... + +So began to jig and jingle my thoughts as in my letters and newspapers +this morning I read, buried alive among the solitary fastnesses of the +Surrey hills, the last news from town. The news I envied most was that +spring had already reached London. 'Now,' ran a pretty article on spring +fashions, 'the sunshine makes bright the streets, and the +flower-baskets, like huge bouquets, announce the gay arrival of spring.' +I looked up and out through my hillside window. The black ridge on the +other side of the valley stood a grim wall of burnt heather against the +sky--which sky, like the bullets in the nursery rhyme, was made +unmistakably of lead; a close rain was falling methodically, and, +generally speaking, the world looked like a soaked mackintosh. It wasn't +much like the gay arrival of spring, and grimly I mused on the +advantages of life in town. + +Certainly, it did seem hard, I reflected, that town should be ahead of +us even in such a country matter as spring. Flower-baskets indeed! Why, +we haven't as much as a daisy for miles around. It is true that on the +terrace there the crocuses blaze like a street on fire, that the +primroses thicken into clumps, lying among their green leaves like +pounds of country butter; it is true that the blue cones of the little +grape hyacinth are there, quaintly formal as a child's toy-flowers; yes! +and the big Dutch hyacinths are already shamelessly _enceinte_ with +their buxom waxen blooms, so fat and fragrant--(one is already delivered +of a fine blossom. Well, that is a fine baby, to be sure! say the other +hyacinths, with babes no less bonny under their own green aprons--all +waiting for the doctor sun). Then among the blue-green blades of the +narcissus, here and there you see a stem topped with a creamish +chrysalis-like envelope, from which will soon emerge a beautiful eye, +rayed round with white wings, looking as though it were meant to fly, +but remaining rooted--a butterfly on a stalk; while all the beds are +crowded with indeterminate beak and blade, pushing and elbowing each +other for a look at the sun, which, however, sulkily declines to look at +them. It is true there is spring on the terrace, but even so it is +spring imported from the town--spring bought in Holborn, spring +delivered free by parcel post; for where would the terrace have been but +for the city seedsman--that magician who sends you strangely spotted +beans and mysterious bulbs in shrivelled cerements, weird little +flower-mummies that suggest centuries of forgotten silence in painted +Egyptian tombs. This strange and shrivelled thing can surely never live +again, we say, as we hold it in our hands, seeing not the glowing +circles of colour, tiny rings of Saturn, packed so carefully inside this +flower-egg, the folds of green and silver silk wound round and round the +precious life within. + +But, of course, this is all the seedsman's cunning, and no credit to +Nature; and I repeat, that were it not for railways and the parcel +post--goodness knows whether we should ever get any spring at all in the +country! Think of the days when it had to travel down by stage-coach. +For, left to herself, what is the best Nature can do for you with March +well on the way? Personally, I find the face of the country practically +unchanged. It is, to all intents and purposes, the same as it has been +for the last three or four months--as grim, as unadorned, as bleak, as +draughty, and generally as comfortless as ever. There isn't a flower to +be seen, hardly a bird worth listening to, not a tree that is not +winter-naked, and not a chair to sit down upon. If you want flowers on +your walks you must bring them with you; songs, you must take a poet +under your arm; and if you want to rest, lean laboriously on your +stick--or take your chance of rheumatism. + +Of course your specialists, your botanists, your nature-detectives, will +tell you otherwise. They have surprised a violet in the act of +blossoming; after long and excited chase have discovered a clump of +primroses in their wild state; seen one butterfly, heard one cuckoo. But +as one swallow does not make a summer, it takes more than one cuckoo to +make a spring. I confess that only yesterday I saw three sulphur +butterflies, with my own eyes; I admit the catkins, and the +silver-notched palm; and I am told on good colour-authority that there +is a lovely purplish bloom, almost like plum-bloom, over certain copses +in the valley; by taking thought, I have observed the long horizontal +arms of the beech growing spurred with little forked branches of +spear-shaped buds, and I see little green nipples pushing out through +the wolf-coloured rind of the dwarf fir-trees. Spring is arming in +secret to attack the winter--that is sure enough, but spring in secret +is no spring for me. I want to see her marching gaily with green +pennons, and flashing sun-blades, and a good band. + +I want butterflies as they have them at the Lyceum--'butterflies all +white,' 'butterflies all blue,' 'butterflies of gold,' and I should +particularly fancy 'butterflies all black.' But there, again, you +see,--you must go to town, within hearing of Mrs. Patrick Campbell's +_voix d'or_. I want the meadows thickly inlaid with buttercups and +daisies; I want the trees thick with green leaves, the sky all larks and +sunshine; I want hawthorn and wild roses--both at once; I want some go, +some colour, some warmth in the world. Oh, where are the pipes of Pan? + +The pipes of Pan are in town, playing at street corners and in the +centres of crowded circuses, piled high with flower-baskets blazing with +refulgent flowery masses of white and gold. Here are the flowers you can +only buy in town; simple flowers enough, but only to be had in town. +Here are fragrant banks of violets every few yards, conflagrations of +daffodils at every crossing, and narcissus in scented starry garlands +for your hair. + +You wander through the Strand, or along Regent Street, as through the +meadows of Enna--sweet scents, sweet sounds, sweet shapes, are all about +you; the town-butterflies, white, blue, and gold, 'wheel and shine' and +flutter from shop to shop, suddenly resurgent from their winter +wardrobes as from a chrysalis; bright eyes flash and flirt along the +merry, jostling street, while the sun pours out his golden wine +overhead, splashing it about from gilded domes and bright-faced +windows--and ever are the voices at the corners and the crossings +calling out the sweet flower-names of the spring! + + * * * * * + +But here in the country it is still all rain and iron. I am tired of +waiting for this slow-moving provincial spring. Let us to the town to +meet the spring--for: + + They've taken all the spring from the country to the town-- + Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow; + And if you want a primrose, you write to London now, + And if you need a nightingale, well,--Whiteley sends it down. + + + + +THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND + + +In an age curious of new pleasures, the merry-go-round seems still to +maintain its ancient popularity. I was the other day the delighted, +indeed the fascinated, spectator of one in full swing in an old +Thames-side town. It was a very superior example, with a central musical +engine of extraordinary splendour, and horses that actually curveted, as +they swirled maddeningly round to the strains of 'The Man that Broke the +Bank at Monte Carlo.' How I longed to join the wild riders! But though I +am a brave man, I confess that to ride a merry-go-round in front of a +laughter-loving Cockney public is more than I can dare. I had to content +myself with watching the faces of the riders. I noticed particularly one +bright-eyed little girl, whose whole passionate young soul seemed to be +on fire with ecstasy, and for whom it was not difficult to prophesy +trouble when time should bring her within reach of more dangerous +excitements. Then there was a stolid little boy, dull and unmoved in +expression, as though he were in church. Life, one felt sure, would be +safe enough, and stupid enough, for him; the world would have no music +to stir or draw him. The fifes would go down the street with a sweet +sound of marching feet, and the eyes of other men would brighten and +their blood be all glancing spears and streaming banners, but he would +remain behind his counter; from the strange hill beyond the town the +dear, unholy music, so lovely in the ears of other men and maids, would +call to him in vain, and morning and evening the stars would sing above +his draper's shop, but he never hear a word. + +What particularly struck me was the number of quite grown-up, even +elderly, people who came and had their pennyworth of horse-exercise. Now +it was a grave young workman quietly smoking his pipe as he revolved; +now it was a stout middle-aged woman returning from marketing, on whom +the Zulu music and the whirling horses laid their irresistible spells. +Unless ye become as little children! + +Is the Kingdom of Heaven really at hand? For, indeed, men and women, and +perhaps particularly literary men and women, are once more becoming as +little children in their pleasures. + +Seriously, one of the most curious and significant of recent literary +phenomena is the sudden return of the literary man to physical, and +so-called 'Philistine,' pleasures and modes of recreation. Perhaps +Stevenson set the fashion with his canoe and his donkey. But at the +moment that he was valiantly daring any one to tell him whether there +was anything better worth doing 'than fooling among boats,' Edward +Fitzgerald, all unconscious and careless of literary fashions, was +giving still more practical expression to the physical faith that was in +him, by going shares in a Lowestoft herring-lugger, and throwing his +heart as well as his money into the fortunes of its noble skipper +'Posh.' A literary man _par excellence_, Mr. Lang reproaches his sires +for his present way of life-- + + 'Why lay your gipsy freedom down + And doom your child to pen and ink?' + +and by steady and persistent golfing, and writing about angling and +cricket, comes as near to the noble savage as is possible to so +incorrigibly civilised a man. Mr. Henley--that Berserker of the +pen--sings the sword with a vigour that makes one curious to see him +using it, and we all know Mr. Kipling's views on the matter. Then Mr. +Bernard Shaw rides a bicycle! + +Those men of letters whose inclinations or opportunities do not lead +them to these out-of-door, and more or less ferocious, pleasures seek to +forget themselves at the music-hall, the Aquarium, or the numerous +Earl's Court exhibitions. They become amateurs of foreign dancing, +connoisseurs of the trapeze, or they leave their great minds at home and +go up the Great Wheel. Earl's Court, particularly, is becoming quite a +modern Vauxhall--Tan-ta-ra-ra! Earl's Court! Earl's Court!--and Mr. Imre +Kiralfy, with his conceptions and designs, is to our generation what +Albert Smith was to the age of Dickens and Edmund Yates. + +It takes some experience of life to realise how right this is; to +realise that, after all our fine philosophies and cocksure sciences, +there is no better answer to the riddle of things than a good game of +cricket or an exciting spin on one's 'bike.' The real inner significance +of Earl's Court--Mr. Kiralfy will no doubt be prepared to hear--is the +failure of science as an answer to life. We give up the riddle, and +enjoy ourselves with our wiser children. Simple pleasures, no doubt, for +the profound! But what is simple, and what is profound? + +The simple joy we get from 'fooling among boats' on a summer day, the +thrill of a well-hit ball, the rapture of a skilful dive, are no more +easy to explain than the more complicated pleasures of literature, or +art, or religion. And why is it--to come closer to our theme--that the +round or the whirling have such attraction for us? What is the secret of +the fascination of the circle? Why is it that the turning of anything, +be it but a barrel-organ or a phrase, holds one as with an hypnotic +power? I confess that I can never genuinely pity a knife-grinder, +however needy. Think of the pleasure of driving that wheel all day, the +merry chirp of the knife on the stone, and the crisp, bright spray of +the flying sparks! Why, he does 'what some men dream of all their +lives'! Wheels of all kinds have the same strange charm; mill-wheels, +colliery-wheels, spinning-wheels, water-wheels, and wheeling waters: +there may--who knows?--have been a certain pleasure in being broken on +the wheel, and, at all events, that hideous punishment is another +curious example of the fascination of the circle. It would take a whole +volume to illustrate the prevalence of the circle in external nature, in +history, and, even more significant, in language. We all know, or think +we know, that the world is round-- + + 'This orb--this round + Of sight and sound,' + +as Mr. Quiller Couch sings--though I remember a porter at school who was +sure that it was flat, and who used to say that Hamlet's + + 'How weary, stale, _flat_, and unprofitable + Seem to me all the uses of this _world_!' + +was a cryptic reference to Shakespeare's secret belief in his theory. +Many of the things we love most are round. Is not money, according to +the proverb, made round that it may go round, and are not the men most +in demand described as 'all-round men'? Nor are all-round women without +their admirers. Events, we know, move in a circle, as time moves in +cycles--though, alas! not on them. The ballet and the bicycle are +popular forms of the circle, and it is the charm of the essay to be +'roundabout.' + +Again, how is it that that which on a small scale does not impress us at +all, when on a large scale impresses us so much? What is the secret of +the impressiveness of size, bulk, height, depth, speed, and mileage? +Philosophically, a mountain is no more wonderful than a molehill, yet no +man is knighted for climbing a molehill. One little drop of water and +one little grain of sand are essentially as wonderful as 'the mighty +ocean' or 'the beauteous land' to which they contribute. A balloon is +no more wonderful than an air-bubble, and were you to build an Atlantic +liner as big as the Isle of Wight it would really be no more remarkable +than an average steam-launch. Nobody marvels at the speed of a snail, +yet, given a snail's pace to start with, an express train follows as a +matter of course. Movement, not the rate of movement, is the mystery. +Precisely the same materials, the same forces, the same methods, are +employed in the little as in the big of these examples. Why should mere +accumulation, reiteration, and magnification make the difference? We may +ask why? But it does, for all that. If we answer that these mammoth +multiplications impress us because they are so much bigger, taller, +fatter, faster, etc., than we are, the question arises--How many times +bigger than a man must a mountain be before it impresses us? Perhaps the +problem has already been tackled by the schoolman who pondered how many +angels could dance on the point of a needle. + +However, these and similar first principles, it will readily be seen, +are far from being irrelevant for the visitor at the Earl's Court +Exhibition. No doubt they are continually discussed by the thousands who +daily and nightly throng that very charming dream-world which Mr. +Kiralfy has built 'midmost the beating' of our 'steely sea.' + +To an age that is over-read and over-fed Mr. Kiralfy brings the message: +'Leave your great minds at home, and go up the Great Wheel!' and I heard +his voice and obeyed. The sensation is, I should say, something between +going up in a balloon and being upon shipboard--a sensation compounded, +maybe, of the creaking of the circular rigging, the pleasure of rising +in the air, the freshening of the air as you ascend, the strange feeling +of the earth receding and spreading out beneath you, the curious +diminution of the people below--to their proper size. You will hear +original minds all about you comparing them to ants, and it is curious +to notice the involuntary feeling of contempt that possesses you as you +watch them. I believe one has a half-defined illusion that we are +growing greater as they are growing smaller. Ants and flies! ants and +flies! with here and there a fiery centipede in the shape of a District +train dashing in and out amongst them. We lose the power of +understanding their motions, and their throngs and movements do indeed +seem as purposeless at this height as the hurry-scurrying about an +anthill. At this height, indeed, one seems to understand how small a +matter a bank smash may seem to the Almighty; though, as a lady said to +me--as we clung tightly together in terror 'a-top of the topmost +bough'--it must be gratifying to see so many churches. + +Those who would keep their illusions about the beauty of London had +better stay below, at least in the daytime, for it makes one's heart +sink to look on those miles and miles of sordid grey roofs huddled in +meaningless rows and crescents, just for all the world like a huge +child's box of wooden bricks waiting to be arranged into some +intelligible pattern. Of course, this is not London proper. Were the +Great Wheel set up in Trafalgar Square, one is fain to hope that the +view from it would be less disheartening--though it might be better not +to try. + +By night, except for the bright oases of the Indian Exhibition, the view +is little more than a black blank, a great inky plain with faint sparks +and rows of light here and there, as though the world had been made of +saltpetre paper, and had lately been set fire to. Were you a traveller +from Mars you would say that the world was very badly lighted. But, for +all that, night is the time for the Great Wheel, for the conflagration +of pleasure at our feet makes us forget the void dark beyond. Then the +Wheel seems like a great revolving spider's web, with fireflies +entangled in it at every turn, and the little engine-house at the +centre, with its two electric lights, seems like the great lord spider, +with monstrous pearls for his eyes. And, as in the daytime the height +robs the depth of its significance, strips poor humanity of any +semblance of impressive or attractive meaning, at night the effect is +just the reverse. What a fairy-world is this opening out beneath our +feet, with its golden glowing squares and circles and palaces, with its +lamplit gardens and pagodas! and who are these gay and beautiful beings +flitting hither and thither, and passing from one bright garden to +another on the stream of pleasure? If this many-coloured, passionate +dream be really human life, let us hasten to be down amongst it once +more! And, after all, is not this flattering night aspect of the world +more true than that disheartening countenance of it in the daylight? +Those golden squares and glowing gardens and flashing waters are, of +course, an illusion of the magician Kiralfy's, yet what power could the +illusion have upon us without the realities of beauty and love and +pleasure it attracts there? + + + + +THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET + + +One morning of all mornings the citizens of Verona were startled by +strange news. Tragic forces, to which they had been accustomed to pay +little heed, had been at work in their city during the dark hours, and +young Romeo of the Montagues, handsome, devil-may-care lad as they had +known him, and little Juliet of the Capulets, that madcap, merry, gentle +young mistress, lay dead, side by side in the church of Santa Maria. + +Death! surely they were used to death! and Love, flower of the clove! +they were used to _love_. But here were love and death, that somehow +they could not understand. So they hurried in wondering groups to Santa +Maria, that they might gaze at the dead lovers, and thus perhaps come to +understand. + +Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came. And their +presence-chamber was bright with candles and flowers, and sweet with +the sweet smell of death. The air that had drunk in their wild words +and their last long looks of heavenly love still hung about the dark +corners, as the air where a rose has been holds a little while the +memory of its breath. Yes! that morning, in that dank but shining +tomb, you might draw into you the very breath of love. The air you +breathed had passed through the sweet lungs of Juliet, it had been +etherealised with her holy passion, and washed clean with her lovely +words. And now, for a little while yet, it feasted on the fair peace +of their glad young faces. To-morrow, or the next day, or the next +week, they would belong to the unvisited treasure-house of the past, +but now this morning of all mornings, this day that could never come +again, they still belonged to the real and radiant present. + +Flowers there are that bloom but once in a hundred years, but here in +this tomb had blossomed one of those marvellous flowers that bloom but +once throughout eternity. Poets and kings in after-times, O men of +Verona, will yearn to have seen what you look upon to-day. For you, you +thick and greasy citizens, are chosen out of all time to behold this +beauty. There were once in the world thousands of men and women who had +heard the very words of Christ as they fell from His lips, words that we +may only read. There have been men, actual living, foolish men, who have +looked on at the valour of Horatius, men who from the crowded banks of +the Nile have watched the living body of Cleopatra step into her gilded +barge, men who, standing idle in the streets of Florence, have seen the +love-light start in the great Dante's eyes, seen his hand move to his +laden heart, as the little Beatrice passed him by among her maidens. +Base men of the past, by the indulgent accident of time, have been +granted to behold these wonders, and now for you, O men of Verona, a +like wonder has been born. + + * * * * * + +Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came. + +It had been an innocent little desire, yet had all the world come +against it. It had been a simple little desire, yet too strong for all +the world to break. + +Strange this enmity of the world to love, as though men should take arms +against the song of a bird, or plot against the opening of a flower. + +But now, what was this strange homage to a love that a few hours ago had +no friend in all the daylight, a fearful bliss beneath the secret moon? +But yesterday a stupid old nurse, a herb-gathering friar, a rascally +apothecary, had been their only friends, and now was all the world come +here to do their bidding. + +No need to steal again beneath the shade of orchard walls, no need again +to heed if lark or nightingale sang in the reddening east. For the world +had grown all warm to love, warm and kind as June to the rose. + + * * * * * + +Three days lay Romeo and Juliet receiving their guests in the vault of +the Capulets, with that strange smile of welcome for all who came. +Three days the world worshipped the love it could not understand, but +still came dense and denser throngs to worship. For the news of the +wonderful flower that had blossomed in Verona had gone far and wide, and +travellers from distant cities kept pouring in to look at those strange +young lovers, who had deemed the world well lost so that they might +leave it together. + +Then the governor of the city decreed, as the time drew near when the +two lovers must be left to their peace, and it was ill that any should +lose the sight of this marvel, that on the fourth day they should be +carried through the streets in the eyes of all the people, and then be +buried together in the vault of the Capulets--for by this burial in the +same tomb, says the old chronicler who was first honoured with the +telling of their sweet story, the governor hoped to bring about a peace +between the Montagues and Capulets, at least for a little while. + +Meanwhile, though Verona was a city of many trades and professions, and +love and death were idle things, yet was there little said of business +all these days, and little else done but talk of the two lovers, of +whom, indeed, it was true, as it has seldom been true out of Holy Writ, +that death was swallowed up in victory. During these days also there +stole a strange sweetness over the city, as though the very spirit of +love had nested there, and was filling the air with its soft +breathing--as when in the first days of spring the birds sing so sweetly +that broken hearts must hide away, and hard hearts grow a little kind. +Men once more spoke kindly to their wives, and even coarse faces wore a +gentle light,--just as sometimes at evening the setting sun will turn to +tenderness even black rocks and frowning towers. + +There were many wild stories afloat about the end of the lovers. Some +said one way and some another. By some the story went that Romeo was +already dead before Juliet had awakened from her swoon, but others +declared that the poison had not worked upon him until Juliet's +awakening had made him awhile forget that he was to die. There were +those who professed to know the very words of their wild farewell, and +in fact there had been several witnesses of Juliet's agony over the body +of her lord. These had told how first she had raved and clung to him, +and called him 'Romeo,' 'Sweet Sir Romeo,' 'Husband,' and many +flower-like names, and had petted him and wooed him to come back. Then +on a sudden she had cried, God-a-mercy--how cold thou art!' and looked +at him long and strangely. Then had she grown stern, and anon soft. +'Canst thou not come back, my love? Then must I follow thee. Not so far +art thou on the way of death, but that I shall overtake thee, and +together shall we go to Pluto's realm, and seek a kinder world.' + +Thereat she had plunged Romeo's dagger into her side, though some said +she had stopped her heart's beating by the strong will of her great +love. Yea--such were the distracted rumours--some averred that at the +last she had curst Christ and His saints, and called upon Venus, who, it +was rumoured in awestruck whispers, was being worshipped once more in +secret corners of the world. + +It was strong noon when, on the fourth day, Romeo and Juliet were +carried through the bright and solemn streets, that the world might be +saved; saved as ever by the spectacle and the worship of a mysterious +nobility, [comma added by transcriber] an uncomprehended greatness, a +beauty which haunts not its daily dreams, lifted up by the humble gaze +of devout eyes into the empyrean of greater souls, stirred to an +unfamiliar passion, and fired with glimpses of a strange unworldly +truth. + +In the light of the sun the faces of the two lovers, as they lay amid +their flowers, seemed to have grown a little weary, but they still wore +their sweet and royal smile, and their laurelled brows were very white +and proud. + +And in the faces that looked upon them, as they moved slowly by, with +sweet death music, and the hushed marching of feet, and the wafted odour +of lilies, there was to be seen strangely blent a great pity for their +tragedy and a heavenly tenderness for their love. It was like a dream +passing down the streets of a dream, so deep and tender was the silence, +for only the hearts of men were speaking; though here and there a girl +sobbed, or a young man buried his face in his sleeve, and the sternest +eyes were dashed with the holy water of tears. And with the pity and +tenderness, who shall say but that in all that silent heart-speech there +was no little envy of the two who had loved so truly and died in the +springtide of their love, before the ways of love had grown dusty with +its summer, or dreary with its autumn, before its dreams had petrified +into duties, and its passion deadened into use? + +'Would it were thou and I,' said many wedded eyes one to the other, +delusively warm and soft for a moment, but all cold and hard again on +the morrow. + +And maybe some poet would say in his heart-- + +'If you loved her living, my Romeo, what were your love could you but +see her dead!' for indeed life has no beauty so wonderful as the beauty +of death. + +And, as in all places and times, there was a base remnant that gaped and +worshipped not, and in their hearts resented all this distinction paid +to a nobility they could not recognise, as the like had grumbled when +Cimabue's Madonna had been carried through the streets in glory. But of +these there is no need that we should take account, any more than of the +beasts that moved head down amid the pastures outside the town, knowing +not of the wonder that was passing within. For the ass will munch his +thistles though the Son of Man be his rider, nor will the sheep look +aside from his grazing though Apollo be the herdsman. + + * * * * * + +At length the sacred pageant was ended, gone like the passing of an +aerial music, and the people went to their homes silent, with haunted +eyes; while the Earth, which had given this beauty, took it back to +herself, and one more Persephone of human loveliness was shut within the +gates of the forgetful grave. + + + + +VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT + + +A very Pre-Raphaelite friend of mine came to me one day and said _à +propos_ of his having designed a very Early English chair: 'After all, +if one has anything to say one might as well put it into a chair!' + +I thought the remark rather delicious, as also his other remark when one +day in a curiosity-shop we were looking at another chair, which the +dealer declared to be Norman. My friend seated himself in it very +gravely, and after softly moving about from side to side, testing it, it +would appear, by the sensation it imparted to the sitting portion of his +limbs, he solemnly decided: 'I don't think the _flavour_ of this chair +is Norman!' + +I thought of this Pre-Raphaelite brother as the Sphinx and I were seated +a few evenings ago at our usual little dinner, in our usual little +sheltered corner, on the Lover's Gallery of one of the great London +restaurants. The Sphinx says that there is only one place in Europe +where one can really dine, but as it is impossible to be always within +reasonable train service of that Montsalvat of cookery, she consents to +eat with me--she cannot call it dine--at the restaurant of which I +speak. I being very simple-minded, untravelled, and unlanguaged, think +it, in my Cockney heart, a very fine place indeed, with its white marble +pillars surrounding the spacious peristyle, and flashing with a thousand +brilliant lights and colours; with its stately cooks, clothed in white +samite, mystic, wonderful, ranged behind a great altar loaded with big +silver dishes, and the sacred musicians of the temple ranged behind +them--while in and out go the waiters, clothed in white and black, +waiters so good and kind that I am compelled to think of Elijah being +waited on by angels. + +They have such an eye for a romance, too, and really take it personally +to heart if it should befall that our little table is usurped by others +that know not love. I like them, too, because they really seem to have +an eye for the strange beauty and charm of the Sphinx, quite an +unexpected taste for Botticelli. They ill conceal their envy of my lot, +and sometimes, in the meditative pauses between the courses, I see them +romantically reckoning how it might be possible by desperately saving +up, by prodigious windfalls of tips, from unexampled despatch and +sweetness in their ministrations, how it might be possible in ten years' +time, perhaps even in five--the lady would wait five years! and her +present lover could be artistically poisoned meanwhile!--how it might be +possible to come and sue for her beautiful hand. Then a harsh British +cry for 'waiter' comes like a rattle and scares away that beautiful +dream-bird, though, as the poor dreamer speeds on the quest of roast +beef for four, you can see it still circling with its wonderful blue +feathers around his pomatumed head. + +Ah, yes, the waiters know that the Sphinx is no ordinary woman. She +cannot conceal even from them the mystical star of her face, they too +catch far echoes of the strange music of her brain, they too grow +dreamy with dropped hints of fragrance from the rose of her wonderful +heart. + +How reverently do they help her doff her little cloak of silk and lace! +with what a worshipful inclination of the head, as in the presence of a +deity, do they await her verdict of choice between rival soups--shall it +be 'clear or thick'? And when she decides on 'thick,' how relieved they +seem to be, as if--well, some few matters remain undecided in the +universe, but never mind, this is settled for ever--no more doubts +possible on one portentous issue, at any rate--Madame will take her soup +'thick.' + +'On such a night' our talk fell upon whitebait. + +As the Sphinx's silver fork rustled among the withered silver upon her +plate, she turned to me and said: + +'Have you ever thought what beautiful little things these whitebait +are?' + +'Oh, yes,' I replied, 'they are the daisies of the deep sea, the +threepenny-pieces of the ocean.' + +'You dear!' said the Sphinx, who is alone in the world in thinking me +awfully clever. 'Go on, say something else, something pretty about +whitebait--there's a subject for you!' + +Then it was that, fortunately, I remembered my Pre-Raphaelite friend, +and I sententiously remarked: 'Of course, if one has anything to say one +cannot do better than say it about whitebait.... Well, whitebait....' + +But here, providentially, the band of the beef--that is, the band behind +the beef; that is, the band that nightly hymns the beef (the phrase is +to be had in three qualities)--struck up the overture from _Tannhäuser_, +which is not the only music that makes the Sphinx forget my existence; +and thus, forgetting me, she momentarily forgot the whitebait. But I +remembered, remembered hard--worked at pretty things, as metal-workers +punch out their flowers of brass and copper. The music swirled about us +like golden waves, in which swam myriad whitebait, like showers of tiny +stars, like falling snow. To me it was one grand processional of +whitebait, silver ripples upon streams of gold. + +The music stopped. The Sphinx turned to me with the soul of Wagner in +her eyes, and then she turned to the waiter: 'Would it be possible,' she +said, 'to persuade the bandmaster to play that wonderful thing over +again?' + +The waiter seemed a little doubtful, even for the Sphinx, but he went +off to the bandmaster with the air of a man who has at last an +opportunity to show that he can dare all for love. Personally, I have a +suspicion that he poured his month's savings at the bandmaster's feet, +and begged him to do this thing for the most wonderful lady in the +world; or perhaps the bandmaster was really a musician, and his +musician's heart was touched--lonely there amid the beef--to think that +there was really some one, invisible though she were to him, some +shrouded silver presence, up there among the beefeaters, who really +loved to hear great music. Perhaps it was thus made a night he has never +forgotten; perhaps it changed the whole course of his life--who knows? +The sweet reassuring request may have come to him at a moment when, sick +at heart, he was deciding to abandon real music for ever, and settle +down amid the beef and the beef-music of Old England. + +Well, however it was, the waiter came back radiant with a 'Yes' on every +shining part of him, and if the _Tannhäuser_ had been played well at +first, certainly the orchestra surpassed themselves this second time. + +When the great jinnee of music had once more swept out of the hall, the +Sphinx turned with shining eyes to the waiter: + +'Take,' she said, 'take these tears to the bandmaster. He has indeed +earned them.' + +'Tears, little one!' I said. 'See how they swim like whitebait in the +fishpools of your eyes!' + +'Oh, yes, the whitebait,' rejoined the Sphinx, glad of a subject to hide +her emotion. 'Now tell me something nice about them, though the poor +little things have long since disappeared. Tell me, for instance, how +they get their beautiful little silver waterproofs?' + +'Electric Light of the World,' I said, 'it is like this. While they are +still quite young and full of dreams, their mother takes them out in +picnic parties of a billion or so at a time to where the spring moon is +shining, scattering silver from its purse of pearl far over the wide +waters,--silver, silver, for every little whitebait that cares to swim +and pick it up. The mother, who has a contract with some such big +restaurateur as ours, chooses a convenient area of moonlight, and then +at a given sign they all turn over on their sides, and bask and bask in +the rays, little fin pressed lovingly against little fin--for this is +the happiest time in the young whitebait's life: it is at these +silvering parties that matches are made and future consignments of +whitebait arranged for. Well, night after night, they thus lie in the +moonlight, first on one side, then on the other, till by degrees, tiny +scale by scale, they have become completely lunar-plated. Ah! how sad +they are when the end of that happy time has come!' + +'And what happens to them after that?' asked the Sphinx. + +'One night when the moon is hidden their mother comes to them with +treacherous wile, and suggests that they should go off on a holiday +again to seek the moon--the moon that for a moment seems captured by the +pearl-fishers of the sky. And so off they go merrily, but, alas! no moon +appears; and presently they are aware of unwieldy bumping presences upon +the surface of the sea, presences as of huge dolphins; and rough voices +call across the water, till, scared, the little whitebaits turn home in +flight--to find themselves somehow meshed in an invisible prison, a net +as fine and strong as air, into which, O agony! they are presently +hauled, lovely banks of silver, shining like opened coffers beneath the +coarse and ragged flares of yellow torches. The rest is silence.' + +'What sad little lives! and what a cruel world it is!' said the +Sphinx--as she crunched with her knife through the body of a lark, that +but yesterday had been singing in the blue sky. Its spirit sang just +above our heads as she ate, and the air was thick with the grey ghosts +of all the whitebait she had eaten that night. + +But there were no longer any tears in her eyes. + + + + +THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE + + +The Sphinx and I sat in our little box at _Romeo and Juliet_. It was the +first time she had seen that fairy-tale of passion upon the stage. I had +seen it played once before--in Paradise. Therefore, I rather trembled to +see it again in an earthly play-house, and as much as possible kept my +eyes from the stage. All I knew of the performance--but how much was +that!--was two lovely voices making love like angels; and when there +were no words, the music told me what was going on. Love speaks so many +languages. + +One might as well look. It was as clear as moonlight to the tragic eye +within the heart. The Sphinx was gazing on it all with those eyes that +will never grow old, neither for years nor tears; but though I seemed to +be seeing nothing but an advertisement of Paderewski pianos on the +programme, I saw it--oh, didn't I see it?--all. The house had grown +dark, and the music low and passionate, and for a moment no one was +speaking. Only, deep in the thickets of my heart there sang a tragic +nightingale that, happily, only I could hear; and I said to myself, 'Now +the young fool is climbing the orchard wall! Yes, there go Benvolio and +Mercutio calling him; and now,--"he jests at scars who never felt a +wound"--the other young fool is coming out on to the balcony. God help +them both! They have no eyes--no eyes--or surely they would see the +shadow that sings "Love! Love! Love!" like a fountain in the moonlight, +and then shrinks away to chuckle "Death! Death! Death!" in the +darkness!' + +But, soft, what light from yonder window breaks! + +The Sphinx turned to me for sympathy--this time it was the soul of +Shakespeare in her eyes. + +'Yes!' I whispered, 'it is the Opening of the Eternal Rose, sung by the +Eternal Nightingale!' + +She pressed my hand approvingly; and while the lovely voices made their +heavenly love, I slipped out my silver-bound pocket-book of ivory and +pressed within it the rose which had just fallen from my lips. + +The worst of a great play is that one is so dull between the acts. Wit +is sacrilege, and sentiment is bathos. Not another rose fell from my +lips during the performance, though that I minded little, as I was the +more able to count the pearls that fell from the Sphinx's eyes. + +It took quite half a bottle of champagne to pull us up to our usual +spirits, as we sat at supper at a window where we could see London +spread out beneath us like a huge black velvet flower, dotted with fiery +embroideries, sudden flaring stamens, and rows of ant-like fireflies +moving in slow zig-zag processions along and across its petals. + +'How strange it seems,' said the Sphinx, 'to think that for every two of +those moving double-lights, which we know to be the eyes of hansoms, but +which seem up here nothing but gold dots in a very barbaric pattern of +black and gold, there are two human beings, no doubt at this time of +night two lovers, throbbing with the joy of life, and dreaming, heaven +knows what dreams!' + +'Yes,' I rejoined;' and to them I'm afraid we are even more impersonal. +From their little Piccadilly coracles our watch-tower in the skies is +merely a radiant facade of glowing windows, and no one of all who glide +by realises that the spirited illumination is every bit due to your +eyes. You have but to close them, and every one will be asking what has +gone wrong with the electric light.' + +A little nonsense is a great healer of the heart, and by means of such +nonsense as this we grew merry again. And anon we grew sentimental and +poetic, but--thank heaven! we were no longer tragic. + +Presently I had news for the Sphinx. 'The rose-tree that grows in the +garden of my mind,' I said, 'desires to blossom.' + +'May it blossom indeed,' she replied; 'for it has been flowerless all +this long evening; and bring me a rose fresh with all the dews of +inspiration--no florist's flower, wired and artificially scented, no +bloom of yesterday's hard-driven brains.' + +'I was only thinking,' I said, '_à propos_ of nightingales and roses, +that though all the world has heard the song of the nightingale to the +rose, only the nightingale has heard the answer of the rose. You know +what I mean?' + +'Know what you mean! Of course, that's always easy enough,' retorted the +Sphinx, who knows well how to be hard on me. + +'I'm so glad,' I ventured to thrust back; 'for lucidity is the first +success of expression: to make others see clearly what we ourselves are +struggling to see, believe with all their hearts what we are just daring +to hope, is--well, the religion of a literary man!' + +'Yes! it's a pretty idea,' said the Sphinx, once more pressing the rose +of my thought to her brain; 'and indeed it's more than pretty ...' + +'Thank you!' I said humbly. + +'Yes, it's _true_--and many a humble little rose will thank you for it. +For, your nightingale is a self-advertising bird. He never sings a song +without an eye on the critics, sitting up there in their stalls among +the stars. He never, or seldom, sings a song for pure love, just +because he must sing it or die. Indeed, he has a great fear of death, +unless--you will guarantee him immortality. But the rose, the trusting +little earth-born rose, that must stay all her life rooted in one spot +till some nightingale comes to choose her--some nightingale whose song +maybe has been inspired and perfected by a hundred other roses, which +are at the moment pot-pourri--ah, the shy bosom-song of the rose ...' + +Here the Sphinx paused, and added abruptly-- + +'Well--there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!' + +'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!' + +'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of +course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but +half-born--humourists always prefer to deliver themselves--so I shook my +head. + +'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of +her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey' and +'Stupid,'--which I recognised and meekly bore. + +'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But +don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no +nightingales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is +always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the +nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.' + +'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx. + +'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses--but ... +but....' + +'But what?' + +'But--well, I much prefer roses. Indeed I do.' + +'Rose of the World,' I continued with sentiment, 'draw in your thorns. I +cannot bear them.' + +'Ah!' she answered eagerly, 'that is just it. The nightingale that is +worthy of the rose will not only bear, but positively love, her thorns. +It is for that reason she wears them. The thorns of the rose properly +understood are but the tests of the nightingale. The nightingale that +is frightened of the thorns is not worthy of the rose--of that you may +be sure....' + +'I am not frightened of the thorns,' I managed to interject. + +'Sing then once more,' she cried, 'the Song of the Nightingale.' + +And it was thus I sang:-- + + O Rose of the World, a nightingale, + A Bird of the World, am I, + I have loved all the world and sung all the world, + But I come to your side to die. + + Tired of the world, as the world of me, + I plead for your quiet breast, + I have loved all the world and sung all the world-- + But--where is the nightingale's nest? + + In a hundred gardens I sung the rose, + Rose of the World, I confess-- + But for every rose I have sung before + I love you the more, not less. + + Perfect it grew by each rose that died, + Each rose that has died for you, + The song that I sing--yea, 'tis no new song, + It is tried--and so it is true. + + Petal or thorn, yea! I have no care, + So that I here abide; + Pierce me, my love, or kiss me, my love, + But keep me close to your side. + + I know not your kiss from your scorn, my love, + Your breast from your thorn, my rose, + And if you must kill me, well, kill me, my love! + But--say 'twas the death I chose. + +'Is it true?' asked the Rose. + +'As I am a nightingale,' I replied; and as we bade each other +good-night, I whispered: + +'When may I expect the Answer of the Rose?' + + + + +ABOUT THE SECURITIES + + +When I say that my friend Matthew lay dying, I want you so far as +possible to dissociate the statement from any conventional, and +certainly from any pictorial, conceptions of death which you may have +acquired. Death sometimes shows himself one of those impersonal artists +who conceal their art, and, unless you had been told, you could hardly +have guessed that Matthew was dying, dying indeed sixty miles an hour, +dying of consumption, dying because some one else had died four years +before, dying too of debt. + +Connoisseurs, of course, would have understood; at a glance would have +named the sculptor who was silently chiselling those noble hollows in +the finely modelled face,--that Pygmalion who turns all flesh to +stone,--at a glance would have named the painter who was cunningly +weighting the brows with darkness that the eyes might shine the more +with an unaccustomed light. Matthew and I had long been students of the +strange wandering artist, had begun by hating his art (it is ever so +with an art unfamiliar to us), and had ended by loving it. + +'Let us see what the artist has added to the picture since yesterday,' +said Matthew, signing to me to hand him the mirror. + +'H'm,' he murmured, 'he's had one of his lazy days, I'm afraid. He's +hardly added a touch--just a little heightened the chiaroscuro, +sharpened the nose a trifle, deepened some little the shadows round the +eyes.... + +'O why,' he presently sighed, 'does he not work a little overtime and +get it done? He's been paid handsomely enough.... + +'Paid,' he continued, 'by a life that is so much undeveloped gold-mine, +paid by all my uncashed hopes and dreams....' + +'He works fast enough for me, old fellow,' I interrupted; 'there was a +time, was there not, when he worked too fast for you and me?' + +There are moments, for certain people, when such fantastic unreality as +this is the truest realism. Matthew and I talked like this with our +brains, because we hadn't the courage to allow our hearts to break in +upon the conversation. Had I dared to say some real emotional thing, +what effect would it have had but to set poor tired Matthew a-coughing? +and it was our aim that he should die with as little to-do as +practicable. The emotional in such situations is merely the obvious. +There was no need for either of us to state the elementary feelings of +our love. I knew that Matthew was going to die, and he knew that--I was +going to live, and we pitied each other accordingly; though I confess my +feeling for him was rather one of envy,--when it was not congratulation. + +Thus, to tell the truth, we never mentioned 'the hereafter.' I don't +believe it even occurred to us. Indeed, we spent the few hours that +remained of our friendship in retailing the latest gathered of those +good stories with which we had been accustomed to salt our intercourse. + +One of Matthew's anecdotes was, no doubt, somewhat suggested by the +occasion, and I should add that he had always somewhat of an +ecclesiastical bias--would, I believe, have ended some day as a +Monsignor, a notable 'Bishop Blougram.' + +His story was of an evangelistic preacher who desired to impress his +congregation with the unmistakable reality of hell-fire. 'You know the +Black Country, my friends,' he had declaimed,' you have seen it, at +night, flaring with a thousand furnaces, in the lurid incandescence of +which myriads of unhappy beings, our fellow-creatures (God forbid!), +snatch a precarious existence--you have seen them silhouetted against +the yellow glare, running hither and thither, as it seemed from afar, in +the very jaws of the awful fire. Have you realised that the burdens with +which they thus run hither and thither are molten iron, iron to which +such a stupendous heat has been applied that it has melted, melted as +though it had been sugar in the sun?--well! returning to hell-fire, let +me tell you this, that in hell they eat this fiery molten metal for +ice-cream!--yes! and are glad to get anything so cool.' + +It was thus we talked while Matthew lay dying, for why should we not +talk as we had lived? We both laughed long and heartily over this story; +perhaps it would have amused us less had Matthew not been dying; and +then his kind old nurse brought in our lunch. We had both excellent +appetites, and were far from indifferent to the dainty little meal which +was to be our last but one together. I brought my table as close to +Matthew's pillow as was possible, and he stroked my hand with tenderness +in which there was a touch of gratitude. + +'You are not frightened of the bacteria!' he laughed sadly; and then he +told me, with huge amusement, how a friend (and a true, dear friend for +all that) had come to see him a day or two before, and had hung over the +end of the bed to say farewell, daring to approach no nearer, mopping +his fear-perspiring brows with a handkerchief soaked in 'Eucalyptus'! + +'He had brought an anticipatory elegy too,' said my friend, 'written +against my burial. I wish you'd read it for me,' and he fidgeted for it +in the nervous manner of the dying. Finding it among his pillows, he +handed it to me saying, 'You needn't be frightened of it. It is well +dosed with Eucalyptus.' + +We laughed even more over this poem than over our stories, and then we +discussed the terms of three cremation societies to which, at the +express request of my friend, I had written a day or two before. + +Then having smoked a cigar and drunk a glass of port together (for the +assured dying are allowed to 'live well'), Matthew grew sleepy, and, +tucking him beneath the counterpane, I left him, for, after all, he was +not to die that day. + +Circumstances prevented my seeing him again for a week. When I did so, +entering the room poignantly redolent of the strange sweet odour of +antiseptics, I saw that the great artist had been busy in my absence. +Indeed, his work was nearly at an end. Yet to one unfamiliar with his +methods there was still little to alarm in Matthew's face. In fact, with +the exception of his brain, and his ice-cold feet, he was alive as ever. +And even to his brain had come a certain unnatural activity, a life as +of the grave, a sort of vampire vitality, which would assuredly have +deceived any who had not known him. He still told his stories, laughed +and talked with the same unconquerable humour, was in every way alert +and practical, with this difference, that he had forgotten he was going +to die, that the world in which he exercised his various faculties was +another world to that in which, in spite of his delirium, we ate our +last boiled fowl, drank our last wine, smoked our last cigar together. +His talk was so convincingly rational, dealt with such unreal matters in +so every-day a fashion, that you were ready to think that surely it was +you and not he whose mind was wandering. + +'You might reach that pocket-book, and ring for Mrs. Davies,' he would +say in so casual a way that of course you would ring. On Mrs. Davies's +appearance he would be fumbling about among the papers in his +pocket-book, and presently he would say, with a look of frustration that +went to one's heart--'I've got a ten-pound note somewhere here for you, +Mrs. Davies, to pay you up till Saturday, but somehow I seem to have +lost it. Yet it must be somewhere about. Perhaps you'll find it as you +make the bed in the morning. I'm so sorry to have troubled you....' + +And then he would grow tired and doze a little on his pillow. + +Suddenly he would be alert again, and with a startling vividness tell me +strange stories from the dreamland into which he was now passing. + +I had promised to see him on Monday, but had been prevented, and had +wired to him accordingly. This was Tuesday. + +'You needn't have troubled to wire,' he said. 'Didn't you know I was in +London from Saturday to Monday?' + +'The doctor and Mrs. Davies didn't know,' he continued with the creepy +cunning of the dying: 'I managed to slip away to look at a house I think +of taking--in fact I've taken it. It's in--in--now, where is it? Now +isn't that silly? I can see it as plain as anything--yet I cannot, for +the life of me, remember where it is, or the number.... It was somewhere +St. John's Wood way ... never mind, you must come and see me there, when +we get in....' + +I said he was dying in debt, and thus the heaven that lay about his +deathbed was one of fantastic Eldorados, sudden colossal legacies, and +miraculous windfalls. + +'I haven't told you,' he said presently, 'of the piece of good luck that +has befallen me. You are not the only person in luck. I can hardly +expect you to believe me, it sounds so like the Arabian Nights. However, +it's true for all that. Well, one of the little sisters was playing in +the garden a few afternoons ago, making mud-pies or something of that +sort, and she suddenly scraped up a sovereign. Presently she found two +or three more, and our curiosity becoming aroused, a turn or two with +the spade revealed quite a bed of gold; and the end of it was, that on +further excavating, the whole garden proved to be one mass of +sovereigns. Sixty thousand pounds we counted ... and then, what do you +think?--it suddenly melted away....' + +He paused for a moment, and continued, more in amusement than regret-- + +'Yes--the Government got wind of it, and claimed the whole lot as +treasure-trove! + +'But not,' he added slyly, 'before I'd paid off two or three of my +biggest bills. Yes--and--you'll keep it quiet, of course,--there's +another lot been discovered in the garden, but we shall take good care +the Government doesn't get hold of it this time, you bet.' + +He told this wild story with such an air of simple conviction that, odd +as it may seem, one believed every word of it. But the tale of his +sudden good-fortune was not ended. + +'You've heard of old Lord Osterley,' he presently began again. 'Well, +congratulate me, old man: he has just died and left everything to me. +You know what a splendid library he had--to think that that will all be +mine--and that grand old park through which we've so often wandered, you +and I! Well, we shall need fear no gamekeeper now, and of course, dear +old fellow, you'll come and live with me--like a prince--and just write +your own books and say farewell to journalism for ever. Of course I can +hardly believe it's true yet. It seems too much of a dream, and yet +there's no doubt about it. I had a letter from my solicitors this +morning, saying that they were engaged in going through the securities, +and--and--but the letter's somewhere over there; you might read it. No? +can't you find it? It's there somewhere about, I know. Never mind, you +can see it again....' he finished wearily. + +'Yes!' he presently said, half to himself, 'it will be a wonderful +change! a wonderful change!' + + * * * * * + +At length the time came to say good-bye, a good-bye I knew must be the +last, for my affairs were taking me so far away from him that I could +not hope to see him for some days. + +'I'm afraid, old man,' I said, 'that I mayn't be able to see you for +another week.' + +'O never mind, old fellow, don't worry about me. I'm much better +now--and by the time you come again we shall know all about the +securities.' + +The securities! My heart had seemed like a stone, incapable of feeling, +all those last unreal hours together; but the pathos of that sad phrase, +so curiously symbolic, suddenly smote it with overwhelming pity, and the +tears sprang to my eyes for the first time. As I bent over him to kiss +his poor damp forehead, and press his hand for the last farewell, I +murmured-- + +'Yes--dear, dear old friend. We shall know all about the securities....' + + + + +THE BOOM IN YELLOW + + +Green must always have a large following among artists and art lovers; +for, as has been pointed out, an appreciation of it is a sure sign of a +subtle artistic temperament. There is something not quite good, +something almost sinister, about it--at least, in its more complex +forms, though in its simple form, as we find it in outdoor nature, it is +innocent enough; and, indeed, is it not used in colloquial metaphor as +an adjective for innocence itself? Innocence has but two colours, white +or green. But Becky Sharp's eyes also were green, and the green of the +aesthete does not suggest innocence. There will always be wearers of the +green carnation; but the popular vogue which green has enjoyed for the +last ten or fifteen years is probably passing. Even the aesthete himself +would seem to be growing a little weary of its indefinitely divided +tones, and to be anxious for a colour sensation somewhat more positive +than those to be gained from almost imperceptible _nuances_, of green. +Jaded with over-refinements and super-subtleties, we seem in many +directions to be harking back to the primary colours of life. Blue, +crude and unsoftened, and a form of magenta, have recently had a short +innings; and now the triumph of yellow is imminent. Of course, a love +for green implies some regard for yellow, and in our so-called aesthetic +renaissance the sunflower went before the green carnation--which is, +indeed, the badge of but a small schism of aesthetes, and not worn by +the great body of the more catholic lovers of beauty. + +Yellow is becoming more and more dominant in decoration--in wall-papers, +and flowers cultivated with decorative intention, such as +chrysanthemums. And one can easily understand why: seeing that, after +white, yellow reflects more light than any other colour, and thus +ministers to the growing preference for light and joyous rooms. A few +yellow chrysanthemums will make a small room look twice its size, and +when the sun comes out upon a yellow wall-paper the whole room seems +suddenly to expand, to open like a flower. When it falls upon the pot of +yellow chrysanthemums, and sets them ablaze, it seems as though one had +an angel in the room. Bill-posters are beginning to discover the +attractive qualities of the colour. Who can ever forget meeting for the +first time upon a hoarding Mr. Dudley Hardy's wonderful Yellow Girl, the +pretty advance-guard of _To-Day_? But I suppose the honour of the +discovery of the colour for advertising purposes rests with Mr. Colman; +though its recent boom comes from the publishers, and particularly from +the Bodley Head. _The Yellow Book_ with any other colour would hardly +have sold as well--the first private edition of Mr. Arthur Benson's +poems, by the way, came caparisoned in yellow, and with the identical +name, _Le Cahier Jaune_; and no doubt it was largely its title that made +the success of _The Yellow Aster_. In literature, indeed, yellow has +long been the colour of romance. The word 'yellow-back' witnesses its +close association with fiction; and in France, as we know, it is the +all but universal custom to bind books in yellow paper. Mr. Heinemann +and Mr. Unwin have endeavoured to naturalise the custom here; but, +though in cloth yellow has emphatically 'caught on,' in paper it still +hangs fire. The ABC Railway Guide is probably the only exception, and +that, it is to be hoped, is not fiction. Mr. Lang has recently followed +the fashion with his _Yellow Fairy Book_; and, indeed, one of the best +known figures in fairydom is yellow--namely, the Yellow Dwarf. Yellow, +always a prominent Oriental colour, was but lately of peculiar +significance in the Far East; for were not the sorrows of a certain high +Chinese official intimately connected with the fatal colour? The Yellow +Book, the Yellow Aster, the Yellow Jacket!--and the Yellow Fever, like +'Orion' Home's sunshine, is always with us' somewhere in the world.' The +same applies also, I suppose, to the Yellow Sea. + +Till one comes to think of it, one hardly realises how many important +and pleasant things in life are yellow. Blue and green, no doubt, +contract for the colouring of vast departments of the physical world. +'Blue!' sings Keats, in a fine but too little known sonnet-- + + '... 'Tis the life of heaven--the domain + Of Cynthia--the wide palace of the sun-- + The tent of Hesperus, and all his train-- + The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey, and dun. + Blue! 'Tis the life of waters ... + Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest green, + Married to green in all the sweetest flowers.' + +Yellow might retort by quoting Mr. Grant Allen, in his book on _The +Colour Sense_, to the effect that the blueness of sea and sky is mainly +poetical illusion or inaccuracy, and that sea and sky are found blue +only in one experiment out of fourteen. At morning and evening they are +usually in great part stained golden. Blue certainly has one advantage +over yellow, in that it has the privilege of colouring some of the +prettiest eyes in the world. Yellow has a chance only in cases of +jaundice and liver complaint, and his colour scheme in such cases is +seldom appreciated. Again, green has the contract for the greater bulk +of the vegetable life of the globe; but his is a monotonous business, +like the painting of miles and miles of palings: grass, grass, grass, +trees, trees, trees, _ad infinitum_; whereas yellow leads a roving, +versatile life, and is seldom called upon for such monotonous labour. +The sands of Sahara are probably the only conspicuous instance of yellow +thus working by the piece. It is in the quality, in the diversity of the +things it colours, rather than in their mileage or tonnage, that yellow +is distinguished; though, for that matter, we suppose, the sun is as big +and heavy as most things, and that is yellow. Of course, when we say +yellow we include golden, and all varieties of the colour--saffron, +orange, flaxen, tawny, blonde, topaz, citron, etc. + +If the sun may reasonably be described as the most important object in +the world, surely money is the next. That, as we know, is, in its most +potent metallic form, yellow also. The 'yellow gold' is a favourite +phrase in certain forms of poetry; and 'yellow-boys' is a term of +natural affection among sailors. Following the example of their lord the +sun, most fires and lights are yellow or golden, and it is only in +times of danger or superstition that they burn red or blue. And, if +yellow be denied entrance to beautiful eyes, it enjoys a privilege +which--except in the case of certain indigo-staining African tribes, who +cannot be said to count--blue has never claimed: that of colouring +perhaps the loveliest thing in the world, the hair of woman. Hair is +naturally golden--unnaturally also. When Browning sings pathetically of +'dear dead women--with such hair too!' he continues:-- + + 'What's become of all the _gold_ + Used to hang and brush their bosoms'-- + +not 'all the blue' or 'all the brown,' though some of us, it is true, +are condemned to wear our hair brown or blue-black. But such are only +unhappy exceptions. Yellow or gold is the rule. The bravest men and the +fairest women have had golden hair, and, we may add, in reference to +another distinction of the colour we are celebrating, golden hearts. +Hair at the present time is doing its best to conform to its normal +conditions of colour. Numerous instances might be adduced of its +changing from black to gold, in obedience to chemical law. 'Peroxide of +hydrogen!' says the cynic. 'Beauty!' says the lover of art. + +And it might be argued, in a world of inevitable compromise, that the +damage done to the physical health and texture of the hair thus playing +the chameleon may well be overbalanced by the happiness, and consequent +increased effectiveness, of the person thus dyeing for the sake of +beauty. Thaumaturgists lay much stress on the mystic influence of +colours; and who knows but that, if we were only allowed to dye our hair +what colour we chose, we might be different men and women? Strange +things are told of women who have dyed their hair the colour of blood or +of wine, and we know from Christina Rossetti that golden hair is +negotiable in fairyland-- + + '"You have much gold upon your head," + They answered all together: + "Buy from us with a golden curl."' + +Whether Laura could have done business with the goblin merchantmen with +an oxidised curl is a difficult point, for fairies have sharp eyes; and, +though it be impossible for a mortal to tell the real gold from the +false gold hair, the fairies may be able to do so, and might reject the +curl as counterfeit. + +Again, if in the vegetable world green almost universally colours the +leaves, yellow has more to do with the flowers. The flowers we love best +are yellow: the cowslip, the daffodil, the crocus, the buttercup, half +the daisy, the honeysuckle, and the loveliest rose. Yellow, too, has its +turn even with the leaves; and what an artist he shows himself when, in +autumn, he 'lays his fiery finger' upon them, lighting up the forlorn +woodland with splashes--pure palette-colour of audacious gold! He hangs +the mulberry with heart-shaped yellow shields--which reminds one of the +heraldic importance of 'or,'--and he lines the banks of the Seine with +phantasmal yellow poplars. And other leaves still dearer to the heart +are yellow likewise; leaves of those sweet old poets whose thoughts seem +to have turned the pages gold. Let us dream of this: a maid with yellow +hair, clad in a yellow gown, seated in a yellow room, at the window a +yellow sunset, in the grate a yellow fire, at her side a yellow +lamplight, on her knee a Yellow Book. And the letters we love best to +read--when we dare--are they not yellow too? No doubt some disagreeable +things are reported of yellow. We have had the yellow-fever, and we have +had pea-soup. The eyes of lions are said to be yellow, and the ugliest +cats--the cats that infest one's garden--are always yellow. Some +medicines are yellow, and no doubt there are many other yellow +disagreeables; but we prefer to dwell upon the yellow blessings. I had +almost forgotten that the gayest wines are yellow. Nor has religion +forgotten yellow. It is to be hoped yellow will not forget religion. The +sacred robe of the second greatest religion of the world is yellow, 'the +yellow robe' of the Buddhist friar; and when the sacred harlots of +Hindustan walk in lovely procession through the streets, they too, like +the friars, are clad in yellow. Amber is yellow; so is the orange; and +so were stage-coaches and many dashing things of the old time; and pink +is yellow by lamplight. But gold-mines, it has been proved, are not so +yellow as is popularly supposed. Hymen's robe is Miltonically 'saffron,' +and the dearest petticoat in all literature--not forgetting the +'tempestuous' garment of Herrick's Julia--was 'yaller.' Yes!-- + + ''Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, + An' er name was Supi-yaw-lat, jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen.' + +Is it possible to say anything prettier for yellow than that? + + + + +LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN + + +My Dear Sir,--I agree with every word you say. You have my entire +sympathy. The world is indeed hard, hard to the sad--particularly hard +to the unsuccessful. A sure five hundred a year covers a multitude of +sorrows. It is ever an ill wind for the shorn lamb. If it be true that +nothing succeeds like success, it is no less sadly true that nothing +fails like failure. And when one thinks of it, it is only natural, for +every failure is an obstruction in the stream of life. Metaphorical +writers are fond of saying that the successful ride to success on the +back of the failures. It is true that many rise on stepping-stones of +their dead relations--but that is because their relations have been +financial successes. In truth, instead of the failure making the +fortune of the successful, it is just the reverse. A very successful man +would be the more successful were it not for the failures--on whom he +has either to spend his money to support, or his time to advise. The +strong are said to be impatient towards the weak--and is it to be +wondered at, in a world where even the strongest need all their +strength, in a sea where the best swimmer needs all his wind and muscle +and skill to keep afloat? If success is sometimes 'unfeeling' towards +failure, failure is often unfair to success. Of course, 'it is He that +hath made us and not we ourselves,' but that is a text that cuts both +ways; and when all is said and done, the failure detracts from the force +in the universe; he is the clog on the wheel of fortune. To say that the +successful man benefits by the failure of others is as true as it would +be to say that the ratepayer benefits by the poor-rates. You use the +word 'charlatan' somewhat profusely of several successful writers, and +no doubt you are right. But you must remember that it is a favourite +charge against the gifted and the fortunate. Because we have failed by +fair means, we are sure the other fellows have succeeded by foul. And, +moreover, one is apt to forget how much talent is needed to be a +charlatan. Never look down upon a charlatan. Courage, skill, personal +force or charm, great knowledge of human nature, dramatic instinct, and +industry--few charlatans succeed (and no one is called a charlatan till +he _does_ succeed, be his success as low or high as you please) without +possessing a majority of these qualities; how many of which--it would be +interesting to know--do you possess? + +Indeed, it would seem to need more gifts to be a rogue than an honest +man, and there is a sense in which every great man may be described as a +charlatan--_plus_ greatness; greatness being an almost indefinable +quality, a quality, at any rate, on which there is a bewildering +diversity of opinion. + +You seem a little cross with publishers and editors. They have not +proved the distinguished, brilliant, and sympathetic beings you imagined +them in your boyish dreams. No doubt, publishers and editors enter +hardly into the kingdom of heaven. But then, you see, they don't care so +much about that; they are much more interested in the next election at +certain fashionable clubs. It is really a little hard on them that they +should suffer from the ignorant misconception of the literary amateur. +It is only those who have had no dealings with them who would be unfair +enough to expect publishers or editors to be literary men. They are +business men--business men _par excellence_--and a good thing, too, for +their papers and their authors. You lament their mercenary view of life; +but, judging by your letter, even you are not disposed to regard money +as the root of all evil. + +You cannot understand why you have failed where others have succeeded. +You have far more Greek than Keats, more history than Scott, and you +know nineteen languages--ten of them to speak. With so many +accomplishments, it must indeed be hard to fail--though you do not seem +to have found it difficult. You have travelled too--have been twice +round the world, and have a thorough knowledge of the worst hotels. +Certainly, it is singular. Nevertheless, I must confess that the dullest +men I have ever met have been professors of history; the worst poets +have not only known Greek, but French as well; and, generally speaking +the most tiresome of my acquaintances have more degrees than I have +Latin to name them in. Alas! it is not experience, or travel, or +language, but the use we make of them, that makes literary success, +which, one may add, is particularly dependent--perhaps not +unnaturally--on the use we make of language. A book may be a book, +although there is neither Latin nor Greek, nor travel, nor +experience--in fact 'nothing' in it; and though, like myself, you may +pay an Oxford professor a thousand a year to correct your proofs, you +may still miss immortality. + +To these intellectual and general equipments you add goodness of heart, +sincerity of conviction, and martyrdom for your opinions; you are, it +would seem, like many others of us, the best fellow and greatest man of +your acquaintance. Permit me to remind you that we are not talking of +goodness of heart, of strength or beauty of character, but of success, +which is a thing apart, a fine art in itself. + +You confess that you are somewhat unpractical: you expect +others--hard-worked journalists who never met you--to tell you what to +read, how to form your style, and how 'to get into the magazines.' You +are, you say, with something of pride, but a poor business man. That is +a pity, for nearly every successful literary man of the day, and +particularly the novelists, are excellent business men. Indeed, the +history of literature all round has proved that the men who have been +masters of words have also been masters of things--masters of the facts +of life for which those words stand. Many writers have mismanaged their +affairs from idleness and indifference, but few from incapacity. Leigh +Hunt boasted that he could never master the multiplication-table. +Perhaps that accounts for his comparative failure as a writer. +Incompetence in one art is far from being a guarantee of competency in +another, and a man is all the more likely to make a name if he is able +to make a living--though, judging from Coleridge, it seems a good plan +to let another hard-worked man support one's wife and children. On the +other hand, though business faculty is a great deal, it is not +everything: for a man may be as punctual and methodical as Southey, and +yet miss the prize of his high calling, or as generally 'impossible' as +Blake, and yet win his place among the immortals. + +In fact, after all, success in literature has something to do with +writing. In temporary success, industry and business faculty, and an +unworked field--be it Scotland, Ireland, or the Isle of Man (any place +but plain England!)--are the chief factors. For that more lasting +success which we call fame other qualities are needed, such qualities as +imagination, fancy, and magic and force in the use of words. Can you +honestly say, O beloved, though tiresome, correspondent, that these +great gifts are yours? Judging from your letter--but Heaven forbid that +I should be unkind! For, need I say I love you with a fellow-feeling? Do +you think that you are the only unappreciated genius on the planet--not +to speak of all the other unappreciated geniuses on all the other +planets? Thank goodness, the postal arrangements with the latter are as +yet defective! Others there are with hearts as warm, minds as profound, +and style at least as attractive, who languish in unmerited +neglect--Miltons inglorious indeed, though far from mute. + +Believe me, you are not alone. In fact, there are so many like you that +it would be quite easy for you to find society without worrying me. And, +for all of us, there is the consolation that, though we fail as writers, +we may still succeed as citizens, as husbands and fathers and friends. +As Whitman would say--because you are not Editor of _The Times_, do you +give in that you are less than a man? There are poets that have never +entered into the Bodley Head, and great prose-writers who have never sat +in an editorial chair. Be satisfied with your heavenly crowns, O you +whining unsuccessful, and leave to your inferiors the earthly +five-shilling pieces. + + + + +A POET IN THE CITY + + + 'In the midway of this our mortal life, + I found me in a gloomy wood, astray.' + +I (and when I say I, I must be understood to be speaking dramatically) +only venture into the City once a year, for the very pleasant purpose of +drawing that twelve-pound-ten by which the English nation, ever so +generously sensitive to the necessities, not to say luxuries, of the +artist, endeavours to express its pride and delight in me. It would be a +very graceful exercise of gratitude for me here to stop and parenthesise +the reader on the subject of all that twelve-pound-ten has been to me, +how it has quite changed the course of my life, given me that +long-desired opportunity of doing my best work in peace, for which so +often I vainly sighed in Fleet Street, and even allowed me an indulgence +in minor luxuries which I could not have dreamed of enjoying before the +days of that twelve-pound-ten. Now not only peace and plenty, but +leisure and luxury are mine. There is nothing goes so far as--Government +money. + +Usually on these literally State occasions, I drive up in state, that is +in a hansom. There is only one other day in the year on which I am so +splendid, but that is another beautiful story. It, too, is a day and an +hour too joyous to be approached otherwise than on winged wheels, too +stately to be approached in merely pedestrian fashion. To go on foot to +draw one's pension seems a sort of slight on the great nation that does +one honour, as though a Lord Mayor should make his appearance in the +procession in his office coat. + +So I say it is my custom to go gaily, and withal stately, to meet my +twelve-pound-ten in a hansom. For many reasons the occasion always seems +something of an adventure, and I confess I always feel a little excited +about it--indeed, to tell the truth, a little nervous. As I glide along +in my state barge (which seems a much more proper and impressive image +for a hansom than 'gondola,' with its reminiscences of Earl's Court) I +feel like some fragile country flower torn from its roots, and +bewilderingly hurried along upon the turbid, swollen stream of London +life. + +The stream glides sweetly with a pleasant trotting tinkle of bells by +the green parkside of Piccadilly, and sweet is it to hear the sirens +singing, and to see them combing their gilded locks, on the yellow sands +of Piccadilly Circus--so called, no doubt, from the number of horses and +the skill of their drivers. Here are the whirling pools of pleasure, +merry wheels of laughing waters, where your hansom glides along with a +golden ease--it is only when you enter the First Cataract of the Strand +that you become aware of the far-distant terrible roar of the Falls! +They are yet nearly two miles away, but already, like Niagara, thou +hearest the sound thereof--the fateful sound of that human Niagara, +where all the great rivers of London converge: the dark, strong floods +surging out from the gloomy fastnesses of the East End, the +quick-running streams from the palaces of the West, the East with its +wagons, the West with its hansoms, the four winds with their omnibuses, +the horses and carriages under the earth jetting up their companies of +grimy passengers, the very air busy with a million errands. + +You are in the rapids--metaphorically speaking--as you crawl down +Cheapside; and here where the Bank of England and the Mansion House rise +sheer and awful from, shall we say, this boiling caldron, this 'hell' of +angry meeting waters--Threadneedle Street and Cornhill, Queen Victoria +Street and Cheapside, each 'running,' again metaphorically, 'like a +mill-race'--here in this wild maelstrom of human life and human +conveyances, here is the true 'Niagara in London,' here are the most +wonderful falls in the world--the London Falls. + +'Yes!' I said softly to myself, and I could see the sly sad smile on the +face of the dead poet, at the thought of whose serene wisdom a silence +like snow seemed momentarily to cover up the turmoil--'Yes!' I said +softly, 'there is still the same old crush at the corner of Fenchurch +Street!' + +By this time I had disbursed one of my two annual cab-fares, and was +standing a little forlorn at that very corner. It was a March afternoon, +bitter and gloomy; lamps were already popping alight in a desolate way, +and the east wind whistled mournfully through the ribs of the +passers-by. A very unflowerlike man was dejectedly calling out +'daffadowndillies' close by. The sound of the pretty old word, thus +quaintly spoken, brightened the air better than the electric lights +which suddenly shot rows of wintry moonlight along the streets. I bought +a bunch of the poor pinched flowers, and asked the man how he came to +call them 'daffadowndillies.' + +'D'vunshur,' he said, in anything but a Devonshire accent, and then the +east wind took him and he was gone--doubtless to a neighbouring tavern; +and no wonder, poor soul! Flowers certainly fall into strange hands here +in London. + +Well, it was nearing four, and if I wanted a grateful country's +twelve-pound-ten, I must make haste; so presently I found myself in a +great hall, of which I have no clearer impression than that there were +soft little lights all about me, and a soft chime of falling gold, like +the rippling of Pactolus. I have a sort of idea, too, of a great number +of young men with most beautiful moustaches, playing with golden +shovels; and as I thus stood among the soft lights and listened to the +most beautiful sound in the world, I thought that thus must Danæ have +felt as she stood amid the falling shower. But I took care to see that +my twelve sovereigns and a half were right number and weight for all +that. + +Once more in the street, I lingered a while to take a last look at the +Falls. What a masterful alien life it all seemed to me! No single +personality could hope to stand alone amid all that stress of ponderous, +bullying forces. Only public companies, and such great impersonalities, +could hope to hold their own, to swim in such a whirlpool--and even +they, I had heard it whispered, far away in my quiet starlit garret, +sometimes went down. 'How,' I cried, 'would-- + + '... my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your deeps and heights ... + Rush of suns, and roll of systems, and your fiery clash of meteorites,' + +again quoting poetry. I always quote poetry in the City, as a +protest--moreover, it clears the air. + +The more people buffeted against me the more I felt the crushing sense +of almost cosmic forces. Everybody was so plainly an atom in a public +company, a drop of water in a tyrannous stream of human +energy--companies that cared nothing for their individual atoms, streams +that cared nothing for their component drops; such atoms and drops, for +the most part, to be had for thirty shillings a week. These people about +me seemed no more like individual men and women than individual puffs in +a mighty rushing wind, or the notes in a great scheme of music, are men +and women--to the banker so many pens with ears whereon to perch them, +to the capitalist so many 'hands,' and to the City man generally so many +'helpless pieces of the game he plays' up there in spidery nooks and +corners of the City. + +As I listened to the throbbing of the great human engines in the +buildings about me, a rising and a falling there seemed as of those +great steel-limbed monsters, weird contortionists of metal, that jet up +and down, and writhe and wrestle this way and that, behind the long +glass windows of great water-towers, or toil like Vulcan in the bowels +of mighty ships. An expression of frenzy seems to come up even from the +dumb tossing steel; sometimes it seems to be shaking great knuckled +fists at one and brandishing threatening arms, as it strains and sweats +beneath the lash of the compulsive steam. As one watches it, there seems +something of human agony about its panic-stricken labours, and something +like a sense of pity surprises one--a sense of pity that anything in the +world should have to work like that, even steel, even, as we say, +senseless steel. What, then, of these great human engine-houses! Will +the engines always consent to rise and fall, night and day, like that? +or will there some day be a mighty convulsion, and this blind Samson of +labour pull down the whole engine-house upon his oppressors? Who knows? +These are questions for great politicians and thinkers to decide, not +for a poet, who is too much terrified by such forces to be able calmly +to estimate and prophesy concerning them. + +Yes! if you want to realise Tennyson's picture of 'one poor poet's +scroll' ruling the world, take your poet's scroll down to Fenchurch +Street and try it there. Ah, what a powerless little 'private interest' +seems poetry there, poetry 'whose action is no stronger than a flower.' +In days of peace it ventures even into the morning papers; but, let only +a rumour of war be heard, and it vanishes like a dream on doomsday +morning. A County Council election passeth over it and it is gone. + +Yet it was near this very spot that Keats dug up the buried beauty of +Greece, lying hidden beneath Finsbury Pavement! and in the deserted City +churches great dramatists lie about us. Maybe I have wronged the +City--and at this thought I remembered a little bookshop but a few yards +away, blossoming like a rose right in the heart of the wilderness. + +Here, after all, in spite of all my whirlpools and engine-houses, was +for me the greatest danger in the City. Need I say, therefore, that I +promptly sought it, hovered about it a moment--and entered? How much of +that grateful governmental twelve-pound-ten came out alive, I dare not +tell my dearest friend. + +At all events I came out somehow reassured, more rich in faith. There +was a might of poesy after all. There were words in the little +yellow-leaved garland, nestling like a bird in my hand, that would +outlast the bank yonder, and outlive us all. I held it up. How tiny it +seemed, how frail amid all this stone and iron! A mere flower--a flower +from the seventeenth century--long-lived for a flower! Yes, an +_immortelle_. + + + + +BROWN ROSES + +'Well, I never thought to see this day, sir,' said Gibbs, with something +like tears in his voice, as he reluctantly plied his scissors upon +Hyacinth Rondel's distinguished curls. + +'Nor I, Gibbs--nor I!' said Rondel sadly, relapsing into silence again, +with his head meekly bent over the white sheet spread to catch his shorn +beauty. + +'To think of the times, sir, that I have dressed your head,' continued +Gibbs, whose grief bore so marked an emphasis, 'and to think that after +to-day ...' + +'But you forget, my dear Gibbs, that I shall now be a more constant +customer than ever!' + +'Ah, sir, but that will be different. It will be mere machine-cutting, +lawn-mowing, steam-reaping, if you understand me; there'll be no +pleasure in it, no artistic pleasure, I mean.' + +'Yes, Gibbs, and you are an artist--I have often told you that.' + +'Ah, sir, but I am coming to the conclusion that it is better not to be +an artist, better to be born just like every one else. In these days one +suffers too much. Why, sir, I haven't in the whole of my business six +heads like yours, and I go on cutting all the rest week in and week out, +just for the pleasure of dressing those six--and now there'll only be +five.' + + * * * * * + +'It looks like a winding-sheet,' mused Rondel presently, after a long +silence, broken only by the soft crunch and click of the fatal scissors, +as they feasted on the beautiful brown silk. + +'It do indeed, sir,' said Gibbs, with a shudder, as another little globe +of golden brown rolled down into Rondel's lap. + +'Poor brown roses!' sighed the poet, after another silence; 'they are +just like brown roses, aren't they, Gibbs?' + +'They are indeed, sir!' + +'Brown roses scattered over the winding-sheet of one's youth--eh, +Gibbs?' + +'They are indeed, sir.' + +'That's rather a pretty image, don't you think, Gibbs?' + +'Indeed I do, sir!' + +'Well, well, they have bloomed their last; and when Juliet's white hands +come seeking with their silver fingers, white maidens lost in the brown +enchanted forest, there will not be a rose left for her to gather.' + +'Believe me, sir, I would more gladly have cut off your head than your +hair--that is, figuratively speaking,' sobbed the artist-in-hair-oils. + +'Yes, my head would hardly be missed--you are quite right, Gibbs; but my +hair! What will they do without it at first nights and private views? It +was worth five shillings a week to many a poor paragraph-writer. Well, I +must try and make up for it by my beard!' + +'Your beard, sir?' exclaimed Gibbs in horror. + +'Yes, Gibbs; for some years I have been a Nazarene--that is, a Nazarite, +with the top half of my head; now I am going to change about and be a +Nazarite with the lower. The razor has kissed my cheeks and my chin and +the fluted column of my throat for the last time.' + +'You cannot mean it, sir!' said Gibbs, suspending his murderous task a +moment. + +'It's quite true, Gibbs.' + +'Does she wish that too, sir?' + +'Yes, that too.' + +'Well, sir, I have heard of men making sacrifices for their wives, but +of all the cruel....' + +'Please don't, Gibbs. It does no good. And Mrs. Rondel's motive is a +good one.' + +'Of course, sir, I cannot presume--and yet, if it wouldn't be presuming, +I should like to know why you are making this great, I may say this +noble, sacrifice?' + +'Well, Gibbs, we're old friends, and I'll tell you some day, but I +hardly feel up to it to-day.' + +'Of course not, sir, of course not--it's only natural,' said Gibbs +tenderly, while the scissors once more took up the conversation. + + + + +THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR + + +'That is how the donkey tells his love!' I said one day, with intent to +be funny, as the prolonged love-whoop of a distant donkey was heard in +the land. + +'Don't be too ready to laugh at donkeys,' said my friend. 'For,' he +continued, 'even donkeys have their dreams. Perhaps, indeed, the most +beautiful dreams are dreamed by donkeys.' + +'Indeed,' I said, 'and now that I think of it, I remember to have said +that most dreamers are donkeys, though I never expected so scientific a +corroboration of a fleeting jest.' + +Now, my friend is an eminent scientist and poet in one, a serious +combination; and he took my remarks with seriousness at once scientific +and poetic. + +'Yes,' he went on, 'that is where you clever people make a mistake. You +think that because a donkey has only two vowel-sounds wherewith to +express his emotions, he has no emotions to express. But let me tell +you, sir ...' + +But here we both burst out laughing-- + +'You Golden Ass!' I said,'take a munch of these roses; perhaps they will +restore you.' + +'No,' he resumed, 'I am quite serious. I have for many years past made a +study of donkeys--high-stepping critics call it the study of Human +Nature--however, it's the same thing--and I must say that the more I +study them the more I love them. There is nothing so well worth studying +as the misunderstood, for the very reason that everybody thinks he +understands it. Now, to take another instance, most people think they +have said the last word on a goose when they have called it "a +goose"!--but let me tell you, sir ...' + +But here again we burst out laughing-- + +'Dear goose of the golden eggs,' I said, 'pray leave to discourse on +geese to-night--though lovely and pleasant would the discourse +be;--to-night I am all agog for donkeys.' + +'So be it,' said my friend,' and if that be so, I cannot do better than +tell you the story of the donkey that loved a star--keeping for another +day the no less fascinating story of the goose that loved an angel.' + +By this time I was, appropriately, all ears. + +'Well,' he once more began, 'there was once a donkey, quite an intimate +friend of mine--and I have no friend of whom I am prouder--who was +unpractically fond of looking up at the stars. He could go a whole day +without thistles, if night would only bring him stars. Of course he +suffered no little from his fellow-donkeys for this curious passion of +his. They said well that it did not become him, for indeed it was no +little laughable to see him gazing so sentimentally at the remote and +pitiless heavens. Donkeys who belonged to Shakespeare Societies recalled +the fate of Bottom, the donkey who had loved a fairy; but our donkey +paid little heed. There is perhaps only one advantage in being a +donkey--namely, a hide impervious to criticism. In our donkey's case it +was rather a dream that made him forget his hide--a dream that drew up +all the sensitiveness from every part, from hoof, and hide, and ears, so +that all the feeling in his whole body was centred in his eyes and +brain, and those, as we have said, were centred on a star. He took it +for granted that his fellows should sneer and kick-out at him--it was +ever so with genius among the donkeys, and he had very soon grown used +to these attentions of his brethren, which were powerless to withdraw +his gaze from the star he loved. For though he loved all the stars, as +every individual man loves all women, there was one star he loved more +than any other; and standing one midnight among his thistles, he prayed +a prayer, a prayer that some day it might be granted him to carry that +star upon his back--which, he recalled, had been sanctified by the holy +sign--were it but for ever so short a journey. Just to carry it a little +way, and then to die. This to him was a dream beyond the dreams of +donkeys. + +'Now, one night,' continued my friend, taking breath for himself and +me, 'our poor donkey looked up to the sky, and lo! the star was nowhere +to be seen. He had heard it said that stars sometimes fall. Evidently +his star had fallen. Fallen! but what if it had fallen upon the earth? +Being a donkey, the wildest dreams seemed possible to him. And, strange +as it may seem, there came a day when a poet came to his master and +bought our donkey to carry his little child. Now, the very first day he +had her upon his back, the donkey knew that his prayer had been +answered, and that the little swaddled babe he carried was the star he +had prayed for. And, indeed, so it was; for so long as donkeys ask no +more than to fetch and carry for their beloved, they may be sure of +beauty upon their backs. Now, so long as this little girl that was a +star remained a little girl, our donkey was happy. For many pretty years +she would kiss his ugly muzzle and feed his mouth with sugar--and thus +our donkey's thoughts sweetened day by day, till from a natural +pessimist he blossomed into a perfectly absurd optimist, and dreamed the +donkiest of dreams. But, one day, as he carried the girl who was really +a star through the spring lanes, a young man walked beside her, and +though our donkey thought very little of his talk--in fact, felt his +plain "hee-haw" to be worth all its smart chirping and twittering--yet +it evidently pleased the maiden. It included quite a number of +vowel-sounds--though, if the maiden had only known, it didn't mean half +so much as the donkey's plain monotonous declaration. + +'Well, our donkey soon began to realise that his dream was nearing its +end; and, indeed, one day his little mistress came bringing him the +sweetest of kisses, the very best sugar in the very best shops, but for +all that our donkey knew that it meant good-bye. It is the charming +manner of English girls to be at their sweetest when they say good-bye. + +'Our dreamer-donkey went into exile as servant to a woodcutter, and his +life was lenient if dull, for the woodcutter had no sticks to waste upon +his back; and next day his young mistress who was once a star took a +pony for her love, whom some time after she discarded for a talented +hunter, and, one fine day, like many of her sex, she pitched her +affections upon a man--he too being a talented hunter. To their wedding +came all the countryside. And with the countryside came the donkey. He +carried a great bundle of firewood for the servants' hall, and as he +waited outside, gazing up at his old loves the stars, while his master +drank deeper and deeper within, he revolved many thoughts. But he is +only known to have made one remark--in the nature, one may think, of a +grim jest-- + +'"After all!" he was heard to say, "she has married a donkey--after +all!" + +'No doubt it was feeble; but then our donkey was growing old and bitter, +and hope deferred had made him a cynic.' + + + + +ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES + +Like all people who live apart from it, the Founder of the Christian +religion was possessed of a profound knowledge of the world. As, +according to the proverb, the woodlander sees nothing of the wood for +its trees, so those who live in the world know nothing of it. They know +its gaudy, glittering surface, its Crystal Palace fireworks, and the +paste-diamonds with which it bedecks itself; they know its music-halls +and its night clubs, its Piccadillys and its politics, its restaurants +and its salons; but of the bad--or good?--heart of it all they know +nothing. In more meanings than one, it takes a saint to catch a sinner; +and Christ certainly knew as well as saved the sinner. + +But none of His precepts show a truer knowledge of life and its +conditions than His commandment that we should love our enemies. He +realised--can we doubt?--that, without enemies, the Church He bade His +followers build could not hope to be established. He knew that the +spiritual fire He strove to kindle would spread but little, unless the +four winds of the world blew against it. Well, indeed, may the Christian +Church love its enemies, for it is they who have made it. + +Indeed, for a man, or a cause, that wants to get on, there is nothing +like a few hearty, zealous enemies. Most of us would never be heard of +if it were not for our enemies. The unsuccessful man counts up his +friends, but the successful man numbers his enemies. A friend of mine +was lamenting, the other day, that he could not find twelve people to +disbelieve in him. He had been seeking them for years, he sighed, and +could not get beyond eleven. But, even so, with only eleven he was a +very successful man. In these kind-hearted days enemies are becoming so +rare that one has to go out of one's way to make them. The true +interpretation, therefore, of the easiest of the commandments is--make +your enemies, and your enemies will make you. + +So soon as the armed men begin to spring up in our fields, we may be +sure that we have not sown in vain. + +Properly understood, an enemy is but a negative embodiment of our +personalities or ideas. He is an involuntary witness to our vitality. +Much as he despises us, greatly as he may injure us, he is none the less +a creature of our making. It was we who put into him the breath of his +malignity, and inspired the activity of his malice. Therefore, with his +very existence so tremendous a tribute, we can afford to smile at his +self-conscious disclaimers of our significance. Though he slay us, we +_made_ him--to 'make an enemy,' is not that the phrase? + +Indeed, the fact that he is our enemy is his one _raison d'être_. That +alone should make us charitable to him. Live and let live. Without us +our enemy has no occupation, for to hate us is his profession. Think of +his wives and families! + +The friendship of the little for the great is an old-established +profession; there is but one older--namely, the hatred of the little +for the great; and, though it is perhaps less officially recognised, it +is without doubt the more lucrative. It is one of the shortest roads to +fame. Why is the name of Pontius Pilate an uneasy ghost of history? +Think what fame it would have meant to be an enemy of Socrates or +Shakespeare! _Blackwood's Magazine_ and _The Quarterly Review_ only +survive to-day because they once did their best to strangle the genius +of Keats and Tennyson. Two or three journals of our own time, by the +same unfailing method, seek that circulation from posterity which is +denied them in the present. + +This is particularly true in literature, where the literary enemy is as +organised a tradesman as the literary agent. Like the literary agent, he +naturally does his best to secure the biggest men. No doubt the time +will come when the literary cut-throat--shall we call him?--will publish +dainty little books of testimonials from authors, full of effusive +gratitude for the manner in which they have been slashed and bludgeoned +into fame. 'Butcher to Mr. Grant Allen' may then become a familiar +legend over literary shop-fronts:-- + + 'Ah! did you stab at Shelley's heart + With silly sneer and cruel lie? + And Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Keats, + To murder did you nobly try? + + You failed, 'tis true; but what of that? + The world remembers still your name-- + 'Tis fame, _for you_, to be the cur + That barks behind the heels of Fame.' + +Any one who is fortunate enough to have enemies will know that all this +is far from being fanciful. If one's enemies have any other _raison +d'être_ beyond the fact of their being our enemies--what is it? They are +neither beautiful nor clever, wise nor good, famous nor, indeed, +passably distinguished. Were they any of these, they would not have +taken to so humble a means of getting their living. Instead of being our +enemies, they could then have afforded to employ enemies on their own +account. + +Who, indeed, are our enemies? Broadly speaking, they are all those +people who lack what we possess. + +If you are rich, every poor man is necessarily your enemy. If you are +beautiful, the great democracy of the plain and ugly will mock you in +the streets. It will be the same with everything you possess. The +brainless will never forgive you for possessing brains, the weak will +hate you for your strength, and the evil for your good heart. If you can +write, all the bad writers are at once your foes. If you can paint, the +bad painters will talk you down. But more than any talent or charm you +may possess, the pearl of price for which you will be most bitterly +hated will be your success. You can be the most wonderful person that +ever existed, so long as you don't succeed, and nobody will mind. 'It is +the sunshine,' says some one, 'that brings out the adder.' So powerful, +indeed, is success that it has been known to turn a friend into a foe. +Those, then, who wish to engage a few trusty enemies out of place need +only advertise among the unsuccessful. + +_P.S._--For one service we should be particularly thankful to our +enemies--they save us so much in stimulants. Their unbelief so helps our +belief, their negatives make us so positive. + + + + +THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE + +It is a curious truth that, whereas in every other art deliberate choice +of method and careful calculation of effect are expected from the +artist, in the greatest and most difficult art of all, the art of life, +this is not so. In literature, painting, or sculpture you first evolve +your conception, and then, after long study of it, as it glows and +shimmers in your imagination, you set about the reverent selection of +that form which shall be its most truthful incarnation, in words, in +paint, in marble. Now life, as has been said many times, is an art too. +Sententious morality from time past has told us that we are each given a +part to play, evidently implying, with involuntary cynicism, that the +art of life is--the art of acting. + +As with the actor, we are each given a certain dramatic conception for +the expression of which we have precisely the same artistic +materials--namely, our own bodies, sometimes including heart and brains. +One has often heard the complaint of a certain actor that he acts +himself. On the metaphorical stage of life the complaint and the implied +demand are just the reverse. How much more interesting life would be if +only more people had the courage and skill to act themselves, instead of +abjectly understudying some one else! Of course, there are supers on the +stage of life as on the real stage. It is proper that these should dress +and speak and think alike. These one courteously excepts from the +generalisation that the composer of the play, as Marcus Aurelius calls +him, has given each of us a certain part to play--that part simply +oneself: a part, need one say, by no means as easy as it seems; a part +most difficult to study, and requiring daily rehearsal. So difficult is +it, indeed, that most people throw up the part, and join the ranks of +the supers--who, curiously enough, are paid much more handsomely than +the principals. They enter one of the learned or idle professions, join +the army or take to trade, and so speedily rid themselves of the irksome +necessity of being anything more individual than 'the learned counsel,' +'the learned judge,' 'my lord bishop,' or 'the colonel,' names +impersonal in application as the dignity of 'Pharaoh,' whereof the name +and not the man was alone important. Henceforth they are the Church, the +Law, the Army, the City, or that vaguer profession Society. Entering one +of these, they become as lost to the really living world as the monk who +voluntarily surrenders all will and character of his own at the +threshold of his monastery: bricks in a prison wall, privates in the +line, peas in a row. But, as I say, these are the parts that pay. For +playing the others, indeed, you are not paid, but expected to +pay--dearly. + +It is full time we turned to those on whom falls the burden of those +real parts. Such, when quite young, if they be conscientious artists, +will carefully consider themselves, their gifts and possibilities, study +to discover their artistic _raison d'être_ and how best to fulfil it. +He or she will say: Here am I, a creature of great gifts and exquisite +sensibilities, drawn by great dreams, and vibrating to great emotions; +yet this potent and exquisite self is as yet, I know, but unwrought +material of the perfect work of art it is intended that I should make of +it--but the marble wherefrom, with patient chisel, I must liberate the +perfect and triumphant ME! As a poet listening with trembling ear to the +voice of his inspiration, so I tremulously ask myself--what is the +divine conception that is to become embodied in me, what is the divine +meaning of ME? How best shall I express it in look, in word, in deed, +till my outer self becomes the truthful symbol of my inner self--till, +in fact, I have successfully placed the best of myself on the outside +--for others besides myself to see, and know and love? + +What is my part, and how am I to play it? + +Returning to the latter image, there are two difficulties that beset one +in playing a part on the stage of life, right at the outset. You are not +allowed to 'look' it, or 'dress' it! What would an actor think, who, +asked to play Hamlet, found that he would be expected to play it +without make-up and in nineteenth-century costume? Yet many of us are in +a like dilemma with similar parts. Actors and audience must all wear the +same drab clothes and the same immobile expression. It is in vain you +protest that you do not really belong to this absurd and vulgar +nineteenth century, that you have been spirited into it by a cruel +mistake, that you really belong to mediæval Florence, to Elizabethan, +Caroline, or at latest Queen Anne England, and that you would like to be +allowed to look and dress as like it as possible. It is no use; if you +dare to look or dress like anything but your own tradesmen--and other +critics--it is at your peril. If you are beautiful, you are expected to +disguise a fact that is an open insult to every other person you look +at; and you must, as a general rule, never look, wear, feel, or say what +everybody else is not also looking, wearing, feeling, or saying. + +Thus you get some hint of the difficulty of playing the part of yourself +on this stage of life. + +In these matters of dressing and looking your part musicians seem +granted an immunity denied to all their fellow-artists. Perhaps it is +taken for granted that the musician is a fool--the British public is so +intuitive. Yet it takes the same view of the poet, without allowing him +a like immunity. And, by the way, what a fine conception of his part had +Tennyson--of the dignity, the mystery, the picturesqueness of it! +Tennyson would have felt it an artistic crime to look like his +publisher; yet what poet is there left us to-day half so +distinguished-looking as his publisher? + +Indeed, curiously enough, among no set of men does the desire to look as +commonplace as the rest of the world seem so strong as among men of +letters. Perhaps it is out of consideration for the rest of the world; +but, whatever the reason, immobility of expression and general +mediocrity of style are more characteristic of them at present than even +the military. + +It is surely a strange paradox that we should pride ourselves on +schooling to foolish insensibility, on eliminating from them every mark +of individual character, the faces that were intended subtly and +eloquently to image our moods--to look glad when we are glad, sorry when +we are sorry, angry in anger, and lovely in love. + +The impassivity of the modern young man is indeed a weird and wonderful +thing. Is it a mark to hide from us the appalling sins he none the less +openly affects? Is it meant to conceal that once in his life he paid a +wild visit to 'The Empire'--by kind indulgence of the County Council? +that he once chucked a barmaid under the chin, that he once nearly got +drunk, that he once spoke to a young lady he did not know--and then ran +away? + +One sighs for the young men of the days of Gautier and Hugo, the young +men with red waistcoats who made asses of themselves at first nights and +on the barricades, young men with romance in their hearts and passion in +their blood, fearlessly sentimental and picturesquely everything. + +The lover then was not ashamed that you should catch radiant glimpses of +his love in his eyes--nay! if you smiled kindly on him, he would take +you by the arm and insist on your breaking a bottle with him in honour +of his mistress. Joy and sorrow then wore their appropriate colours, +according, so to say, to the natural sumptuary laws of the emotions--one +of which is that the right place for the heart is the sleeve. + +It is the duty of those who are great, or to whom great destinies of joy +or sorrow have been dealt, to wear their distinctions for the world to +see. It is good for the world, which in its crude way indicates the +rudiments of this dramatic art of life, when it decrees that the bride +shall walk radiant in orange blossom, and the mourner sadden our streets +with black--symbols ever passing before us of the moving vicissitudes of +life. + +The mourner cannot always be sad, or the bride merry; the bride indeed +sometimes weeps at the altar, and the mourner laughs a savage cynical +laugh at the grave; but for those moments in which they awhile forget +parts more important than themselves, the tailor and the dressmaker have +provided symbolical garments, just as military decorations have been +provided for heroes without the gift of looking heroic, and sacerdotal +vestments for the priest, who, like a policeman, is not always on duty. + +In playing his part the conscientious artist in life, like any other +actor, must often seem to feel more than he really feels at a given +moment, say more than he means. In this he is far from being +insincere--though he must make up his mind to be accused daily of +insincerity and affectation. On the contrary, it will be his very +sincerity that necessitates his make-believe. With his great part ever +before him in its inspiring completeness, he must be careful to allow no +merely personal accident of momentary feeling or action to jeopardise +the general effect. There are moments, for example, when a really true +lover, owing to such masterful natural facts as indigestion, a cold, or +extreme sleepiness, is unable to feel all that he knows he really feels. +To 'tell the truth,' as it is called, under such circumstances, would +simply be a most dangerous form of lying. There is no duty we owe to +truth more imperative than that of lying stoutly on occasion--for, +indeed, there is often no other way of conveying the whole truth than +by telling the part-lie. + +A watchful sincerity to our great conception of ourselves is the first +and last condition, of our creating that finest work of art--a +personality; for a personality, like a poet, is not only born but made. + + + + +THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX + +In an essay on Vauvenargues Mr. John Morley speaks with characteristic +causticity of those epigrammatists 'who persist in thinking of man and +woman as two different species,' and who make verbal capital out of the +fancied distinction in the form of smart epigrams beginning '_Les +femmes_.' It is one of Shakespeare's cardinal characteristics that _he +understood woman_. Mr. Meredith's fame as a novelist is largely due to +the fact that he too _understands women_. The one spot on the sun of +Robert Louis Stevenson's fame, so we are told, is that he could _never +draw a woman_. His capacity for drawing men counted for nothing, +apparently, beside this failure. Evidently the Sphinx has not the face +of a woman for nothing. That is why no one has read her riddle, +translated her mystic smile. Yet many people smile mysteriously, +without any profound meanings behind their smile, with no other reason +than a desire to mystify. Perhaps the Sphinx smiles to herself just for +the fun of seeing us take her smile so seriously. And surely women must +so smile as they hear their psychology so gravely discussed. Of course, +the superstition is invaluable to them, and it is only natural that they +should make the most of it. Man is supposed to be a complete ignoramus +in regard to all the specialised female 'departments'--from the supreme +mystery of the female heart to the humble domestic mysteries of a +household. Similarly, men are supposed to have no taste in women's +dress, yet for whom do women clothe themselves in the rainbow and the +sea-foam, if not to please men? And was not the high-priest of that +delicious and fascinating mystery a man--if it be proper to call the +late M. Worth a man,--as the best cooks are men, and the best waiters? + +It would seem to be assumed from all this mystification that men are +beings clear as daylight, both to themselves and to women. Poor, +simple, manageable souls, their wants are easily satisfied, their +psychology--which, it is implied, differs little from their +physiology--long since mapped out. + +It may be so, but it is the opinion of some that men's simplicity is no +less a fiction than women's mysterious complexity, and that human +character is made up of much the same qualities in men and women, +irrespective of a merely rudimentary sexual distinction, which has, of +course, its proper importance, and which the present writer would be the +last to wish away. From that quaint distinction of sex springs, of +course, all that makes life in the smallest degree worth living, from +great religions to tiny flowers. Love and beauty and poetry; +Shakespeare's plays, Burne-Jones's pictures, and Wagner's operas--all +such moving expressions of human life, as science has shown us, spring +from the all-important fact that 'male and female created He them.' + +This everybody knows, and few are fools enough to deny. Many people, +however, confuse this organic distinction of sex with its time-worn +conventional symbols; just as religion is commonly confused with its +external rites and ceremonies. The comparison naturally continues itself +further; for, as in religion, so soon as some traditional garment of the +faith has become outworn or otherwise unsuitable, and the proposal is +made to dispense with or substitute it, an outcry immediately is raised +that religion itself is in danger--so with sex, no sooner does one or +the other sex propose to discard its arbitrary conventional +characteristics, or to supplement them by others borrowed from its +fellow-sex, than an outcry immediately is raised that sex itself is in +danger. + +Sex--the most potent force in the universe--in danger because women +wear knickerbockers instead of petticoats, or military men take to +corsets and cosmetics! + +That parallel with religion may be pursued profitably one step further. +In religion, the conventional test of your faith is not how you live, +not in your kindness of heart or purity of mind, but how you believe--in +the Trinity, in the Atonement; and do you turn to the East during the +recital of the Apostles' Creed? These and such, as every one knows, are +the vital matters of religion. And it is even so with sex. You are not +asked for the realities of manliness or womanliness, but for the +shadows, the arbitrary externalities, the fashions of which change from +generation to generation. + +To be truly womanly you must never wear your hair short; to be truly +manly you must never wear it long. To be truly womanly you must dress as +daintily as possible, however uncomfortably; to be truly manly you must +wear the most hideous gear ever invented by the servility of tailors--a +strange succession of cylinders from head to heel; cylinder on head, +cylinder round your body, cylinders on arms and cylinders on legs. To be +truly womanly you must be shrinking and clinging in manner and trivial +in conversation; you must have no ideas, and rejoice that you wish for +none; you must thank Heaven that you have never ridden a bicycle or +smoked a cigarette; and you must be prepared to do a thousand other +absurd and ridiculous things. To be truly manly you must be and do the +opposite of all these things, with this exception--that with you the +possession of ideas is optional. The finest specimens of British manhood +are without ideas; but that, I say, is, generally speaking, a matter for +yourself. It is indeed the only matter in which you have any choice. +More important matters, such as the cut of your clothes and hair, the +shape of your face, the length of your moustache and the pattern of your +cane--all these are very properly regulated for you by laws of fashion, +which you could never dream of breaking. You may break every moral law +there is--or rather, was--and still remain a man. You may be a bully, a +cad, a coward and a fool, in the poor heart and brains of you; but so +long as you wear the mock regimentals of contemporary manhood, and are +above all things plain and undistinguished enough, your reputation for +manhood will be secure. There is nothing so dangerous to a reputation +for manhood as brains or beauty. + +In short, to be a true woman you have only to be pretty and an idiot, +and to be a true man you have only to be brutal and a fool. + +From these misconceptions of manliness and womanliness, these +superstitions of sex, many curious confusions have come about. They so +to say, professional differentiation between the sexes had at one time +gone so far that men were credited with the entire monopoly of a certain +set of human qualities, and women with the monopoly of a certain other +set of human qualities; yet every one of these are qualities which one +would have thought were proper to, and necessary for, all human beings +alike, male and female. + +In a dictionary of a date (1856) when everything on earth and in heaven +was settled and written in penny cyclopædias and books of deportment, I +find these delicious definitions-- + +_Manly_: becoming a man; firm; brave; undaunted; dignified; noble; +stately; not boyish or womanish. + +_Womanly_: becoming a woman; feminine; as _womanly_ behaviour. + +Under _Woman_ we find the adjectives--soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, +kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender, timorous, modest. + +Who can doubt that the dictionary maker defined and distributed his +adjectives aright for the year 1856? Since then, however, many alarming +heresies have taken root in our land, and some are heard to declare that +both these sets of adjectives apply to men and women alike, and are, in +fact, necessities of any decent human outfit. Otherwise the conclusion +is obvious, that no one desirous of the adjective 'manly' must ever +be--soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous, or modest; and no one desirous of the adjective +'womanly' be--firm, brave, undaunted, dignified, noble, or stately. + +But surely the essentials of 'manliness' and 'womanliness' belong to man +and woman alike--the externals are purely artistic considerations, and +subject to the vagaries of fashion. In art no one would think of +allowing fashion any serious artistic opinion. It is usually the art +which is out of fashion that is most truly art. Similarly, fashions in +manliness or womanliness have nothing to do with real manliness or +womanliness. Moreover, the adjectives 'manly' or 'womanly,' applied to +works of art, or the artistic surfaces of men and women, are +irrelevant--that is to say, impertinent. You have no right to ask a +poem or a picture to look manly or womanly, any more than you have any +right to ask a man or a woman to look manly or womanly. There is no such +thing as looking manly or womanly. There is looking beautiful or ugly, +distinguished or commonplace, individual or insignificant. The one law +of externals is beauty in all its various manifestations. To ask the sex +of a beautiful person is as absurd as it would be to ask the publisher +the sex of a beautiful book. Such questions are for midwives and +doctors. + +It was once the fashion for heroes to shed tears on the smallest +occasion, and it does not appear that they fought the worse for it; some +of the firmest, bravest, most undaunted, most dignified, most noble, +most stately human beings have been women; as some of the softest, +mildest, most pitiful and flexible, most kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous and modest human beings have been men. Indeed, some of +the bravest men that ever trod this planet have worn corsets, and it +needs more courage nowadays for a man to wear his hair long than to +machine-gun a whole African nation. Moreover, quite the nicest women one +knows ride bicycles--in the rational costume. + + + + +THE FALLACY OF A NATION + +It is, I am given to understand, a familiar axiom of mathematics that no +number of ciphers placed in front of significant units, or tens or +hundreds of units, adds in the smallest degree to the numerical value of +those units. The figure one becomes of no more importance however many +noughts are marshalled in front of it--though, indeed, in the +mathematics of human nature this is not so. Is not a man or woman +considered great in proportion to the number of ciphers that walk in +front of him, from a humble brace of domestics to guards of honour and +imperial armies? + +A parallel profound truth of mathematics is that a nought, however many +times it be multiplied, remains nought; but again we find the reverse +obtain in the mathematics of human nature. One might have supposed that +the result of one nobody multiplied even fifty million times would still +be nobody. However, such is far from being the case. Fifty million +nobodies make--a nation. Of course, there is no need for so many. I am +reckoning as a British subject, and speak of fifty million merely as an +illustration of the general fact that it is the multiplication of +nobodies that makes a nation. 'Increase and multiply' was, it will be +remembered, the recipe for the Jewish nation. + +Nobodies of the same colour, tongue, and prejudices have but to +congregate together in a crowd sufficiently big for other similar crowds +to recognise them, and then they are given a name of their own, and +become recognised as a nation--one of the 'Great Powers.' + +Beyond those differences in colour, tongue, and prejudices there is +really no difference between the component units--or rather ciphers--of +all these several national crowds. You have seen a procession of various +trades-unions filing toward Hyde Park, each section with its particular +banner with a strange device: 'The United Guild of Paperhangers,' 'The +Ancient Order of Plumbers,' and so on. And you may have marvelled to +notice how alike the members of the various carefully differentiated +companies were. So to say, they each and all might have been plumbers; +and you couldn't help feeling that it wouldn't have mattered much if +some of the paper-hangers had by mistake got walking amongst the +plumbers, or _vice versa_. + +So the great trades-unions of the world file past, one with the odd word +'Russia' on its banner; another boasting itself 'Germany'--this with a +particularly bumptious and self-important young man walking backward in +front of it, in the manner of a Salvation Army captain, and imperiously +waving an iron wand; still another 'nation' calling itself 'France'; and +yet another boasting the biggest brass band, and called 'England.' Other +smaller bodies of nobodies, that is, smaller nations, file past with +humbler tread--though there is really no need for their doing so. For, +as we have said, they are in every particular like to those haughtier +nations who take precedence of them. In fact, one or two of them, such +as Norway and Denmark--were a truer system of human mathematics to +obtain--are really of more importance than the so-called greater +nations, in that among their nobodies they include a larger percentage +of intellectual somebodies. + +Remembering that percentage of wise men, the formula of a nation were +perhaps more truly stated in our first mathematical image. The wise men +in a nation are as the units with the noughts in front of them. And when +I say wise men I do not, indeed, mean merely the literary men or the +artists, but all those somebodies with some real force of character, +people with brains and hearts, fighters and lovers, saints and thinkers, +and the patient, industrious workers. Such, if you consider, are really +no integral part of the nation among which they are cast. They have no +part in what are grandiloquently called national interests--war, +politics, and horse-racing to wit. A change of Government leaves them as +unmoved as an election for the board of guardians. They would as soon +think of entering Parliament or the County Council, as of yearning to +manage the gasworks, or to go about with one of those carts bearing the +legend 'Aldermen and Burgesses of the City of London' conspicuously upon +its front. Their main concern in political changes is the rise and fall +of the income-tax, and, be the Cabinet Tory or Liberal, their rate +papers come in for the same amount. It is likely that national changes +would affect them but little more. What more would a foreign invasion +mean than that we should pay our taxes to French, Russian, or German +officials, instead of to English ones? French and Italians do our +cooking, Germans manage our music, Jews control our money markets; +surely it would make little difference to us for France, Russia, or +Germany to undertake our government. The worst of being conquered by +Russia would be the necessity of learning Russian; whereas a little +rubbing up of our French would make us comfortable with France. Besides, +to be conquered by France would save us crossing the Channel to Paris, +and then we might hope for cafés in Regent Street, and an emancipated +literature. As a matter of fact, so-called national interests are merely +certain private interests on a large scale, the private interests of +financiers, ambitious politicians, soldiers, and great merchants. +Broadly speaking, there are no rival nations--there are rival markets; +and it is its Board of Trade and its Stock Exchange rather than its +Houses of Parliament that virtually govern a country. Thus one seaport +goes down and another comes up, industries forsake one country to bless +another, the military and naval strengths of nations fluctuate this way +and that; and to those whom these changes affect they are undoubtedly +important matters--the great capitalist, the soldier, and the +politician; but to the quiet man at home with his wife, his children, +his books, and his flowers, to the artist busied with brave translunary +matters, to the saint with his eyes filled with 'the white radiance of +eternity,' to the shepherd on the hillside, the milkmaid in love, or the +angler at his sport--what are these pompous commotions, these busy, +bustling mimicries of reality? England will be just as good to live in +though men some day call her France. Let the big busybodies divide her +amongst them as they like, so that they leave one alone with one's fair +share of the sky and the grass, and an occasional, not too vociferous, +nightingale. + +The reader will perhaps forgive the hackneyed references to Sir Thomas +Browne peacefully writing his _Religio Medici_ amid all the commotions +of the Civil War, and to Gautier calmly correcting the proofs of his new +poems during the siege of Paris. The milkman goes his rounds amid the +crash of empires. It is not his business to fight. His business is to +distribute his milk--as much after half-past seven as may be +inconvenient. Similarly, the business of the thinker is with his +thought, the poet with his poetry. It is the business of politicians to +make national quarrels, and the business of the soldier to fight them. +But as for the poet--let him correct his proofs, or beware the printer. + +The idea, then, of a nation is a grandiloquent fallacy in the interests +of commerce and ambition, political and military. All the great and +good, clever and charming people belong to one secret nation, for which +there is no name unless it be the Chosen People. These are the lost +tribes of love, art, and religion, lost and swamped amid alien peoples, +but ever dreaming of a time when they shall meet once more in Jerusalem. + +Yet though they are thus aliens, taking and wishing no part in the +organisation of the 'nations' among which they dwell, this does not +prevent those nations taking part and credit in them. And whenever a +brave soldier wins a battle, or an intrepid traveller discovers a new +land, his particular nation flatters itself, as though it--the million +nobodies--had done it. With a profound indifference to, indeed an active +dislike of, art and poetry, there is nothing on which a nation prides +itself so much as upon its artists and poets, whom, invariably, it +starves, neglects, and even insults, as long as it is not too silly to +do so. + +Thus the average Englishman talks of Shakespeare--as though he himself +had written the plays; of India--as though he himself had conquered it. +And thus grow up such fictions as 'national greatness' and 'public +opinion.' + +For what is 'national greatness' but the glory reflected from the +memories of a few great individuals? and what is 'public opinion' but +the blustering echoes of the opinion of a few clever young men on the +morning papers? + +For how can people in themselves little become great by merely +congregating into a crowd, however large? And surely fools do not become +wise, or worth listening to, merely by the fact of their banding +together. + +A 'public opinion' on any matter except football, prize-fighting, and +perhaps cricket, is merely ridiculous--by whatever brutal physical +powers it may be enforced--ridiculous as a town council's opinion upon +art; and a nation is merely a big fool with an army. + + + + +THE GREATNESS OF MAN + +Ignorant, as I inevitably am, dear reader, of your intellectual and +spiritual upbringing, I can hardly guess whether the title of my article +will impress you as a platitude or as a paradox. Goodness knows, some +men and women think quite enough of themselves as it is, and, from a +certain momentary point of view, there may seem little occasion indeed +to remind man of his importance. + +I refer to your intellectual and spiritual upbringing, because I venture +to wonder if it was in the least like my own. I was brought up, I +rejoice to say, in the bosom of an orthodox Puritan family. I was led +and driven to believe that man was everybody, and that God was +somebody--and that not merely the Sabbath, but the whole universe, was +made for man: that the stars were his bedtime candles, and that the sun +arose to ensure his catching the 8.37 of a morning. + +On this belief I acted for many years. Every young man believes that +there is no god but God, and that he is born to be His prophet--though +perhaps that belief is not so common nowadays. I am speaking of many +years ago. + +Science, however, has long since changed all that. Those terrible Muses, +geology, astronomy, and particularly biology, have reduced man to a +humility which, if in some degree salutary, becomes in its excess highly +dangerous. Why should one maggot in this great cheese of the world take +itself more seriously than others? Why dream mightily and do bravely if +we are but a little higher than the beasts that perish? Nature cares +nothing about us, and her giant forces laugh at our fancies. The world +has no such meaning as we thought. Poets and saints, deluded by +unhealthy imaginations, have misled us, and it is quite likely that the +wild waves are really saying nothing more important than 'Beecham's +Pills.' + +'Give us a definition of life,' I asked a certain famous scientist and +philosopher whom I am privileged to call my friend. + +'Nothing easier!' he gaily replied. 'Life is a product of solar energy, +falling upon the carbon compounds, on the outer crust of a particular +planet, in a particular corner of the solar system.' + +'And that,' I said, 'really satisfies you as a definition of life--of +all the wistful wonder of the world!' And as I spoke I thought of Moses +with mystically shining face upon the Mount of the Law, of Ezekiel rapt +in his divine fancies, of Socrates drinking his cup of hemlock, of +Christ's agony in the garden; the golden faces of the great of the world +passed as in a dream before me,--soldiers, saints, poets, and lovers. I +thought of Horatius on the bridge, of the holy and gentle soul of St. +Francis, of Chatterton in his splendid despair, and in fancy I went with +the awestruck citizens of Verona to reverently gaze at the bodies of two +young lovers who had counted the world well lost if they might only +leave it together. + +The carbon compounds! + +I took down _Romeo and Juliet_, listened to its passionate spheral +music, and the carbon compounds have never troubled me again. + +Love laughs at the carbon compounds, and a great book, a noble act, a +beautiful face, make nonsense of such cheap formula for the mystery of +human life. + +Yet this parable of the carbon compounds is a fair sample of all that +science can tell us when we come to ultimates. We go away from its +oracles with a mouthful of sounding words, which may seem very +impressive till we examine their emptiness. What, for example, is all +this rigmarole about solar energy and the carbon compounds but a more +pompous way of putting the old scriptural statement that man was made of +the dust of the ground? To say that God took a handful of dust and +breathed upon it and it became man, is no harder to realise than that +solar rays falling upon that dust should produce humanity and all the +various phantasmagoria of life. If anything, it is more explanatory. It +leaves us with an inspiring mystery for explanation. + +In saying this, I do not forget our debt to science. It has done much +in clearing our minds of cant, in popularising more systematic thinking, +and in instituting sounder methods of observation. In some directions it +has deepened our sense of wonder. It has broadened our conception of the +universe, though I fear it has been at the expense of narrowing our +conception of man. With Hamlet it contemptuously says, 'What is this +quintessence of dust!' It is so impressed by the mileage and tonnage of +the universe, so abased before the stupendous measurements of the +cosmos, the appalling infinity and eternity of its space and time, that +it forgets the marvel of the mind that can grasp all these conceptions, +forgets, too, that, big and bullying as the forces of nature may be, man +has been able in a large measure to control, indeed to domesticate, +them. Surely the original fact of lightning is little more marvellous +than the power of man to turn it into his errand-boy or his horse, to +light his rooms with it, and imprison it in pennyworths, like the genius +in the bottle, in the underground railway. Mere size seems unimpressive +when we contemplate such an extreme of littleness as say the ant, that +pin-point of a personality, that mere speck of being, yet including +within its infinitesimal proportions a clever, busy brain, a soldier, a +politician, and a merchant. That such and so many faculties should have +room to operate within that tiny body--there is a marvel before which, +it seems to me, the billions of miles that keep us from falling into the +jaws of the sun, and the tonnage of Jupiter, are comparatively +insignificant and conceivable. + +No, we must not allow ourselves to be frightened by the mere size and +weight of the universe, or be depressed because our immediate genealogy +is not considered aristocratic. Perhaps, after all, we are sons of God, +and as Mr. Meredith finely puts it, our life here may still be + + '... a little holding + To do a mighty service.' + +'Things of a day!' exclaims Pindar. 'What is a man? What is a man not?' + +It is good for our Nebuchadnezzars, the kings of the world, and +conceited, successful people generally, to measure themselves against +the great powers of the universe, to humble their pride by contemplation +of the fixed stars; but a too humble attitude toward the Infinite, a too +constant pondering upon eternity, is not good for us, unless, so to say, +we can live with them as friends, with the inspiring feeling that, +little as we may seem, there is that in us which is no less infinite, no +less cosmic, and that our passions and dreams have, as Mr. William +Watson puts it, 'a relish of eternity.' + +Readers of Amiel's 'Journal' will know what a sterilising, petrifying +influence his trance-like contemplation of the Infinite had upon his +life. Amiel was simply hypnotised by the universe, as a man may +hypnotise himself by gazing fixedly at a star. + +Mr. Pater, you will remember, has a remarkable study of a similar +temperament in his _Imaginary Portraits_. Sebastian van Storck, like +Amiel, had become hypnotised by the Infinite. It paralysed in him all +impulse or power 'to be or do any limited thing.' + +'For Sebastian, at least,' we read, 'the world and the individual alike +had been divested of all effective purpose. The most vivid of finite +objects, the dramatic episodes of Dutch history, the brilliant +personalities which had found their parts to play in them, that golden +art, surrounding one with an ideal world, beyond which the real world +was discernible indeed, but etherealised by the medium through which it +came to one; all this, for most men so powerful a link to existence, +only set him on the thought of escape--into a formless and nameless +infinite world, evenly grey.... Actually proud, at times, of his +curious, well-reasoned nihilism, he could but regard what is called the +business of life as no better than a trifling and wearisome delay.' + +This mood, once confined to a few mystics is likely to become a common +one, is already, one imagines, far from infrequent--so the increase of +suicide would lead us to suppose. Robbed of his hope of a glorious +immortality, stripped of his spiritual significance, bullied and +belittled by science on every hand, man not unnaturally begins to feel +that it is no use taking his life seriously, that, in fact, it betrays a +lack of humour to do so. While he was a supernatural being, a son of +God, it was with him a case of _noblesse oblige_; and while he is happy +and comfortable he doesn't mind giving up the riddle of the world. It is +only the unhappy that ever really think. But what is he to do when agony +and despair come upon him, when all that made his life worth living is +taken from him? How is he to sustain himself? where shall he look for +his strength or his hope? He looks up at the sky full of stars, but he +is told that God is not there, that the city of God is long since a +ruin, and that owls hoot to each other across its moss-grown fanes and +battlements; he looks down on the earth, full of graves, a vast +necropolis of once radiant dreams, with the living for its +phantoms,--and there is no comfort anywhere. Happy is he if some simple +human duty be at hand, which he may go on doing blindly and +dumbly--till, perhaps, the light come again. It is difficult to offer +comfort to such a one. Comfort is cheap, and we know nothing. When life +holds nothing for our love and delight, it is difficult to explain why +we should go on living it--except on the assumption that it matters, +that it is, in some mystical way, supremely important, how we live it, +and what we make of those joys and sorrows which, say some, are but +meant as mystical trials and tests. + +Sebastian van Storck refused 'to be or do any limited thing,' but the +answer to his mysticism is to be found in a finer mysticism, that which +says that there is no limited act or thing, but that the significance, +as well as the pathos, of eternity is in our smallest joys and sorrows, +as in our most everyday transactions, and the greatness of God incarnate +in His humblest child. + +This, the old doctrine of the microcosm, seems in certain moments, +moments one would wish to say, of divination, strangely plain and +clear--when, in Blake's words, it seems so easy to + + '... see a world in a grain of sand, + And a heaven in a wild flower; + Hold infinity in the palm of your hand + And Eternity in an hour.' + +Perhaps in the street, an effect of light, a passing face, yes, even the +plaintive grind of a street organ, some such everyday circumstance, +affects you suddenly in quite a strange way. It has become +universalised. It is no longer a detail of the Strand, but a cryptic +symbol of human life. It has been transfigured into a thing of infinite +pathos and infinite beauty, and, sad or glad, brings to you an +inexplicable sense of peace, an unshakable conviction that man is a +spirit, that his life is indeed of supreme and lovely significance, and +that his destiny is secure and blessed. + +Matthew Arnold, ever sensitive to such spiritual states, has described +these trance-like visitations in 'The Buried Life'-- + + 'Only, but this is rare-- + When a beloved hand is laid in ours, + When, jaded with the rush and glare + Of the interminable hours, + Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, + When our world-deafen'd ear + Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-- + A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, + And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again: + The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, + And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. + A man becomes aware of his life's flow, + And hears its winding murmur; and he sees + The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. + + 'And there arrives a lull in the hot race + Wherein he doth for ever chase + That flying and elusive shadow, rest. + An air of coolness plays upon his face, + And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. + And then he thinks he knows + The hills where his life rose, + And the sea where it goes.' + +'To be or do any limited thing'! What indeed, we ask in such hours, is a +limited thing, when all the humble interests of our daily life are +palpably big with eternity? Is the first kiss of a great love a limited +thing? though there is, unhappily, no denying that it comes to an end! +When a young husband and wife smile across to each other above the sleep +of their little child--is that a limited thing? When the siren voices of +the world blend together on the lips of a young poet, and with rapt eyes +and hot heart he makes a song as of the morning stars--is that a limited +thing? Are love, and genius, and duty done in the face of death--are +these limited things? I think not--and man, indeed, knows better. + +Greatness is not relative. It is absolute. It is not for man to depress +himself by measuring himself against the eternities and the immensities +external to him. What he has to do is to look inward upon himself, to +fathom the eternities and the immensities in his own heart and brain. + +And the more man sees himself forsaken by the universe, the more +opportunity to vindicate his own greatness. Is there no kind heart +beating through the scheme of things?--man's heart shall still be kind. +Will the eternal silence make mock of his dreams and his idealisms, +laugh coldly at 'the splendid purpose in his eyes'? Well, so be it. His +dreams and idealisms are none the less noble things, and if the gods do +thus make mock of mortal joy and pain--let us be grateful that we were +born mere men. + +Moreover, he has one great answer to the universe--the answer of +courage. He is still Prometheus, and there is no limit to what he can +bear. Let the vultures of pain rend his heart as they will, he can still +hiss 'coward' in the face of the Eternal. Nay, he can even laugh at his +sufferings--thanks to the spirit of humour, that most blessed of +ministering angels, without which surely the heart of humanity had long +since broken, by which man is able to look with a comical eye upon +terrors, as it were taking themselves so seriously, coming with such +Olympian thunders and lightnings to break the spirit of a mere six foot +of earth! + +But while his courage and his humour are defences of which he cannot be +disarmed, whatever be the intention of the Eternal, it is by no means +certain that nature does not mean kindly by man. Perhaps the pain of the +world is but the rough horseplay of great powers that mean but jest--and +kill us in it: as though one played at 'tick' with an elephant! + +Perhaps, after all,--who knows?--God is love, and His great purpose +kind. + +Surely, when you think of it, the existence in man of the senses of love +and pity implies the probability of their existence elsewhere in the +universe too. + + 'Into that breast which brings the rose + Shall I with shuddering fall.' + +So runs the profoundest thought in modern poetry--and need I say it is +Mr. Meredith's? + +As the fragrance and colour of the rose must in some occult way be +properties of the rude earth from which they are drawn by the sun, may +not human love also be a kindly property of matter--that mysterious +life-stuff in which is packed such marvellous potentialities? Evidently +love must be somewhere in the universe--else it had not got into the +heart of man; and perhaps pity slides down like an angel in the rays of +the solar energy, while there is the potential beating of a human heart +even in the hard crust of the carbon compounds. + +I confess that this seems to me no mere fancy, but a really comforting +speculation. Pain, we say, is inherent in the scheme of the universe; +but is not love seen to be no less inherent, too? + +There must be some soul of beauty to animate the lovely face of the +world, some soul of goodness to account for its saints. If the gods are +cruel, it is strange that man should be so kind, and that some pathetic +spirit of tenderness should seem to stir even in the bosoms of beasts +and birds. + +Meanwhile, we cannot too often insist that, whatever uncertainties there +be, man has one certainty--himself. Science has really adduced nothing +essential against his significance. That he is not as big as an Alp, as +heavy as a star, or as long-lived as an eagle, is nothing against his +proper importance. Even a nobleman is of more significance in the world +than his acres, and giants are not proverbial for their intellectual or +spiritual qualities. The ant is of more importance than the ass, and the +great eye of a beautiful woman is more significant than the whole clayey +bulk of Mars. + +After all the scientific mockery of the old religious ideal of the +importance of man, one begins to wonder if his Ptolemaic fancy that he +was the centre of the universe, and that it was all made for him, is not +nearer the If truth than the pitiless theories which hardly allow him +equality with the flea that perishes. + +Suppose if, after all, the stars were really meant as his bedtime +candles, and the sun's purpose in rising is really that he may catch the +8.37! + +For, as Sir Thomas Browne says in his solemn English, 'there is surely a +piece of Divinity in us, something that was before the elements, and +owes no homage unto the sun.' + +The long winter of materialistic science seems to be breaking up, and +the old ideals are seen trooping back with something more than their old +beauty, in the new spiritual spring that seems to be moving in the +hearts of men. + +After all its talk, science has done little more than correct the +misprints of religion. Essentially, the old spiritualistic and poetic +theories of life are seen, not merely weakly to satisfy the cravings of +man's nature, but to be mostly in harmony with certain strange and +moving facts in his constitution, which the materialists +unscientifically ignore. + +It was important, and has been helpful, to insist that man is an animal, +but it is still more important to insist that he is a spirit as well. He +is, so to say, an animal by accident, a spirit by birthright: and, +however homely his duties may occasionally seem, his life is bathed in +the light of a sacred transfiguring significance, its smallest acts +flash with divine meanings, its highest moments are rich with 'the +pathos of eternity,' and its humblest duties mighty with the +responsibilities of a god. + + + + +DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS + +_A DIALOGUE_ + +(_To the Memory of J.S. and T.C.L._) + +PERSONS: SCRIPTOR AND LECTOR. + +[This dialogue was written originally as a rejoinder to certain +criticisms on a book of mine entitled, _The Religion of a Literary +Man_--_Religio Scriptoris_--hence the names given to the two 'persons.' +It was written in March 1894, before an event in the writer's life to +which, erroneously, some have supposed it to refer.] + + +LECTOR. But do you really mean, Scriptor, that you have no desire for +the life after death? + +SCRIPTOR. I never said quite that, Lector, though perhaps I might almost +have gone so far. What I did say was that we have been accustomed to +exaggerate its importance to us here and now, that it really matters +less to us than we imagine. + +LECTOR. I see. But you must speak for yourself, Scriptor. I am sure that +it matters much to many, to most of us. It does, I know, to me. + +SCRIPTOR. Less than you think, my dear Lector. Besides, you are really +too young to know. It is true that, as years go, you are ten years my +senior, but what of that? You have that vigorous health which is the +secret of perpetual youth. You have not yet realised decay, not to speak +of death. The immortality of the soul is a question wide of you, who +have as yet practically no doubt of the immortality of the body. But +I--well, it would be melodramatic to say that I face death every day. +The metaphor applies but to desperate callings and romantic complaints. +To some Death comes like a footpad, suddenly, and presents his +pistol--and the smoke that curls upward from his empty barrel is your +soul. + +To another he comes featureless, a stealthily accumulating London fog, +that slowly, slowly chokes the life out of you, without allowing you the +consolation of a single picturesque moment, a single grand attitude. For +you, probably, Death will only come when you die. I have to live with +him as well. I shall smoulder for years, you will be carried to heaven, +like Enoch, in a beautiful lightning. + + 'A simple child + That lightly draws its breath, + And feels its life in every limb, + What can it know of Death?' + +That's you, my dear Lector, for all your forty years. + +LECTOR. All the more reason, Scriptor, that you should desire a +hereafter. You sometimes talk of the work you would do if you were a +robust Philistine such as I. Would it not be worth while to live +again, if only to make sure of that _magnum opus_--just to realise +those dreams that you say are daily escaping you? + +SCRIPTOR. Ah! so speaks the energetic man, eager to take the world on +his shoulders. I know the images of death that please you, +Lector--such as that great one of Arnold's, about 'the sounding +labour-house vast of being.' + +But, Lector, you who love work so well--have you never heard tell of +a thing called Rest? Have you never known what it is to be tired, my +Lector?--not tired at the end of a busy day, but tired in the morning, +tired in the Memnonian sunlight, when larks and barrel-organs start on +their blithe insistent rounds. No, the man who is tired of a morning +sings not music-hall songs in his bedroom as he dashes about in his +morning bath. But will you never want to go to bed, Lector? Will you +be always like the children who hate to be sent to bed, and think that +when they are grown up they will never go to bed at all? Yet in a few +years' time how glad they are of the stray chance of bed at ten. May +it not be so with sleep's twin-brother? In our young vigour, driven by +a hundred buoyant activities, enticed by dream on dream, time seems so +short for all we think we have to do; but surely when the blood begins +to thin, and the heart to wax less extravagantly buoyant, when comfort +croons a kettle-song whose simple spell no sirens of ambition or +romance can overcome--don't you think that then 'bedtime' will come to +seem the best hour of the day, and 'Death as welcome as a friend would +fall'? + +LECTOR. But you are no fair judge, Scriptor. You say my health, my +youth, as you waggishly call it, puts me out of court. Yet surely your +ill-health and low spirits just as surely vitiate your judgment? + +SCRIPTOR. Admitted, so far as my views are the outcome of my +particular condition. But you forget that the condition I have been +supposing is not merely particular, but, on the contrary, the most +general among men. Was it not old age?--which, like youth, is +independent of years. You may be young beyond your years, I may be old +in advance of them; but old age does come some time, and with it the +desire of rest. + +LECTOR. But does not old age spend most of its thought in dwelling +fondly on its lost youth, hanging like a remote sunrise in its +imagination? Is it not its one yearning desire just to live certain +hours of its youth over again?--and would the old man not give all he +possesses for the certainty of being born young again into eternity? + +SCRIPTOR. He would give everything--but the certainty of rest. After +seventy years of ardent life one needs a long sleep to refresh us +in. Besides, age may not be so sure of the advantages of youth. All is +not youth that laughs and glitters. Youth has its hopes, which are +uncertain; but age has its memories, which are sure; youth has its +passions, but age has its comforts. + +LECTOR. Your answers come gay and pat, Scriptor, but your voice +betrays you. In spite of you, it saddens all your words. Tell me, have +you ever known what it is actually to lose any one who is dear to you? +Have you looked on death face to face? + +SCRIPTOR. Yes, Lector, I have--but once. It is now about five years +ago, but the impression of it haunts me to this hour. Perhaps the +memory is all the keener because it was my one experience. In a world +where custom stales all things, save Cleopatra, it is all the better +perhaps not to see even too much of Death, lest we grow familiar with +him. For instance, doctors and soldiers, who look on him daily, seem +to lose the sense of his terror--nay, worse, of his tragedy. Maybe it +is something in his favour, and Death, like others, may only need to +be known to be loved. + +LECTOR. But tell me, Scriptor, of this sad experience, which even now +it moves you to name; or is the memory too sad to recall? + +SCRIPTOR. Sad enough, Lector, but beautiful for all that, beautiful as +winter. It was winter when she of whom I am thinking died--a winter +that seemed to make death itself whiter and colder on her marble +forehead. It is but one sad little story of all the heaped-up sorrow +of the world; but in it, as in a shell, I seem to hear the murmur of +all the tides of tears that have surged about the lot of man from the +beginning. + +There were two dear friends of mine whom I used to call the happiest +lovers in the world. They had loved truly from girlhood and boyhood, +and after some struggle--for they were not born into that class which +is denied the luxury of struggle--at length saw a little home bright +in front of them. And then Jenny, who had been ever bright and strong, +suddenly and unaccountably fell ill. Like the stroke of a sword, like +the stride of a giant, Death, to whom they had never given a thought, +was upon them. It was consumption, and love could only watch and +pray. Suddenly my friend sent for me, and I saw with my own eyes what +at a distance it had seemed impossible to believe. As I entered the +house, with the fresh air still upon me, I spoke confidently, with +babbling ignorant tongue. 'Wait till you see her face!' was all my +poor stricken friend could say. + +Ah! her face! How can I describe it? It was much sweeter afterwards, +but now it was so dark and witchlike, so uncanny, almost wicked, so +thin and full of inky shadows. She sat up in her bed, a wizened little +goblin, and laughed a queer, dry, knowing laugh to herself, a laugh +like the scraping of reeds in a solitary place. A strange black +weariness seemed to be crushing down her brows, like the 'unwilling +sleep' of a strong narcotic. She would begin a sentence and let it +wither away unfinished, and point sadly and almost humorously to her +straight black hair, clammy as the feathers of a dead bird lying in +the rain. Her hearing was strangely keen. And yet she did not know, +was not to know. How was one to talk to her--talk of being well again, +and books and country walks, when she had so plainly done with all +these things? How bear up when she, with a half-sad, half-amused +smile, showed her thin wrists?--how say that they would soon be strong +and round again? Ugh! she was already beginning to be different from +us, already putting off our body-sweet mortality, and putting on the +fearful garments of death, changing before our eyes from ruddy +familiar humanity into a being of another element, an element we dread +as the fish dreads the air. Soon we should not be able to talk to +her. Soon she would have unlearnt all the sweet grammar of earth. She +was no longer Jenny, but a fearful symbol of mysteries at which the +flesh crept. She was going to die. + +Have you never looked ahead towards some trial, some physical trial, +maybe an operation?--for perhaps the pains of the body are the +keenest, after all--those of the spirit are at least in some part +metaphor. You look forward with dread, yet it is at last over. It is +behind you. And have you never thought that so it will be with death +some day? Poor little Jenny was to face the great operation. + +Next time I saw her she was dead. In our hateful English fashion, they +had shut her up in a dark room, and we had to take candles to see +her. I shall never forget the moment when my eyes first rested on that +awful snow-white sheet, so faintly indented by the fragile form +beneath, lines very fragile, but oh! so hard and cold, like the +indentations upon frozen snow; never forget my strange unaccountable +terror when he on one side and I on the other turned down the icy +sheet from her face. But terror changed to awe and reverence, as her +face came upon us with its sweet sphinx-like smile. Lying there, with +a little gold chain round her neck and a chrysanthemum in the bosom of +her night-gown, there was a curious regality about her, a look as +though she wore a crown our eyes were unable to see. And while I gazed +upon her, the sobs of my friend came across the bed, and as he called +to her I seemed to hear the eternal Orpheus calling for his lost +Eurydice. Poor lad!--poor maid! Here, naked and terrible, was all the +tragedy of the world compressed into an hour, the Medusa-face of life +that turns the bravest to stone. Surely, I felt, God owed more than He +could ever repay to these two lovers, whom it had been so easy to +leave to their simple joys. And from that night to this I can never +look upon my white bed without seeing afar off the moment when it, +too, will bear the little figure of her I love best in the world, +bound for her voyage to the Minotaur Death; just as I never put off my +clothes at night, and stretch my limbs down among the cool sheets, +without thinking of the night when I shall put off my clothes for the +last time and close my eyes for ever. + +LECTOR. But, my friend, this is to feel too much; it is morbid. + +SCRIPTOR. Morbid! How can one really _feel_ and not be morbid? If one +be morbid, one can still be brave. + +LECTOR. But surely, true-lover as you are, it would be a joy to you to +think that this terrible parting of death will not be final. We cannot +love so well without hoping that we may meet our loved ones somewhere +after death. + +SCRIPTOR. Hopes! wishes! desires! What of them? We hope, we _desire_ +all things. Who has not cried for the moon in his time? But what is +the use of talking of what we desire? Does life give us all we wish, +however passionately we wish it, and is Death any more likely to +listen to the cry of our desires? Of course we _wish it_, wish it with +a pathetic urgency which is too poignant to bear, and which the wise +man bravely stifles. It would all be different if we _knew_. + +LECTOR. But does not science even, of late, hold out the promise of +its probability?--and the greatest poets and thinkers have always been +convinced of its truth. + +SCRIPTOR. The promise of a probability! O my Lector, what a poor +substitute is that for a certainty! And as for the great men you speak +of, what does their 'instinctive' assurance amount to but a strong +sense of their own existence at the moment of writing or speaking? +Does one of them anywhere assert immortality as a _fact_--a fact of +which he has his own personal proof and knowledge--a scientific, not +an imaginative, theological fact? Arguments on the subject are +naught. It is waste of time to read them; unsupported by fact, they +are one and all cowardly dreams, a horrible hypocritical clutching at +that which their writers have not the courage to forgo. + +LECTOR. Yet may not a dream be of service to reality, my friend? Is it +not certain that people are all the better and all the happier for +this dream, as you call it?--for what seems to me this sustaining +faith? + +SCRIPTOR. Happier? Some people, perhaps, in a lazy, unworthy +fashion. But 'better'? Well, so long as we believed in 'eternal +punishment' no doubt people were sometimes terrified into 'goodness' +by the picture of that dread vista of torment, as no doubt they were +bribed into it by the companion picture of a green unbounded Paradise; +but, O my friend, what an unworthy kind of goodness, the mere mask of +virtue! And now that the Inferno has practically disappeared from our +theology, the belief in eternal life simply means unlimited cakes and +ale, for good and evil alike, for all eternity. How such a belief can +be moralising I fail to understand. To my mind, indeed, far from being +moralising, this belief in immortality is responsible for no +inconsiderable portion of the wrong and misery of the world. It is the +baneful narcotic which has soothed the selfish and the slothful from +the beginning. It is that unlimited credit which makes the bankrupt. +It simply gives us all eternity to procrastinate in. Instead of +manfully eating our peck of dirt here and now, we leave it and all +such disagreeables to the hereafter. + + 'He said, "I believe in Eternal Life," + As he threw his life away-- + What need to hoard? + He could well afford + To squander his mortal day. + With Eternity his, what need to care?-- + A sort of immortal millionaire.' + +LECTOR. I am glad to be reminded, Scriptor, that you are a poet, for the +line of your argument had almost made me forget it. One expects other +views from a poet. + +SCRIPTOR. When, my dear Lector, shall we get rid of the silly idea that +the poet should give us only the ornamental view of life, and rock us to +sleep, like babies, with pretty lullabies? Is it not possible to make +_facts_ sing as well as fancies? With all this beautiful world to sing +of--for beautiful it is, however it be marred; with this wonderful +life--and wonderful and sweet it is though it is shot through with such +bitter pain; with such _certainties_ for his theme, we yet beg him to +sing to us of shadows! + +And you talk of 'faith.' 'Faith' truly is what we want, but it is faith +in the life here, not in the life hereafter. Faith in the life here! Let +our poets sing us that. And such as would deny it--I would hang them as +enemies of society. + +LECTOR. But, at all events, to keep to our point--you at least _hope_ +for immortality. If Edison, say, were suddenly to discover it for us as +a scientific certainty, you would welcome the news? + +SCRIPTOR. Well, yes and no! Have you seen the 'penny' phonographs in the +Strand? You should go and have a pennyworth of the mysteries of time and +space! How long will Edison's latest magic toy survive this +popularisation, I wonder? For a little moment it awakens the sense of +wonder in the idly curious, who set the demon tube to their ears; but if +they make any remarks at all, it is of the cleverness of Mr. Edison, +the probable profits of the invention--and not a word of the wonder of +the world! So it would be with the undiscovered country. I was blamed +the other day as being cheaply smart because I said that if 'one +traveller returned,' his resurrection would soon be as commonplace as +the telephone, and that enterprising firms would be interviewing him as +to the prospects of opening branch establishments in Hades. Yet it is a +perfectly serious, and, I think, true remark; for who that knows the +modern man, with his small knowingness, and his utter incapacity for +reverence, would doubt that were Mr. Edison actually to be the Columbus +of the Unseen, it would soon be as overrun with gaping tourists as +Switzerland, and that within a year railway companies would be +advertising 'Bank-holidays in Eternity'? + +No! let us keep the Unseen--or, if it must be discovered, let the key +thereof be given only to true-lovers and poets. + + + + +A SEAPORT IN THE MOON + + +No one is so hopelessly wrong about the stars as the astronomer, and I +trust that you never pay any attention to his remarks on the moon. He +knows as much about the moon as a coiffeur knows of the dreams of the +fair lady whose beautiful neck he makes still more beautiful. There is +but one opinion upon the moon--namely, our own. And if you think that +science is thus wronged, reflect a moment upon what science makes of +things near at hand. Love, it says, is merely a play of pistil and +stamen, our most fascinating poetry and art is 'degeneration,' and human +life, generally speaking, is sufficiently explained by the 'carbon +compounds'--God-a-mercy! If science makes such grotesque blunders about +radiant matters right under its nose, how can one think of taking its +opinion upon matters so remote as the stars--or even the moon, which is +comparatively near at hand? + +Science says that the moon is a dead world, a cosmic ship littered with +the skeletons of its crew, and from which every rat of vitality has long +since escaped. It is the ghost that rises from its tomb every night, to +haunt its faithless lover, the world. It is a country of ancient +silver-mines, unworked for centuries. You may see the gaping mouths of +the dark old shafts through your telescopes. You may even see the +rusting pit tackle, the ruinous engine-houses, and the idle pick and +shovel. Or you may say that it is counterfeit silver, coined to take in +the young fools who love to gaze upon it. It is, so to speak, a bad +half-crown. + +As you will! but I am of Endymion's belief--and no one was ever more +intimate with the moon. For me the moon is a country of great seaports, +whither all the ships of our dreams come home. From all quarters of the +world, every day of the week, there are ships sailing to the moon. They +are the ships that sail just when and where you please. You take your +passage on that condition. And it is ridiculous to think for what a +trifle the captain will take you on so long a journey. If you want to +come back, just to take an excursion and no more, just to take a lighted +look at those coasts of rose and pearl, he will ask no more than a glass +or two of bright wine--indeed, when the captain is very kind, a flower +will take you there and back in no time; if you want to stay whole days +there, but still come back dreamy and strange, you may take a little +dark root and smoke it in a silver pipe, or you may drink a little phial +of poppy-juice, and thus you shall find the Land of Heart's Desire; but +if you are wise and would stay in that land for ever, the terms are even +easier--a little powder shaken into a phial of water, a little piece of +lead no bigger than a pea, and a farthing's-worth of explosive fire, and +thus also you are in the Land of Heart's Desire for ever. + +I dreamed last night that I stood on the blustering windy wharf, and the +dark ship was there. It was impatient, like all of us, to leave the +world. Its funnels belched black smoke, its engines throbbed against +the quay like arms that were eager to strike and be done, and a bell +was beating impatient summons to be gone. The dark captain stood ready +on the bridge, and he looked into each of our faces as we passed on +board. 'Is it for the long voyage?' he said. 'Yes! the long voyage,' I +said--and his stern eyes seemed to soften as I answered. + +At last we were all aboard, and in the twinkling of an eye were out of +sight of land. Yet, once afloat, it seemed as though we should never +reach our port in the moon--so it seemed to me as I lay awake in my +little cabin, listening to the patient thud and throb of the great +screws, beating in the ship's side like a human heart. + +Talking with my fellow-voyagers, I was surprised to find that we were +not all volunteers. Some, in fact, complained pitifully. They had, they +said, been going about their business a day or two before, and suddenly +a mysterious captain had laid hold of them, and pressed them to sail +this unknown sea. Thus, without a word of warning, they had been +compelled to leave behind them all they held dear. This, one felt, was a +little hard of the captain; but those of us whose position was exactly +the reverse, who had friends on the other side, all whose hopes indeed +were invested there, were too selfishly expectant of port to be severe +on the captain who was taking us thither. + +There were three friends I had especially set out to see: two young +lovers who had emigrated to those colonies in the moon just after their +marriage, and there was another. What a surprise it would be to all +three, for I had written no letter to say I was coming. Indeed, it was +just a sudden impulse, the pistol-flash of a long desire. + +I tried to imagine what the town would be like in which they were now +living. I asked the captain, and he answered with a sad smile that it +would be just exactly as I cared to dream it. + +'Oh, well then,' I thought, 'I know what it will be like. There shall be +a great restless, tossing estuary, with Atlantic winds for ever ruffling +the sails of busy ships, ships coming home with laughter, ships leaving +home with sad sea-gull cries of farewell. And the shaggy tossing water +shall be bounded on either bank with high granite walls, and on one +bank shall be a fretted spire soaring with a jangle of bells, from amid +a tangle of masts, and underneath the bells and the masts shall go +streets rising up from the strand, streets full of faces, and sweet with +the smell of tar and the sea. O captain! will it be morning or night +when we come to my city? In the morning my city is like a sea-blown +rose, in the night it is bright as a sailor's star. + +'If it be early morning, what shall I do? I shall run to the house in +which my friends lie in happy sleep, never to be parted again, and kiss +my hand to their shrouded window; and then I shall run on and on till +the city is behind and the sweetness of country lanes is about me, and I +shall gather flowers as I run, from sheer wantonness of joy; and then at +last, flushed and breathless, I shall stand beneath her window. I shall +stand and listen, and I shall hear her breathing right through the heavy +curtains, and the hushed garden and the sleeping house will bid me keep +silence, but I shall cry a great cry up to the morning star, and say, +"No, I will not keep silence. Mine is the voice she listens for in her +sleep. She will wake again for no voice but mine. Dear one, awake, the +morning of all mornings has come!"' + +As I write, the moon looks down at me like a Madonna from the great +canvas of the sky. She seems beautiful with the beauty of all the eyes +that have looked up at her, sad with all the tears of all those eyes; +like a silver bowl brimming with the tears of dead lovers she seems. +Yes, there are seaports in the moon; there are ships to take us there. + + + + +THE END + + + + +Most of the foregoing essays have made a first appearance either in +_The Yellow Book_, _The Nineteenth Century_, _The Cosmopolitan_, _The +Westminster Gazette_, or _The Realm_, to the editors of which the writer +is indebted for kind permission to reprint. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prose Fancies (Second Series) +by Richard Le Gallienne + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14103 *** diff --git a/14103-h/14103-h.htm b/14103-h/14103-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..62db03d --- /dev/null +++ b/14103-h/14103-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3776 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> +<title>Prose Fancies (Second Series) by Richard Le Gallienne</title> +<style type="text/css"> + /*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ + <!-- + P { text-align: justify; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + h3 { margin-top: 3em; } + HR { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .poem {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.indent1 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.indent3 {margin-left: 3em;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14103 ***</div> + +<h1>PROSE FANCIES<br> +(SECOND SERIES)</h1> + +<h2>BY<br> +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE</h2> + + +<h3>LONDON: JOHN LANE<br> +CHICAGO: H.S. STONE AND CO.<br> +1896</h3> + +<h3>TO<br> +MAGGIE LE GALLIENNE<br> +WITH LOVE</h3> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Poor are the gifts of the poet—</p> + <p>Nothing but words!</p> + <p>The gifts of kings are gold,</p> + <p>Silver, and flocks and herds,</p> + <p>Garments of strange soft silk,</p> + <p>Feathers of wonderful birds,</p> + <p>Jewels and precious stones,</p> + <p>And horses white as the milk—</p> + <p>These are the gifts of kings:</p> + <p>But the gifts that the poet brings</p> + <p>Are nothing but words.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Forty thousand words!</p> + <p>Take them—a gift of flies!</p> + <p>Words that should have been birds,</p> + <p>Words that should have been flowers,</p> + <p>Words that should have been stars</p> + <p>In the eternal skies.</p> + <p>Forty thousand words!</p> + <p>Forty thousand tears—</p> + <p>All out of two sad eyes.</p> + </div> +</div> + + +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + +<div class="contents"> +<a href="#essay01">A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN</a><br> +<a href="#essay02">SPRING BY PARCEL POST</a><br> +<a href="#essay03">THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND</a><br> +<a href="#essay04">THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET</a><br> +<a href="#essay05">VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT</a><br> +<a href="#essay06">THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE</a><br> +<a href="#essay07">ABOUT THE SECURITIES</a><br> +<a href="#essay08">THE BOOM IN YELLOW</a><br> +<a href="#essay09">LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN</a><br> +<a href="#essay10">A POET IN THE CITY</a><br> +<a href="#essay11">BROWN ROSES</a><br> +<a href="#essay12">THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR</a><br> +<a href="#essay13">ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES</a><br> +<a href="#essay14">THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE</a><br> +<a href="#essay15">THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX</a><br> +<a href="#essay16">THE FALLACY OF A NATION</a><br> +<a href="#essay17">THE GREATNESS OF MAN</a><br> +<a href="#essay18">DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS</a><br> +<a href="#essay19">A SEAPORT IN THE MOON</a></div> + + + + +<!--Page 001--> +<h3><a name="essay01">A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN</a></h3> + + +<p>At one end of the city that I love there is a tall, dingy pile of +offices that has evidently seen more prosperous fortunes. It is not the +aristocratic end. It is remote from the lordly street of the fine shops +of the fair women, where in the summer afternoons the gay bank clerks +parade arm-in-arm in the wake of the tempestuous petticoat. It lies +aside from the great exchange which looks like a scene from <em>Romeo and +Juliet</em> in the moonlight, from the town-hall from whose clocked and +gilded cupola ring sweet chimes at midnight, and whence, throned above +the city, a golden Britannia, in the sight of all men, is seen visibly +ruling the waves—while in the square below the death of Nelson is +played all day in stone, with a frieze of his noble words about the +pedestal. England expects! What an influence that stirring<!--Page 002--> challenge +has yet upon the hearts of men may be seen by any one who will study the +faces of the busy, imaginative cotton-brokers, who, in the thronged and +humming mornings, sell what they have never seen to a customer they will +never see.</p> + +<p>In fact, the end I mean is just the very opposite end to that. It is the +end where the cotton that everybody sells and nobody buys <em>is</em> seen, +piled in great white stacks, or swinging in the air from the necks of +mighty cranes, cranes that could nip up an elephant with as little ado, +and set him down on the wharf, with a box on his ugly ears for his +cowardly trumpeting. It is the end that smells of tar, the domain of the +harbourmasters, where the sailor finds a 'home,'—not too sweet, and +where the wild sea is tamed in a maze of granite squares and basins; the +end where the riggings and buildings rise side by side, and a clerk +might swing himself out upon the yards from his top-floor desk. Here is +the Custom House, and the conversation that shines is full of freightage +and dock dues; here are the shops that sell nothing but<!--Page 003--> oilskins, +sextants, and parrots, and here the taverns do a mighty trade in rum.</p> + +<p>It was in this quarter, for a brief sweet time, that Love and Beauty +made their strange home, as though a pair of halcyons should choose to +nest in the masthead of<!--Page 004--> a cattleship. Love and Beauty chose this +quarter, as, alas! Love and Beauty must choose so many things—for its +cheapness. Love and Beauty were poor, and office rents in this quarter +were exceptionally low. But what should Love and Beauty do with an +office? Love was a poor poet in need of a room for his bed and his +rhymes, and Beauty was a little blue-eyed girl who loved him.</p> + +<p>It was a shabby, forbidding place, gloomy and comfortless as a warehouse +on the banks of Styx. No one but Love and Beauty would have dared to +choose it for their home. But Love and Beauty have a great confidence in +themselves—a confidence curiously supported by history,—and they never +had a moment's doubt that this place was as good as another for an +earthly Paradise. So Love signed an agreement for one great room at the +very top, the very masthead of the building, and Beauty made it pretty +with muslin curtains, flowers, and dainty makeshifts of furniture, but +chiefly with the light of her own heavenly face. A stroke of luck coming +one day to the poet, the lovers, with that extravagance which the poor +alone have the courage to enjoy, procured a piano on the kind-hearted +hire-purchase system, a system specially conceived for lovers. Then, +indeed, for many a wonderful night that room was not only on the seventh +floor, but in the seventh heaven; and as Beauty would sit at the piano, +with her long hair flying loose, and her soul like a whirl of starlight +about her brows, a stranger peering in across the soft lamplight, seeing +her face, hearing her voice, would deem that the long climb, flight +after flight of dreary stair, had been appropriately rewarded by a +glimpse of heaven.</p> + +<p>Certainly it must have seemed a strange contrast from the life about and +below it. The foot of that infernal stair plunged in the warm +rum-and-thick-twist atmosphere of a sailor's tavern—and 'The Jolly +Shipmates' was a house of entertainment by no means to be despised. +Often have I sat there with<!--Page 005--> the poet, drinking the whisky from which +Scotland takes its name, among wondering sea-boots and sou'-westers, who +could make nothing of that wild hair and that still wilder talk.</p> + +<p>From the kingdom of rum and tar you mounted into a zone of commission +agents fund shipbrokers, a chill, unoccupied region, in which every +small office bore the names of half a dozen different firms, and yet +somehow could not contrive to look busy. Finally came an airy echoing +landing, a region of empty rooms, which the landlords in vain +recommended as studios to a city that loved not art. Here dwelt the +keeper and his kind-hearted little wife, and no one besides save Love +and Beauty. There was thus a feeling of rarefaction in the atmosphere, +as though at this height it was only the Alpine flora of humanity that +could find root and breathing. But once along the bare passage and +through a certain door, and what a sudden translation it was into a +gracious world of books and flowers and the peace they always bring.</p> + +<p>Once upon a time, in that enchanted past<!--Page 006--> where dwell all the dreams we +love best, precisely, with loving punctuality, at five in the afternoon, +a pretty, girlish figure, like Persephone escaping from the shades, +stole through the rough sailors at the foot of that sordid Jacob's +ladder and made her way to the little heaven at the top.</p> + +<p>I shall not describe her, for the good reason that I cannot. Leonardo, +ever curious of the beauty that was most strangely exquisite, once in an +inspired hour painted such a face, a face wrought of the porcelain of +earth with the art of heaven. But, whoever should paint it, God +certainly made it—must have been the comment of any one who caught a +glimpse of that little figure vanishing heavenwards up that stair, like +an Assumption of Fra Angelico's—that is, any one interested in art and +angels.</p> + +<p>She had not long to wait outside the door she sought, for the poet, who +had listened all day for the sound, had ears for the whisper of her +skirts as she came down the corridor, and before she had time to knock +had already folded her in his arms. The two babes in that thieves' wood +of commission agents and<!--Page 007--> shipbrokers stood silent together for a +moment, in the deep security of a kiss such as the richest millionaire +could never buy—and then they fell to comparing notes of their day's +work. The poet had had one of his rare good days. He had made no money, +his post had been even more disappointing than usual,—but he had +written a poem, the best he had ever written, he said, as he always said +of his last new thing. He had been burning to read it to somebody all +afternoon—had with difficulty refrained from reading it to the +loquacious little keeper's wife as she brought him some coals—so it was +not to be expected that he should wait a minute before reading it to her +whom indeed it strove to celebrate. With arms round each other's necks, +they bent over the table littered with the new-born poem, all blots and +dashes like the first draft of a composer's score, and the poet, deftly +picking his way among the erasures and interlineations, read aloud the +beautiful words—with a full sense of their beauty!—to ears that deemed +them more beautiful even than they were. The owners of this now valuable +copyright allow<!--Page 008--> me to irradiate my prose with three of the verses.</p> + +<p>'Ah! what,' half-chanted, half-crooned the poet—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'Ah! what a garden is your hair!—</p> + <p class="indent1">Such treasure as the kings of old,</p> + <p class="indent1">In coffers of the beaten gold,</p> + <p>Laid up on earth—and left it there.'</p> +</div> + +<p>So tender a reference to hair whose beauty others beside the poet had +loved must needs make a tender interruption—the only kind of +interruption the poet could have forgiven—and 'Who,' he continued—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'Who was the artist of your mouth?</p> + <p class="indent1">What master out of old Japan</p> + <p class="indent1">Wrought it so dangerous to man ...'</p> +</div> + +<p>And here it was but natural that laughter and kisses should once more +interrupt—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'Those strange blue jewels of your eyes,</p> + <p class="indent1">Painting the lily of your face,</p> + <p class="indent1">What goldsmith set them in their place—</p> + <p>Forget-me-nots of Paradise?</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'And that blest river of your voice,</p> + <p class="indent1">Whose merry silver stirs the rest</p> + <p class="indent1">Of water-lilies in your breast ...'</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>At last, in spite of more interruptions, the poem came to an +end—whereupon, of course, the poet immediately read it through once<!--Page 009--> +more from the beginning, its personal and emotional elements, he felt, +having been done more justice on a first reading than its artistic +excellences.</p> + +<p>'Why, darling, it is splendid,' was his little sweetheart's comment; +'you know how happy it makes me to think it was written for me, don't +you?' And she took his hands and looked up at him with eyes like the +morning sky.</p> + +<p>Romance in poetry is almost exclusively associated with very refined +ethereal matters, stars and flowers and such like—happily, in actual +life it is often associated with much humbler objects. Lovers, like +children, can make their paradises out of the quaintest materials. +Indeed, our paradises, if we only knew, are always cheap enough; it is +our hells that are so expensive. Now these lovers—like, if I mistake +not, many other true lovers before and since—when they were +particularly happy, when some special piece of good luck had befallen +them, could think of no better paradise than a little dinner together in +their seventh-story heaven. 'Ah! wilderness were Paradise enow!'<!--Page 010--></p> + +<p>To-night was obviously such an occasion. But, alas! where was the money +to come from? They didn't need much—for it is wonderful how happy you +can be on five shillings, if you only know how. At the same time it is +difficult to be happy on ninepence—which was the entire fortune of the +lovers at the moment. Beauty laughingly suggested that her celebrated +hair might prove worth the price of their dinner. The poet thought a +pawnbroker might surely be found to advance ten shillings on his +poem—the original MS. too,—else had they nothing to pawn, save a few +gold and silver dreams which they couldn't spare. What was to be done? +Sell some books, of course! It made them shudder to think how many poets +they had eaten in this fashion. It was sheer cannibalism—but what was +to be done? Their slender stock of books had been reduced entirely to +poetry. If there had only been a philosopher or a modern novelist, the +sacrifice wouldn't have seemed so unnatural. And then Beauty's eyes fell +upon a very fat informing-looking volume on the poet's desk.<!--Page 011--></p> + +<p>'Wouldn't this do?' she said.</p> + +<p>'Why, of course!' he exclaimed; 'the very thing. A new history of +socialism just sent me for review. Hang the review; we want our dinner, +don't we, little one? And then I've read the preface, and looked through +the index—quite enough to make a column of, with a plentiful supply of +general principles thrown in! Why, of course, there's our dinner for +certain, dull and indigestible as it looks. It's worth fifty minor poets +at old Moser's. Come along....'</p> + +<p>So off went the happy pair—ah! how much happier was Beauty than ever so +many fine ladies one knows who have only, so to say, to rub their +wedding-rings for a banquet to rise out of the ground, with the most +distinguished guests around the table, champagne of the best, and +conversation of the worst.</p> + +<p>Old Moser found histories of socialism profitable, more profitable +perhaps than socialism, and he actually gave five-and-sixpence for the +volume. With the ninepence already in their pockets, you will see that +they were now possessors of quite a small<!--Page 012--> fortune. Six-and-threepence! +It wouldn't pay for one's lunch nowadays. Ah! but that is because the +poor alone know the art of dining.</p> + +<p>You needn't wish to be happier and merrier than those two lovers, as +they gaily hastened to that bright and cosy corner of the town where +those lovely ham-and-beef shops make glad the faces of the passers-by. O +those hams with their honest shining faces, polished like mahogany—and +the man inside so happy all day slicing them with those wonderful long +knives (which, of course, the superior class of reader has never seen) +worn away to a veritable thread, a mere wire, but keen as Excalibur. +Beauty used to calculate in her quaint way how much steel was worn away +with each pound of ham, and how much therefore went to the sandwich. And +what an artist was the carver! What a true eye! what a firm, flexible +wrist! never a shaving of fat too much—he was too great an artist for +that. Then there were those dear little cream cheeses, and those little +brown jugs of yellow cream come all the way from Devonshire<!--Page 013-->—you could +hear the cows lowing across the rich pasture, and hear the milkmaids +singing and the milk whizzing into the pail, as you looked at them.</p> + +<p>And then those perfectly lovely sausages—I beg the reader's pardon! I +forgot that the very mention of the word smacks of vulgarity. Yet, all +the same, I venture to think that a secret taste for sausages among the +upper classes is more widespread than we have any idea of. I confess +that Beauty and her poet were at first ashamed of admitting their vulgar +frailty to each other. They needed to know each other very well first. +Yet there is nothing, when once confessed, that brings two people so +close as—a taste for sausages.</p> + +<p>'You darling!' exclaimed Beauty, with something like tears in her voice, +when her poet first admitted this touch of nature—and then next moment +they were in fits of laughter that a common taste for a very 'low' food +should bring tears to their eyes! But such are the vagaries of love—as +you will know, if you know anything about it—'vulgar,' no doubt, though +only the vulgar<!--Page 014--> would so describe them—for it is only vulgarity that +is always 'refined.'</p> + +<p>Then there was the florist's to visit. What beautiful trades some people +ply! To sell flowers is surely like dealing in fairies. Beautiful must +grow the hands that wire them, and sweet the flower-girl's every +thought!</p> + +<p>There remained but the wine merchant's, or, had we not better say at +once, the grocer's, for our lovers could afford no rarer vintages than +Tintara or the golden burgundy of Australia; and it is wonderful to +think what a sense of festivity one of those portly colonial flagons +lent to their little dining-table. Sometimes, I may confide, when they +wanted to feel very dissipated, and were <em>very</em> rich, they would allow +themselves a small bottle of Benedictine—and you should have seen +Beauty's eyes as she luxuriously sipped at her green little liqueur +glass; for, like most innocent people, she enjoyed to the full the +delight of feeling occasionally wicked. However, these were rare +occasions, and this night was not one of them.</p> + +<p>Half a pound of black grapes completed<!--Page 015--> their shopping, and then, with +their arms full of their purchases, they made their way home again, the +two happiest people in what is, after all, a not unhappy world.</p> + +<p>Then came the cooking and the laying of the table. For all her Leonardo +face, Beauty was a great cook—like all good women, she was as earthly +in some respects as she was heavenly in others, which I hold to be a +wise combination—and, indeed, both were excellent cooks; and the poet +was unrivalled at 'washing up,' which, I may say, is the only skeleton +at these Bohemian feasts.</p> + +<p>You should have seen the gusto with which Beauty pricked those +sausages—I had better explain to the un-Bohemian reader that to attempt +to cook a sausage without first pricking it vigorously with a fork, to +allow for the expansion of its juicy gases, is like trying to smoke a +cigar without first cutting off the end—and oh! to hear again their +merry song as they writhed in torment in the hissing pan, like Christian +martyrs raising hymns of praise from the very core of Smithfield fires.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the poet would be surpassing<!--Page 016--> himself in the setting-out of +the little table, cutting up the bread reverently as though it were for +an altar—as indeed it was,—studying the effect of the dish of +tomatoes, now at this corner, now at that, arranging the flowers with +much more care than he arranged the adjectives in his sonnets, and +making ever so sumptuous an effect with that half a pound of grapes.</p> + +<p>And then at last the little feast would begin, with a long grace of eyes +meeting and hands clasping: true eyes that said, 'How good it is to +behold you, to be awake together in this dream of life!' true hands that +said, 'I will hold you fast for ever—not death even shall pluck you +from my hand, shall loose this bond of you and me'; true eyes, true +hands, that had immortal meanings far beyond the speech of mortal words.</p> + +<p>And it had all come out of that dull history of socialism, and had cost +little more than a crown! What lovely things can be made out of money! +Strange to think that a little silver coin of no possible use or beauty +in itself can be exchanged for<!--Page 017--> so much tangible, beautiful pleasure. A +piece of money is like a piece of opium, for in it lie locked up the +most wonderful dreams—if you have only the brains and hearts to dream +them.</p> + +<p>When at last the little feast grew near its end, Love and Beauty would +smoke their cigarettes together; and it was a favourite trick of theirs +to lower the lamp a moment, so that they might see the stars rush down +upon them through the skylight which hung above their table. It gave +them a sense of great sentinels, far away out in the lonely universe, +standing guard over them, seemed to say that their love was safe in the +tender keeping of great forces. They were poor, but then they had the +stars and the flowers and the great poets for their servants and +friends; and, best of all, they had each other. Do you call that being +poor?</p> + +<p>And then, in the corner, stood that magical box with the ivory keys, +whose strings waited ready night and day—strange media through which +the myriad voices, the inner-sweet thoughts, of the great world-soul +found speech, messengers of the<!--Page 018--> stars to the heart, and of the heart to +the stars.</p> + +<p>Beauty's songs were very simple. She got little practice, for her poet +only cared to have her sing over and over again the same sweet songs; +and perhaps if you had heard her sing 'Ask nothing more of me, sweet,' +or 'Darby and Joan,' you would have understood his indifference to +variety.</p> + +<p>At last the little feast is quite, quite finished. Beauty has gone home; +her lover still carries her face in his heart as she waved and waved and +waved to him from the rattling lighted tramcar; long he sits and sits +thinking of her, gazing up at those lonely ancient stars; the air is +still bright with her presence, sweet with her thoughts, warm with her +kisses, and as he turns to the shut piano, he can still see her white +hands on the keys and her girlish face raised in an ecstasy—Beata +Beatrix—above the music.</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'O love, my love! if I no more should see</p> + <p>Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,</p> + <p class="indent1">Nor image of thine eyes in any spring—</p> + <p>How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope</p> + <p>The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,</p> + <p class="indent1">The wind of Death's imperishable wing!'</p> +</div><!--Page 019--> + +<p>And then ... he would throw himself upon his bed, and burst into tears.</p> + +<hr> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'And they are gone: aye, ages long ago</p> + <p>These lovers fled away into the storm.'</p> +</div> + +<p>That seventh-story heaven once more leads a dull life as the office of a +ship-chandler, and harsh voices grate the air where Beauty sang. The +books and the flowers and the lovers' faces are gone for ever. I suppose +the stars are the same, and perhaps they sometimes look down through +that roof-window, and wonder what has become of those two lovers who +used to look up at them so fearlessly long ago.</p> + +<p>But friends of mine who believe in God say that He has given His angels +charge concerning that dingy old seventh-floor heaven, and that, for +those who have eyes to see, there is no place where a great dream has +been dreamed that is not thus watched over by the guardian angels of +memory.</p> + +<p><em>For M. Le G., 25 September 1895.</em></p> + + + + +<!--Page 020--> +<h3><a name="essay02">SPRING BY PARCEL POST</a></h3> + + +<div class="poem"> + <p>They've taken all the spring from the country to the town—</p> + <p>Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow....</p> +</div> + +<p>So began to jig and jingle my thoughts as in my letters and newspapers +this morning I read, buried alive among the solitary fastnesses of the +Surrey hills, the last news from town. The news I envied most was that +spring had already reached London. 'Now,' ran a pretty article on spring +fashions, 'the sunshine makes bright the streets, and the +flower-baskets, like huge bouquets, announce the gay arrival of spring.' +I looked up and out through my hillside window. The black ridge on the +other side of the valley stood a grim wall of burnt heather against the +sky—which sky, like the bullets in the nursery rhyme, was made +unmistakably of lead; a<!--Page 021--> close rain was falling methodically, and, +generally speaking, the world looked like a soaked mackintosh. It wasn't +much like the gay arrival of spring, and grimly I mused on the +advantages of life in town.</p> + +<p>Certainly, it did seem hard, I reflected, that town should be ahead of +us even in such a country matter as spring. Flower-baskets indeed! Why, +we haven't as much as a daisy for miles around. It is true that on the +terrace there the crocuses blaze like a street on fire, that the +primroses thicken into clumps, lying among their green leaves like +pounds of country butter; it is true that the blue cones of the little +grape hyacinth are there, quaintly formal as a child's toy-flowers; yes! +and the big Dutch hyacinths are already shamelessly <em>enceinte</em> with +their buxom waxen blooms, so fat and fragrant—(one is already delivered +of a fine blossom. Well, that is a fine baby, to be sure! say the other +hyacinths, with babes no less bonny under their own green aprons—all +waiting for the doctor sun). Then among the blue-green blades of the +narcissus, here and there you see a stem topped with a creamish<!--Page 022--> +chrysalis-like envelope, from which will soon emerge a beautiful eye, +rayed round with white wings, looking as though it were meant to fly, +but remaining rooted—a butterfly on a stalk; while all the beds are +crowded with indeterminate beak and blade, pushing and elbowing each +other for a look at the sun, which, however, sulkily declines to look at +them. It is true there is spring on the terrace, but even so it is +spring imported from the town—spring bought in Holborn, spring +delivered free by parcel post; for where would the terrace have been but +for the city seedsman—that magician who sends you strangely spotted +beans and mysterious bulbs in shrivelled cerements, weird little +flower-mummies that suggest centuries of forgotten silence in painted +Egyptian tombs. This strange and shrivelled thing can surely never live +again, we say, as we hold it in our hands, seeing not the glowing +circles of colour, tiny rings of Saturn, packed so carefully inside this +flower-egg, the folds of green and silver silk wound round and round the +precious life within.</p> + +<p>But, of course, this is all the seedsman's<!--Page 023--> cunning, and no credit to +Nature; and I repeat, that were it not for railways and the parcel +post—goodness knows whether we should ever get any spring at all in the +country! Think of the days when it had to travel down by stage-coach. +For, left to herself, what is the best Nature can do for you with March +well on the way? Personally, I find the face of the country practically +unchanged. It is, to all intents and purposes, the same as it has been +for the last three or four months—as grim, as unadorned, as bleak, as +draughty, and generally as comfortless as ever. There isn't a flower to +be seen, hardly a bird worth listening to, not a tree that is not +winter-naked, and not a chair to sit down upon. If you want flowers on +your walks you must bring them with you; songs, you must take a poet +under your arm; and if you want to rest, lean laboriously on your +stick—or take your chance of rheumatism.</p> + +<p>Of course your specialists, your botanists, your nature-detectives, will +tell you otherwise. They have surprised a violet in the act of +blossoming; after long and excited<!--Page 024--> chase have discovered a clump of +primroses in their wild state; seen one butterfly, heard one cuckoo. But +as one swallow does not make a summer, it takes more than one cuckoo to +make a spring. I confess that only yesterday I saw three sulphur +butterflies, with my own eyes; I admit the catkins, and the +silver-notched palm; and I am told on good colour-authority that there +is a lovely purplish bloom, almost like plum-bloom, over certain copses +in the valley; by taking thought, I have observed the long horizontal +arms of the beech growing spurred with little forked branches of +spear-shaped buds, and I see little green nipples pushing out through +the wolf-coloured rind of the dwarf fir-trees. Spring is arming in +secret to attack the winter—that is sure enough, but spring in secret +is no spring for me. I want to see her marching gaily with green +pennons, and flashing sun-blades, and a good band.</p> + +<p>I want butterflies as they have them at the Lyceum—'butterflies all +white,' 'butterflies all blue,' 'butterflies of gold,' and I should +particularly fancy 'butterflies all<!--Page 025--> black.' But there, again, you +see,—you must go to town, within hearing of Mrs. Patrick Campbell's +<em>voix d'or</em>. I want the meadows thickly inlaid with buttercups and +daisies; I want the trees thick with green leaves, the sky all larks and +sunshine; I want hawthorn and wild roses—both at once; I want some go, +some colour, some warmth in the world. Oh, where are the pipes of Pan?</p> + +<p>The pipes of Pan are in town, playing at street corners and in the +centres of crowded circuses, piled high with flower-baskets blazing with +refulgent flowery masses of white and gold. Here are the flowers you can +only buy in town; simple flowers enough, but only to be had in town. +Here are fragrant banks of violets every few yards, conflagrations of +daffodils at every crossing, and narcissus in scented starry garlands +for your hair.</p> + +<p>You wander through the Strand, or along Regent Street, as through the +meadows of Enna—sweet scents, sweet sounds, sweet shapes, are all about +you; the town-butterflies, white, blue, and gold, 'wheel and shine'<!--Page 026--> and +flutter from shop to shop, suddenly resurgent from their winter +wardrobes as from a chrysalis; bright eyes flash and flirt along the +merry, jostling street, while the sun pours out his golden wine +overhead, splashing it about from gilded domes and bright-faced +windows—and ever are the voices at the corners and the crossings +calling out the sweet flower-names of the spring!</p> + +<hr> + +<p>But here in the country it is still all rain and iron. I am tired of +waiting for this slow-moving provincial spring. Let us to the town to +meet the spring—for:</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>They've taken all the spring from the country to the town—</p> + <p class="indent1">Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow;</p> + <p class="indent1">And if you want a primrose, you write to London now,</p> + <p>And if you need a nightingale, well,—Whiteley sends it down.</p> +</div> + + + + +<!--Page 027--> +<h3><a name="essay03">THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND</a></h3> + + +<p>In an age curious of new pleasures, the merry-go-round seems still to +maintain its ancient popularity. I was the other day the delighted, +indeed the fascinated, spectator of one in full swing in an old +Thames-side town. It was a very superior example, with a central musical +engine of extraordinary splendour, and horses that actually curveted, as +they swirled maddeningly round to the strains of 'The Man that Broke the +Bank at Monte Carlo.' How I longed to join the wild riders! But though I +am a brave man, I confess that to ride a merry-go-round in front of a +laughter-loving Cockney public is more than I can dare. I had to content +myself with watching the faces of the riders. I noticed particularly one +bright-eyed little girl, whose whole passionate young<!--Page 028--> soul seemed to be +on fire with ecstasy, and for whom it was not difficult to prophesy +trouble when time should bring her within reach of more dangerous +excitements. Then there was a stolid little boy, dull and unmoved in +expression, as though he were in church. Life, one felt sure, would be +safe enough, and stupid enough, for him; the world would have no music +to stir or draw him. The fifes would go down the street with a sweet +sound of marching feet, and the eyes of other men would brighten and +their blood be all glancing spears and streaming banners, but he would +remain behind his counter; from the strange hill beyond the town the +dear, unholy music, so lovely in the ears of other men and maids, would +call to him in vain, and morning and evening the stars would sing above +his draper's shop, but he never hear a word.</p> + +<p>What particularly struck me was the number of quite grown-up, even +elderly, people who came and had their pennyworth of horse-exercise. Now +it was a grave young workman quietly smoking his pipe as he revolved; +now it was a stout middle-<!--Page 029-->aged woman returning from marketing, on whom +the Zulu music and the whirling horses laid their irresistible spells. +Unless ye become as little children!</p> + +<p>Is the Kingdom of Heaven really at hand? For, indeed, men and women, and +perhaps particularly literary men and women, are once more becoming as +little children in their pleasures.</p> + +<p>Seriously, one of the most curious and significant of recent literary +phenomena is the sudden return of the literary man to physical, and +so-called 'Philistine,' pleasures and modes of recreation. Perhaps +Stevenson set the fashion with his canoe and his donkey. But at the +moment that he was valiantly daring any one to tell him whether there +was anything better worth doing 'than fooling among boats,' Edward +Fitzgerald, all unconscious and careless of literary fashions, was +giving still more practical expression to the physical faith that was in +him, by going shares in a Lowestoft herring-lugger, and throwing his +heart as well as his money into the fortunes of its noble skipper +'Posh.' A literary man <em>par excellence</em>, Mr. Lang re<!--Page 030-->proaches his sires +for his present way of life—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'Why lay your gipsy freedom down</p> + <p>And doom your child to pen and ink?'</p> +</div> + +<p>and by steady and persistent golfing, and writing about angling and +cricket, comes as near to the noble savage as is possible to so +incorrigibly civilised a man. Mr. Henley—that Berserker of the +pen—sings the sword with a vigour that makes one curious to see him +using it, and we all know Mr. Kipling's views on the matter. Then Mr. +Bernard Shaw rides a bicycle!</p> + +<p>Those men of letters whose inclinations or opportunities do not lead +them to these out-of-door, and more or less ferocious, pleasures seek to +forget themselves at the music-hall, the Aquarium, or the numerous +Earl's Court exhibitions. They become amateurs of foreign dancing, +connoisseurs of the trapeze, or they leave their great minds at home and +go up the Great Wheel. Earl's Court, particularly, is becoming quite a +modern Vauxhall—Tan-ta-ra-ra! Earl's Court! Earl's Court!—and Mr. Imre +Kiralfy, with his con<!--Page 031-->ceptions and designs, is to our generation what +Albert Smith was to the age of Dickens and Edmund Yates.</p> + +<p>It takes some experience of life to realise how right this is; to +realise that, after all our fine philosophies and cocksure sciences, +there is no better answer to the riddle of things than a good game of +cricket or an exciting spin on one's 'bike.' The real inner significance +of Earl's Court—Mr. Kiralfy will no doubt be prepared to hear—is the +failure of science as an answer to life. We give up the riddle, and +enjoy ourselves with our wiser children. Simple pleasures, no doubt, for +the profound! But what is simple, and what is profound?</p> + +<p>The simple joy we get from 'fooling among boats' on a summer day, the +thrill of a well-hit ball, the rapture of a skilful dive, are no more +easy to explain than the more complicated pleasures of literature, or +art, or religion. And why is it—to come closer to our theme—that the +round or the whirling have such attraction for us? What is the secret of +the fascination of the circle? Why is it that the turning of anything, +be it<!--Page 032--> but a barrel-organ or a phrase, holds one as with an hypnotic +power? I confess that I can never genuinely pity a knife-grinder, +however needy. Think of the pleasure of driving that wheel all day, the +merry chirp of the knife on the stone, and the crisp, bright spray of +the flying sparks! Why, he does 'what some men dream of all their +lives'! Wheels of all kinds have the same strange charm; mill-wheels, +colliery-wheels, spinning-wheels, water-wheels, and wheeling waters: +there may—who knows?—have been a certain pleasure in being broken on +the wheel, and, at all events, that hideous punishment is another +curious example of the fascination of the circle. It would take a whole +volume to illustrate the prevalence of the circle in external nature, in +history, and, even more significant, in language. We all know, or think +we know, that the world is round—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'This orb—this round</p> + <p>Of sight and sound,'</p> +</div> + +<p>as Mr. Quiller Couch sings—though I remember a porter at school who was +sure<!--Page 033--> that it was flat, and who used to say that Hamlet's</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'How weary, stale, <em>flat</em>, and unprofitable</p> + <p>Seem to me all the uses of this <em>world</em>!'</p> +</div> + +<p>was a cryptic reference to Shakespeare's secret belief in his theory. +Many of the things we love most are round. Is not money, according to +the proverb, made round that it may go round, and are not the men most +in demand described as 'all-round men'? Nor are all-round women without +their admirers. Events, we know, move in a circle, as time moves in +cycles—though, alas! not on them. The ballet and the bicycle are +popular forms of the circle, and it is the charm of the essay to be +'roundabout.'</p> + +<p>Again, how is it that that which on a small scale does not impress us at +all, when on a large scale impresses us so much? What is the secret of +the impressiveness of size, bulk, height, depth, speed, and mileage? +Philosophically, a mountain is no more wonderful than a molehill, yet no +man is knighted for climbing a molehill. One little drop of water and +one little grain of sand are essentially as wonderful as 'the mighty<!--Page 034--> +ocean' or 'the beauteous land' to which they contribute. A balloon is +no more wonderful than an air-bubble, and were you to build an Atlantic +liner as big as the Isle of Wight it would really be no more remarkable +than an average steam-launch. Nobody marvels at the speed of a snail, +yet, given a snail's pace to start with, an express train follows as a +matter of course. Movement, not the rate of movement, is the mystery. +Precisely the same materials, the same forces, the same methods, are +employed in the little as in the big of these examples. Why should mere +accumulation, reiteration, and magnification make the difference? We may +ask why? But it does, for all that. If we answer that these mammoth +multiplications impress us because they are so much bigger, taller, +fatter, faster, etc., than we are, the question arises—How many times +bigger than a man must a mountain be before it impresses us? Perhaps the +problem has already been tackled by the schoolman who pondered how many +angels could dance on the point of a needle.</p> + +<p>However, these and similar first principles,<!--Page 035--> it will readily be seen, +are far from being irrelevant for the visitor at the Earl's Court +Exhibition. No doubt they are continually discussed by the thousands who +daily and nightly throng that very charming dream-world which Mr. +Kiralfy has built 'midmost the beating' of our 'steely sea.'</p> + +<p>To an age that is over-read and over-fed Mr. Kiralfy brings the message: +'Leave your great minds at home, and go up the Great Wheel!' and I heard +his voice and obeyed. The sensation is, I should say, something between +going up in a balloon and being upon shipboard—a sensation compounded, +maybe, of the creaking of the circular rigging, the pleasure of rising +in the air, the freshening of the air as you ascend, the strange feeling +of the earth receding and spreading out beneath you, the curious +diminution of the people below—to their proper size. You will hear +original minds all about you comparing them to ants, and it is curious +to notice the involuntary feeling of contempt that possesses you as you +watch them. I believe one has a half-defined illusion that we are +growing greater as they<!--Page 036--> are growing smaller. Ants and flies! ants and +flies! with here and there a fiery centipede in the shape of a District +train dashing in and out amongst them. We lose the power of +understanding their motions, and their throngs and movements do indeed +seem as purposeless at this height as the hurry-scurrying about an +anthill. At this height, indeed, one seems to understand how small a +matter a bank smash may seem to the Almighty; though, as a lady said to +me—as we clung tightly together in terror 'a-top of the topmost +bough'—it must be gratifying to see so many churches.</p> + +<p>Those who would keep their illusions about the beauty of London had +better stay below, at least in the daytime, for it makes one's heart +sink to look on those miles and miles of sordid grey roofs huddled in +meaningless rows and crescents, just for all the world like a huge +child's box of wooden bricks waiting to be arranged into some +intelligible pattern. Of course, this is not London proper. Were the +Great Wheel set up in Trafalgar Square, one is fain to hope that the +view from it would be less dis<!--Page 037-->heartening—though it might be better not +to try.</p> + +<p>By night, except for the bright oases of the Indian Exhibition, the view +is little more than a black blank, a great inky plain with faint sparks +and rows of light here and there, as though the world had been made of +saltpetre paper, and had lately been set fire to. Were you a traveller +from Mars you would say that the world was very badly lighted. But, for +all that, night is the time for the Great Wheel, for the conflagration +of pleasure at our feet makes us forget the void dark beyond. Then the +Wheel seems like a great revolving spider's web, with fireflies +entangled in it at every turn, and the little engine-house at the +centre, with its two electric lights, seems like the great lord spider, +with monstrous pearls for his eyes. And, as in the daytime the height +robs the depth of its significance, strips poor humanity of any +semblance of impressive or attractive meaning, at night the effect is +just the reverse. What a fairy-world is this opening out beneath our +feet, with its golden glowing squares and circles and palaces, with<!--Page 038--> its +lamplit gardens and pagodas! and who are these gay and beautiful beings +flitting hither and thither, and passing from one bright garden to +another on the stream of pleasure? If this many-coloured, passionate +dream be really human life, let us hasten to be down amongst it once +more! And, after all, is not this flattering night aspect of the world +more true than that disheartening countenance of it in the daylight? +Those golden squares and glowing gardens and flashing waters are, of +course, an illusion of the magician Kiralfy's, yet what power could the +illusion have upon us without the realities of beauty and love and +pleasure it attracts there?</p> + + + + +<!--Page 039--> +<h3><a name="essay04">THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET</a></h3> + + +<p>One morning of all mornings the citizens of Verona were startled by +strange news. Tragic forces, to which they had been accustomed to pay +little heed, had been at work in their city during the dark hours, and +young Romeo of the Montagues, handsome, devil-may-care lad as they had +known him, and little Juliet of the Capulets, that madcap, merry, gentle +young mistress, lay dead, side by side in the church of Santa Maria.</p> + +<p>Death! surely they were used to death! and Love, flower of the clove! +they were used to <em>love</em>. But here were love and death, that somehow +they could not understand. So they hurried in wondering groups to Santa +Maria, that they might gaze at the dead lovers, and thus perhaps come to +understand.</p><!--Page 040--> + +<p>Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came. And their +presence-chamber was bright with candles and flowers, and sweet with +the sweet smell of death. The air that had drunk in their wild words +and their last long looks of heavenly love still hung about the dark +corners, as the air where a rose has been holds a little while the +memory of its breath. Yes! that morning, in that dank but shining +tomb, you might draw into you the very breath of love. The air you +breathed had passed through the sweet lungs of Juliet, it had been +etherealised with her holy passion, and washed clean with her lovely +words. And now, for a little while yet, it feasted on the fair peace +of their glad young faces. To-morrow, or the next day, or the next +week, they would belong to the unvisited treasure-house of the past, +but now this morning of all mornings, this day that could never come +again, they still belonged to the real and radiant present.</p> + +<p>Flowers there are that bloom but once in a hundred years, but here in +this tomb had<!--Page 41--> blossomed one of those marvellous flowers that bloom but +once throughout eternity. Poets and kings in after-times, O men of +Verona, will yearn to have seen what you look upon to-day. For you, you +thick and greasy citizens, are chosen out of all time to behold this +beauty. There were once in the world thousands of men and women who had +heard the very words of Christ as they fell from His lips, words that we +may only read. There have been men, actual living, foolish men, who have +looked on at the valour of Horatius, men who from the crowded banks of +the Nile have watched the living body of Cleopatra step into her gilded +barge, men who, standing idle in the streets of Florence, have seen the +love-light start in the great Dante's eyes, seen his hand move to his +laden heart, as the little Beatrice passed him by among her maidens. +Base men of the past, by the indulgent accident of time, have been +granted to behold these wonders, and now for you, O men of Verona, a +like wonder has been born.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their<!--Page 042--> guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came.</p> + +<p>It had been an innocent little desire, yet had all the world come +against it. It had been a simple little desire, yet too strong for all +the world to break.</p> + +<p>Strange this enmity of the world to love, as though men should take arms +against the song of a bird, or plot against the opening of a flower.</p> + +<p>But now, what was this strange homage to a love that a few hours ago had +no friend in all the daylight, a fearful bliss beneath the secret moon? +But yesterday a stupid old nurse, a herb-gathering friar, a rascally +apothecary, had been their only friends, and now was all the world come +here to do their bidding.</p> + +<p>No need to steal again beneath the shade of orchard walls, no need again +to heed if lark or nightingale sang in the reddening east. For the world +had grown all warm to love, warm and kind as June to the rose.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Three days lay Romeo and Juliet receiving their guests in the vault of +the Capulets,<!--Page 043--> with that strange smile of welcome for all who came. +Three days the world worshipped the love it could not understand, but +still came dense and denser throngs to worship. For the news of the +wonderful flower that had blossomed in Verona had gone far and wide, and +travellers from distant cities kept pouring in to look at those strange +young lovers, who had deemed the world well lost so that they might +leave it together.</p> + +<p>Then the governor of the city decreed, as the time drew near when the +two lovers must be left to their peace, and it was ill that any should +lose the sight of this marvel, that on the fourth day they should be +carried through the streets in the eyes of all the people, and then be +buried together in the vault of the Capulets—for by this burial in the +same tomb, says the old chronicler who was first honoured with the +telling of their sweet story, the governor hoped to bring about a peace +between the Montagues and Capulets, at least for a little while.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, though Verona was a city of many trades and professions, and +love and<!--Page 044--> death were idle things, yet was there little said of business +all these days, and little else done but talk of the two lovers, of +whom, indeed, it was true, as it has seldom been true out of Holy Writ, +that death was swallowed up in victory. During these days also there +stole a strange sweetness over the city, as though the very spirit of +love had nested there, and was filling the air with its soft +breathing—as when in the first days of spring the birds sing so sweetly +that broken hearts must hide away, and hard hearts grow a little kind. +Men once more spoke kindly to their wives, and even coarse faces wore a +gentle light,—just as sometimes at evening the setting sun will turn to +tenderness even black rocks and frowning towers.</p> + +<p>There were many wild stories afloat about the end of the lovers. Some +said one way and some another. By some the story went that Romeo was +already dead before Juliet had awakened from her swoon, but others +declared that the poison had not worked upon him until Juliet's +awakening had made him awhile forget that he was to die. There were +those who professed to know the very<!--Page 045--> words of their wild farewell, and +in fact there had been several witnesses of Juliet's agony over the body +of her lord. These had told how first she had raved and clung to him, +and called him 'Romeo,' 'Sweet Sir Romeo,' 'Husband,' and many +flower-like names, and had petted him and wooed him to come back. Then +on a sudden she had cried, God-a-mercy—how cold thou art!' and looked +at him long and strangely. Then had she grown stern, and anon soft. +'Canst thou not come back, my love? Then must I follow thee. Not so far +art thou on the way of death, but that I shall overtake thee, and +together shall we go to Pluto's realm, and seek a kinder world.'</p> + +<p>Thereat she had plunged Romeo's dagger into her side, though some said +she had stopped her heart's beating by the strong will of her great +love. Yea—such were the distracted rumours—some averred that at the +last she had curst Christ and His saints, and called upon Venus, who, it +was rumoured in awestruck whispers, was being worshipped once more in +secret corners of the world.</p><!--Page 046--> + +<p>It was strong noon when, on the fourth day, Romeo and Juliet were +carried through the bright and solemn streets, that the world might be +saved; saved as ever by the spectacle and the worship of a mysterious +nobility, [comma added by transcriber] an uncomprehended greatness, a +beauty which haunts not its daily dreams, lifted up by the humble gaze +of devout eyes into the empyrean of greater souls, stirred to an +unfamiliar passion, and fired with glimpses of a strange unworldly +truth.</p> + +<p>In the light of the sun the faces of the two lovers, as they lay amid +their flowers, seemed to have grown a little weary, but they still wore +their sweet and royal smile, and their laurelled brows were very white +and proud.</p> + +<p>And in the faces that looked upon them, as they moved slowly by, with +sweet death music, and the hushed marching of feet, and the wafted odour +of lilies, there was to be seen strangely blent a great pity for their +tragedy and a heavenly tenderness for their love. It was like a dream +passing down the streets of a dream, so deep and tender was the silence, +for only the hearts of men were<!--Page 047--> speaking; though here and there a girl +sobbed, or a young man buried his face in his sleeve, and the sternest +eyes were dashed with the holy water of tears. And with the pity and +tenderness, who shall say but that in all that silent heart-speech there +was no little envy of the two who had loved so truly and died in the +springtide of their love, before the ways of love had grown dusty with +its summer, or dreary with its autumn, before its dreams had petrified +into duties, and its passion deadened into use?</p> + +<p>'Would it were thou and I,' said many wedded eyes one to the other, +delusively warm and soft for a moment, but all cold and hard again on +the morrow.</p> + +<p>And maybe some poet would say in his heart—</p> + +<p>'If you loved her living, my Romeo, what were your love could you but +see her dead!' for indeed life has no beauty so wonderful as the beauty +of death.</p> + +<p>And, as in all places and times, there was a base remnant that gaped and +worshipped not, and in their hearts resented all this distinction paid +to a nobility they could not<!--Page 048--> recognise, as the like had grumbled when +Cimabue's Madonna had been carried through the streets in glory. But of +these there is no need that we should take account, any more than of the +beasts that moved head down amid the pastures outside the town, knowing +not of the wonder that was passing within. For the ass will munch his +thistles though the Son of Man be his rider, nor will the sheep look +aside from his grazing though Apollo be the herdsman.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>At length the sacred pageant was ended, gone like the passing of an +aerial music, and the people went to their homes silent, with haunted +eyes; while the Earth, which had given this beauty, took it back to +herself, and one more Persephone of human loveliness was shut within the +gates of the forgetful grave.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 049--> +<h3><a name="essay05">VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT</a></h3> + + +<p>A very Pre-Raphaelite friend of mine came to me one day and said <em>à +propos</em> of his having designed a very Early English chair: 'After all, +if one has anything to say one might as well put it into a chair!'</p> + +<p>I thought the remark rather delicious, as also his other remark when one +day in a curiosity-shop we were looking at another chair, which the +dealer declared to be Norman. My friend seated himself in it very +gravely, and after softly moving about from side to side, testing it, it +would appear, by the sensation it imparted to the sitting portion of his +limbs, he solemnly decided: 'I don't think the <em>flavour</em> of this chair +is Norman!'</p> + +<p>I thought of this Pre-Raphaelite brother as the Sphinx and I were seated +a few even<!--Page 050-->ings ago at our usual little dinner, in our usual little +sheltered corner, on the Lover's Gallery of one of the great London +restaurants. The Sphinx says that there is only one place in Europe +where one can really dine, but as it is impossible to be always within +reasonable train service of that Montsalvat of cookery, she consents to +eat with me—she cannot call it dine—at the restaurant of which I +speak. I being very simple-minded, untravelled, and unlanguaged, think +it, in my Cockney heart, a very fine place indeed, with its white marble +pillars surrounding the spacious peristyle, and flashing with a thousand +brilliant lights and colours; with its stately cooks, clothed in white +samite, mystic, wonderful, ranged behind a great altar loaded with big +silver dishes, and the sacred musicians of the temple ranged behind +them—while in and out go the waiters, clothed in white and black, +waiters so good and kind that I am compelled to think of Elijah being +waited on by angels.</p> + +<p>They have such an eye for a romance, too, and really take it personally +to heart if it should befall that our little table is usurped<!--Page 051--> by others +that know not love. I like them, too, because they really seem to have +an eye for the strange beauty and charm of the Sphinx, quite an +unexpected taste for Botticelli. They ill conceal their envy of my lot, +and sometimes, in the meditative pauses between the courses, I see them +romantically reckoning how it might be possible by desperately saving +up, by prodigious windfalls of tips, from unexampled despatch and +sweetness in their ministrations, how it might be possible in ten years' +time, perhaps even in five—the lady would wait five years! and her +present lover could be artistically poisoned meanwhile!—how it might be +possible to come and sue for her beautiful hand. Then a harsh British +cry for 'waiter' comes like a rattle and scares away that beautiful +dream-bird, though, as the poor dreamer speeds on the quest of roast +beef for four, you can see it still circling with its wonderful blue +feathers around his pomatumed head.</p> + +<p>Ah, yes, the waiters know that the Sphinx is no ordinary woman. She +cannot conceal even from them the mystical star of her face, they too +catch far echoes of the strange<!--Page 052--> music of her brain, they too grow +dreamy with dropped hints of fragrance from the rose of her wonderful +heart.</p> + +<p>How reverently do they help her doff her little cloak of silk and lace! +with what a worshipful inclination of the head, as in the presence of a +deity, do they await her verdict of choice between rival soups—shall it +be 'clear or thick'? And when she decides on 'thick,' how relieved they +seem to be, as if—well, some few matters remain undecided in the +universe, but never mind, this is settled for ever—no more doubts +possible on one portentous issue, at any rate—Madame will take her soup +'thick.'</p> + +<p>'On such a night' our talk fell upon whitebait.</p> + +<p>As the Sphinx's silver fork rustled among the withered silver upon her +plate, she turned to me and said:</p> + +<p>'Have you ever thought what beautiful little things these whitebait +are?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, yes,' I replied, 'they are the daisies of the deep sea, the +threepenny-pieces of the ocean.'</p> + +<p>'You dear!' said the Sphinx, who is alone<!--Page 053--> in the world in thinking me +awfully clever. 'Go on, say something else, something pretty about +whitebait—there's a subject for you!'</p> + +<p>Then it was that, fortunately, I remembered my Pre-Raphaelite friend, +and I sententiously remarked: 'Of course, if one has anything to say one +cannot do better than say it about whitebait.... Well, whitebait....'</p> + +<p>But here, providentially, the band of the beef—that is, the band behind +the beef; that is, the band that nightly hymns the beef (the phrase is +to be had in three qualities)—struck up the overture from <em>Tannhäuser</em>, +which is not the only music that makes the Sphinx forget my existence; +and thus, forgetting me, she momentarily forgot the whitebait. But I +remembered, remembered hard—worked at pretty things, as metal-workers +punch out their flowers of brass and copper. The music swirled about us +like golden waves, in which swam myriad whitebait, like showers of tiny +stars, like falling snow. To me it was one grand processional of +whitebait, silver ripples upon streams of gold.</p><!--Page 054--> + +<p>The music stopped. The Sphinx turned to me with the soul of Wagner in +her eyes, and then she turned to the waiter: 'Would it be possible,' she +said, 'to persuade the bandmaster to play that wonderful thing over +again?'</p> + +<p>The waiter seemed a little doubtful, even for the Sphinx, but he went +off to the bandmaster with the air of a man who has at last an +opportunity to show that he can dare all for love. Personally, I have a +suspicion that he poured his month's savings at the bandmaster's feet, +and begged him to do this thing for the most wonderful lady in the +world; or perhaps the bandmaster was really a musician, and his +musician's heart was touched—lonely there amid the beef—to think that +there was really some one, invisible though she were to him, some +shrouded silver presence, up there among the beefeaters, who really +loved to hear great music. Perhaps it was thus made a night he has never +forgotten; perhaps it changed the whole course of his life—who knows? +The sweet reassuring request may have come to him at a moment when, sick +at<!--Page 055--> heart, he was deciding to abandon real music for ever, and settle +down amid the beef and the beef-music of Old England.</p> + +<p>Well, however it was, the waiter came back radiant with a 'Yes' on every +shining part of him, and if the <em>Tannhäuser</em> had been played well at +first, certainly the orchestra surpassed themselves this second time.</p> + +<p>When the great jinnee of music had once more swept out of the hall, the +Sphinx turned with shining eyes to the waiter:</p> + +<p>'Take,' she said, 'take these tears to the bandmaster. He has indeed +earned them.'</p> + +<p>'Tears, little one!' I said. 'See how they swim like whitebait in the +fishpools of your eyes!'</p> + +<p>'Oh, yes, the whitebait,' rejoined the Sphinx, glad of a subject to hide +her emotion. 'Now tell me something nice about them, though the poor +little things have long since disappeared. Tell me, for instance, how +they get their beautiful little silver waterproofs?'</p> + +<p>'Electric Light of the World,' I said, 'it is like this. While they are +still quite young<!--Page 056--> and full of dreams, their mother takes them out in +picnic parties of a billion or so at a time to where the spring moon is +shining, scattering silver from its purse of pearl far over the wide +waters,—silver, silver, for every little whitebait that cares to swim +and pick it up. The mother, who has a contract with some such big +restaurateur as ours, chooses a convenient area of moonlight, and then +at a given sign they all turn over on their sides, and bask and bask in +the rays, little fin pressed lovingly against little fin—for this is +the happiest time in the young whitebait's life: it is at these +silvering parties that matches are made and future consignments of +whitebait arranged for. Well, night after night, they thus lie in the +moonlight, first on one side, then on the other, till by degrees, tiny +scale by scale, they have become completely lunar-plated. Ah! how sad +they are when the end of that happy time has come!'</p> + +<p>'And what happens to them after that?' asked the Sphinx.</p> + +<p>'One night when the moon is hidden their mother comes to them with +treacherous wile, and suggests that they should go off on a<!--Page 057--> holiday +again to seek the moon—the moon that for a moment seems captured by the +pearl-fishers of the sky. And so off they go merrily, but, alas! no moon +appears; and presently they are aware of unwieldy bumping presences upon +the surface of the sea, presences as of huge dolphins; and rough voices +call across the water, till, scared, the little whitebaits turn home in +flight—to find themselves somehow meshed in an invisible prison, a net +as fine and strong as air, into which, O agony! they are presently +hauled, lovely banks of silver, shining like opened coffers beneath the +coarse and ragged flares of yellow torches. The rest is silence.'</p> + +<p>'What sad little lives! and what a cruel world it is!' said the +Sphinx—as she crunched with her knife through the body of a lark, that +but yesterday had been singing in the blue sky. Its spirit sang just +above our heads as she ate, and the air was thick with the grey ghosts +of all the whitebait she had eaten that night.</p> + +<p>But there were no longer any tears in her eyes.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 058--> +<h3><a name="essay06">THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE</a></h3> + + +<p>The Sphinx and I sat in our little box at <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>. It was the +first time she had seen that fairy-tale of passion upon the stage. I had +seen it played once before—in Paradise. Therefore, I rather trembled to +see it again in an earthly play-house, and as much as possible kept my +eyes from the stage. All I knew of the performance—but how much was +that!—was two lovely voices making love like angels; and when there +were no words, the music told me what was going on. Love speaks so many +languages.</p> + +<p>One might as well look. It was as clear as moonlight to the tragic eye +within the heart. The Sphinx was gazing on it all with those eyes that +will never grow old, neither for years nor tears; but though I seemed to +be seeing nothing but an advertisement of Paderewski pianos on the +pro<!--Page 059-->gramme, I saw it—oh, didn't I see it?—all. The house had grown +dark, and the music low and passionate, and for a moment no one was +speaking. Only, deep in the thickets of my heart there sang a tragic +nightingale that, happily, only I could hear; and I said to myself, 'Now +the young fool is climbing the orchard wall! Yes, there go Benvolio and +Mercutio calling him; and now,—"he jests at scars who never felt a +wound"—the other young fool is coming out on to the balcony. God help +them both! They have no eyes—no eyes—or surely they would see the +shadow that sings "Love! Love! Love!" like a fountain in the moonlight, +and then shrinks away to chuckle "Death! Death! Death!" in the +darkness!'</p> + +<p>But, soft, what light from yonder window breaks!</p> + +<p>The Sphinx turned to me for sympathy—this time it was the soul of +Shakespeare in her eyes.</p> + +<p>'Yes!' I whispered, 'it is the Opening of the Eternal Rose, sung by the +Eternal Nightingale!'</p> + +<p>She pressed my hand approvingly; and<!--Page 060--> while the lovely voices made their +heavenly love, I slipped out my silver-bound pocket-book of ivory and +pressed within it the rose which had just fallen from my lips.</p> + +<p>The worst of a great play is that one is so dull between the acts. Wit +is sacrilege, and sentiment is bathos. Not another rose fell from my +lips during the performance, though that I minded little, as I was the +more able to count the pearls that fell from the Sphinx's eyes.</p> + +<p>It took quite half a bottle of champagne to pull us up to our usual +spirits, as we sat at supper at a window where we could see London +spread out beneath us like a huge black velvet flower, dotted with fiery +embroideries, sudden flaring stamens, and rows of ant-like fireflies +moving in slow zig-zag processions along and across its petals.</p> + +<p>'How strange it seems,' said the Sphinx, 'to think that for every two of +those moving double-lights, which we know to be the eyes of hansoms, but +which seem up here nothing but gold dots in a very barbaric pattern of +black and gold, there are two human beings, no doubt at this time of +night two lovers,<!--Page 061--> throbbing with the joy of life, and dreaming, heaven +knows what dreams!'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I rejoined;' and to them I'm afraid we are even more impersonal. +From their little Piccadilly coracles our watch-tower in the skies is +merely a radiant facade of glowing windows, and no one of all who glide +by realises that the spirited illumination is every bit due to your +eyes. You have but to close them, and every one will be asking what has +gone wrong with the electric light.'</p> + +<p>A little nonsense is a great healer of the heart, and by means of such +nonsense as this we grew merry again. And anon we grew sentimental and +poetic, but—thank heaven! we were no longer tragic.</p> + +<p>Presently I had news for the Sphinx. 'The rose-tree that grows in the +garden of my mind,' I said, 'desires to blossom.'</p> + +<p>'May it blossom indeed,' she replied; 'for it has been flowerless all +this long evening; and bring me a rose fresh with all the dews of +inspiration—no florist's flower, wired and artificially scented, no +bloom of yesterday's hard-driven brains.'</p><!--Page 062--> + +<p>'I was only thinking,' I said, '<em>à propos</em> of nightingales and roses, +that though all the world has heard the song of the nightingale to the +rose, only the nightingale has heard the answer of the rose. You know +what I mean?'</p> + +<p>'Know what you mean! Of course, that's always easy enough,' retorted the +Sphinx, who knows well how to be hard on me.</p> + +<p>'I'm so glad,' I ventured to thrust back; 'for lucidity is the first +success of expression: to make others see clearly what we ourselves are +struggling to see, believe with all their hearts what we are just daring +to hope, is—well, the religion of a literary man!'</p> + +<p>'Yes! it's a pretty idea,' said the Sphinx, once more pressing the rose +of my thought to her brain; 'and indeed it's more than pretty ...'</p> + +<p>'Thank you!' I said humbly.</p> + +<p>'Yes, it's <em>true</em>—and many a humble little rose will thank you for it. +For, your nightingale is a self-advertising bird. He never sings a song<!--Page 063--> +without an eye on the critics, sitting up there in their stalls among +the stars. He never, or seldom, sings a song for pure love, just +because he must sing it or die. Indeed, he has a great fear of death, +unless—you will guarantee him immortality. But the rose, the trusting +little earth-born rose, that must stay all her life rooted in one spot +till some nightingale comes to choose her—some nightingale whose song +maybe has been inspired and perfected by a hundred other roses, which +are at the moment pot-pourri—ah, the shy bosom-song of the rose ...'</p> + +<p>Here the Sphinx paused, and added abruptly—</p> + +<p>'Well—there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!'</p> + +<p>'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!'</p> + +<p>'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of +course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but +half-born—humourists always prefer to deliver themselves—so I shook my +head.</p> + +<p>'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of +her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey'<!--Page 064--> and +'Stupid,'—which I recognised and meekly bore.</p> + +<p>'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But +don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no +nightin<!--Page 065-->gales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is +always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the +nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.'</p> + +<p>'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx.</p> + +<p>'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses—but ... +but....'</p> + +<p>'But what?'</p> + +<p>'But—well, I much prefer roses. Indeed I do.'</p> + +<p>'Rose of the World,' I continued with sentiment, 'draw in your thorns. I +cannot bear them.'</p> + +<p>'Ah!' she answered eagerly, 'that is just it. The nightingale that is +worthy of the rose will not only bear, but positively love, her thorns. +It is for that reason she wears them. The thorns of the rose properly +understood are but the tests of the nightingale. The nightingale that +is frightened of the thorns is not worthy of the rose—of that you may +be sure....'</p> + +<p>'I am not frightened of the thorns,' I managed to interject.</p> + +<p>'Sing then once more,' she cried, 'the Song of the Nightingale.'</p> + +<p>And it was thus I sang:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>O Rose of the World, a nightingale,</p> + <p class="indent1">A Bird of the World, am I,</p> + <p>I have loved all the world and sung all the world,</p> + <p class="indent1">But I come to your side to die.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Tired of the world, as the world of me,</p> + <p class="indent1">I plead for your quiet breast,</p> + <p>I have loved all the world and sung all the world—</p> + <p class="indent1">But—where is the nightingale's nest?</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>In a hundred gardens I sung the rose,</p> + <p class="indent1">Rose of the World, I confess—</p> + <p>But for every rose I have sung before</p> + <p class="indent1">I love you the more, not less.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Perfect it grew by each rose that died,</p> + <p class="indent1">Each rose that has died for you,</p> + <p>The song that I sing—yea, 'tis no new song,</p> + <p class="indent1">It is tried—and so it is true.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Petal or thorn, yea! I have no care,</p> + <p class="indent1">So that I here abide;</p> + <p>Pierce me, my love, or kiss me, my love,</p> + <p class="indent1">But keep me close to your side.</p> + </div><!--Page 066--> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>I know not your kiss from your scorn, my love,</p> + <p class="indent1">Your breast from your thorn, my rose,</p> + <p>And if you must kill me, well, kill me, my love!</p> + <p class="indent1">But—say 'twas the death I chose.</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>'Is it true?' asked the Rose.</p> + +<p>'As I am a nightingale,' I replied; and as we bade each other +good-night, I whispered:</p> + +<p>'When may I expect the Answer of the Rose?'</p> + + + + +<!--Page 067--> +<h3><a name="essay07">ABOUT THE SECURITIES</a></h3> + + +<p>When I say that my friend Matthew lay dying, I want you so far as +possible to dissociate the statement from any conventional, and +certainly from any pictorial, conceptions of death which you may have +acquired. Death sometimes shows himself one of those impersonal artists +who conceal their art, and, unless you had been told, you could hardly +have guessed that Matthew was dying, dying indeed sixty miles an hour, +dying of consumption, dying because some one else had died four years +before, dying too of debt.</p> + +<p>Connoisseurs, of course, would have understood; at a glance would have +named the sculptor who was silently chiselling those noble hollows in +the finely modelled face,—that Pygmalion who turns all flesh to +stone,—at a glance would have named the painter who was cunningly +weighting the brows with<!--Page 068--> darkness that the eyes might shine the more +with an unaccustomed light. Matthew and I had long been students of the +strange wandering artist, had begun by hating his art (it is ever so +with an art unfamiliar to us), and had ended by loving it.</p> + +<p>'Let us see what the artist has added to the picture since yesterday,' +said Matthew, signing to me to hand him the mirror.</p> + +<p>'H'm,' he murmured, 'he's had one of his lazy days, I'm afraid. He's +hardly added a touch—just a little heightened the chiaroscuro, +sharpened the nose a trifle, deepened some little the shadows round the +eyes....</p> + +<p>'O why,' he presently sighed, 'does he not work a little overtime and +get it done? He's been paid handsomely enough....</p> + +<p>'Paid,' he continued, 'by a life that is so much undeveloped gold-mine, +paid by all my uncashed hopes and dreams....'</p> + +<p>'He works fast enough for me, old fellow,' I interrupted; 'there was a +time, was there not, when he worked too fast for you and me?'</p> + +<p>There are moments, for certain people,<!--Page 069--> when such fantastic unreality as +this is the truest realism. Matthew and I talked like this with our +brains, because we hadn't the courage to allow our hearts to break in +upon the conversation. Had I dared to say some real emotional thing, +what effect would it have had but to set poor tired Matthew a-coughing? +and it was our aim that he should die with as little to-do as +practicable. The emotional in such situations is merely the obvious. +There was no need for either of us to state the elementary feelings of +our love. I knew that Matthew was going to die, and he knew that—I was +going to live, and we pitied each other accordingly; though I confess my +feeling for him was rather one of envy,—when it was not congratulation.</p> + +<p>Thus, to tell the truth, we never mentioned 'the hereafter.' I don't +believe it even occurred to us. Indeed, we spent the few hours that +remained of our friendship in retailing the latest gathered of those +good stories with which we had been accustomed to salt our intercourse.</p> + +<p>One of Matthew's anecdotes was, no doubt, somewhat suggested by the +occasion,<!--Page 070--> and I should add that he had always somewhat of an +ecclesiastical bias—would, I believe, have ended some day as a +Monsignor, a notable 'Bishop Blougram.'</p> + +<p>His story was of an evangelistic preacher who desired to impress his +congregation with the unmistakable reality of hell-fire. 'You know the +Black Country, my friends,' he had declaimed,' you have seen it, at +night, flaring with a thousand furnaces, in the lurid incandescence of +which myriads of unhappy beings, our fellow-creatures (God forbid!), +snatch a precarious existence—you have seen them silhouetted against +the yellow glare, running hither and thither, as it seemed from afar, in +the very jaws of the awful fire. Have you realised that the burdens with +which they thus run hither and thither are molten iron, iron to which +such a stupendous heat has been applied that it has melted, melted as +though it had been sugar in the sun?—well! returning to hell-fire, let +me tell you this, that in hell they eat this fiery molten metal for +ice-cream!—yes! and are glad to get anything so cool.'</p> + +<p>It was thus we talked while Matthew lay<!--Page 071--> dying, for why should we not +talk as we had lived? We both laughed long and heartily over this story; +perhaps it would have amused us less had Matthew not been dying; and +then his kind old nurse brought in our lunch. We had both excellent +appetites, and were far from indifferent to the dainty little meal which +was to be our last but one together. I brought my table as close to +Matthew's pillow as was possible, and he stroked my hand with tenderness +in which there was a touch of gratitude.</p> + +<p>'You are not frightened of the bacteria!' he laughed sadly; and then he +told me, with huge amusement, how a friend (and a true, dear friend for +all that) had come to see him a day or two before, and had hung over the +end of the bed to say farewell, daring to approach no nearer, mopping +his fear-perspiring brows with a handkerchief soaked in 'Eucalyptus'!</p> + +<p>'He had brought an anticipatory elegy too,' said my friend, 'written +against my burial. I wish you'd read it for me,' and he fidgeted for it +in the nervous manner of the dying. Finding it among his pillows, he +handed it<!--Page 072--> to me saying, 'You needn't be frightened of it. It is well +dosed with Eucalyptus.'</p> + +<p>We laughed even more over this poem than over our stories, and then we +discussed the terms of three cremation societies to which, at the +express request of my friend, I had written a day or two before.</p> + +<p>Then having smoked a cigar and drunk a glass of port together (for the +assured dying are allowed to 'live well'), Matthew grew sleepy, and, +tucking him beneath the counterpane, I left him, for, after all, he was +not to die that day.</p> + +<p>Circumstances prevented my seeing him again for a week. When I did so, +entering the room poignantly redolent of the strange sweet odour of +antiseptics, I saw that the great artist had been busy in my absence. +Indeed, his work was nearly at an end. Yet to one unfamiliar with his +methods there was still little to alarm in Matthew's face. In fact, with +the exception of his brain, and his ice-cold feet, he was alive as ever. +And even to his brain had come a certain unnatural activity, a life as +of the grave, a sort of vampire vitality, which would assuredly<!--Page 073--> have +deceived any who had not known him. He still told his stories, laughed +and talked with the same unconquerable humour, was in every way alert +and practical, with this difference, that he had forgotten he was going +to die, that the world in which he exercised his various faculties was +another world to that in which, in spite of his delirium, we ate our +last boiled fowl, drank our last wine, smoked our last cigar together. +His talk was so convincingly rational, dealt with such unreal matters in +so every-day a fashion, that you were ready to think that surely it was +you and not he whose mind was wandering.</p> + +<p>'You might reach that pocket-book, and ring for Mrs. Davies,' he would +say in so casual a way that of course you would ring. On Mrs. Davies's +appearance he would be fumbling about among the papers in his +pocket-book, and presently he would say, with a look of frustration that +went to one's heart—'I've got a ten-pound note somewhere here for you, +Mrs. Davies, to pay you up till Saturday, but somehow I seem to have +lost it. Yet it must be somewhere about. Perhaps you'll find it as you +make the bed in the<!--Page 074--> morning. I'm so sorry to have troubled you....'</p> + +<p>And then he would grow tired and doze a little on his pillow.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he would be alert again, and with a startling vividness tell me +strange stories from the dreamland into which he was now passing.</p> + +<p>I had promised to see him on Monday, but had been prevented, and had +wired to him accordingly. This was Tuesday.</p> + +<p>'You needn't have troubled to wire,' he said. 'Didn't you know I was in +London from Saturday to Monday?'</p> + +<p>'The doctor and Mrs. Davies didn't know,' he continued with the creepy +cunning of the dying: 'I managed to slip away to look at a house I think +of taking—in fact I've taken it. It's in—in—now, where is it? Now +isn't that silly? I can see it as plain as anything—yet I cannot, for +the life of me, remember where it is, or the number.... It was somewhere +St. John's Wood way ... never mind, you must come and see me there, when +we get in....'</p> + +<p>I said he was dying in debt, and thus the<!--Page 075--> heaven that lay about his +deathbed was one of fantastic Eldorados, sudden colossal legacies, and +miraculous windfalls.</p> + +<p>'I haven't told you,' he said presently, 'of the piece of good luck that +has befallen me. You are not the only person in luck. I can hardly +expect you to believe me, it sounds so like the Arabian Nights. However, +it's true for all that. Well, one of the little sisters was playing in +the garden a few afternoons ago, making mud-pies or something of that +sort, and she suddenly scraped up a sovereign. Presently she found two +or three more, and our curiosity becoming aroused, a turn or two with +the spade revealed quite a bed of gold; and the end of it was, that on +further excavating, the whole garden proved to be one mass of +sovereigns. Sixty thousand pounds we counted ... and then, what do you +think?—it suddenly melted away....'</p> + +<p>He paused for a moment, and continued, more in amusement than regret—</p> + +<p>'Yes—the Government got wind of it, and claimed the whole lot as +treasure-trove!</p> + +<p>'But not,' he added slyly, 'before I'd paid<!--Page 076--> off two or three of my +biggest bills. Yes—and—you'll keep it quiet, of course,—there's +another lot been discovered in the garden, but we shall take good care +the Government doesn't get hold of it this time, you bet.'</p> + +<p>He told this wild story with such an air of simple conviction that, odd +as it may seem, one believed every word of it. But the tale of his +sudden good-fortune was not ended.</p> + +<p>'You've heard of old Lord Osterley,' he presently began again. 'Well, +congratulate me, old man: he has just died and left everything to me. +You know what a splendid library he had—to think that that will all be +mine—and that grand old park through which we've so often wandered, you +and I! Well, we shall need fear no gamekeeper now, and of course, dear +old fellow, you'll come and live with me—like a prince—and just write +your own books and say farewell to journalism for ever. Of course I can +hardly believe it's true yet. It seems too much of a dream, and yet +there's no doubt about it. I had a letter from my solicitors this +morning, saying that they were engaged in going<!--Page 077--> through the securities, +and—and—but the letter's somewhere over there; you might read it. No? +can't you find it? It's there somewhere about, I know. Never mind, you +can see it again....' he finished wearily.</p> + +<p>'Yes!' he presently said, half to himself, 'it will be a wonderful +change! a wonderful change!'</p> + +<hr> + +<p>At length the time came to say good-bye, a good-bye I knew must be the +last, for my affairs were taking me so far away from him that I could +not hope to see him for some days.</p> + +<p>'I'm afraid, old man,' I said, 'that I mayn't be able to see you for +another week.'</p> + +<p>'O never mind, old fellow, don't worry about me. I'm much better +now—and by the time you come again we shall know all about the +securities.'</p> + +<p>The securities! My heart had seemed like a stone, incapable of feeling, +all those last unreal hours together; but the pathos of that sad phrase, +so curiously symbolic, suddenly smote it with overwhelming pity, and the +tears sprang to my eyes for the first time.<!--Page 078--> As I bent over him to kiss +his poor damp forehead, and press his hand for the last farewell, I +murmured—</p> + +<p>'Yes—dear, dear old friend. We shall know all about the securities....'</p> + + + + +<!--Page 079--> +<h3><a name="essay08">THE BOOM IN YELLOW</a></h3> + + +<p>Green must always have a large following among artists and art lovers; +for, as has been pointed out, an appreciation of it is a sure sign of a +subtle artistic temperament. There is something not quite good, +something almost sinister, about it—at least, in its more complex +forms, though in its simple form, as we find it in outdoor nature, it is +innocent enough; and, indeed, is it not used in colloquial metaphor as +an adjective for innocence itself? Innocence has but two colours, white +or green. But Becky Sharp's eyes also were green, and the green of the +aesthete does not suggest innocence. There will always be wearers of the +green carnation; but the popular vogue which green has enjoyed for the +last ten or fifteen years is probably passing. Even the æsthete himself +would seem to be growing a little weary of<!--Page 080--> its indefinitely divided +tones, and to be anxious for a colour sensation somewhat more positive +than those to be gained from almost imperceptible <em>nuances</em>, of green. +Jaded with over-refinements and super-subtleties, we seem in many +directions to be harking back to the primary colours of life. Blue, +crude and unsoftened, and a form of magenta, have recently had a short +innings; and now the triumph of yellow is imminent. Of course, a love +for green implies some regard for yellow, and in our so-called aesthetic +renaissance the sunflower went before the green carnation—which is, +indeed, the badge of but a small schism of aesthetes, and not worn by +the great body of the more catholic lovers of beauty.</p> + +<p>Yellow is becoming more and more dominant in decoration—in wall-papers, +and flowers cultivated with decorative intention, such as +chrysanthemums. And one can easily understand why: seeing that, after +white, yellow reflects more light than any other colour, and thus +ministers to the growing preference for light and joyous rooms. A few +yellow chrysanthemums will make a<!--Page 081--> small room look twice its size, and +when the sun comes out upon a yellow wall-paper the whole room seems +suddenly to expand, to open like a flower. When it falls upon the pot of +yellow chrysanthemums, and sets them ablaze, it seems as though one had +an angel in the room. Bill-posters are beginning to discover the +attractive qualities of the colour. Who can ever forget meeting for the +first time upon a hoarding Mr. Dudley Hardy's wonderful Yellow Girl, the +pretty advance-guard of <em>To-Day</em>? But I suppose the honour of the +discovery of the colour for advertising purposes rests with Mr. Colman; +though its recent boom comes from the publishers, and particularly from +the Bodley Head. <em>The Yellow Book</em> with any other colour would hardly +have sold as well—the first private edition of Mr. Arthur Benson's +poems, by the way, came caparisoned in yellow, and with the identical +name, <em>Le Cahier Jaune</em>; and no doubt it was largely its title that made +the success of <em>The Yellow Aster</em>. In literature, indeed, yellow has +long been the colour of romance. The word 'yellow-back' witnesses its +close association<!--Page 082--> with fiction; and in France, as we know, it is the +all but universal custom to bind books in yellow paper. Mr. Heinemann +and Mr. Unwin have endeavoured to naturalise the custom here; but, +though in cloth yellow has emphatically 'caught on,' in paper it still +hangs fire. The ABC Railway Guide is probably the only exception, and +that, it is to be hoped, is not fiction. Mr. Lang has recently followed +the fashion with his <em>Yellow Fairy Book</em>; and, indeed, one of the best +known figures in fairydom is yellow—namely, the Yellow Dwarf. Yellow, +always a prominent Oriental colour, was but lately of peculiar +significance in the Far East; for were not the sorrows of a certain high +Chinese official intimately connected with the fatal colour? The Yellow +Book, the Yellow Aster, the Yellow Jacket!—and the Yellow Fever, like +'Orion' Home's sunshine, is always with us' somewhere in the world.' The +same applies also, I suppose, to the Yellow Sea.</p> + +<p>Till one comes to think of it, one hardly realises how many important +and pleasant things in life are yellow. Blue and green,<!--Page 083--> no doubt, +contract for the colouring of vast departments of the physical world. +'Blue!' sings Keats, in a fine but too little known sonnet—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'... 'Tis the life of heaven—the domain</p> + <p class="indent1">Of Cynthia—the wide palace of the sun—</p> + <p>The tent of Hesperus, and all his train—</p> + <p>The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey, and dun.</p> + <p>Blue! 'Tis the life of waters ...</p> + <p>Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest green,</p> + <p class="indent1">Married to green in all the sweetest flowers.'</p> +</div> + +<p>Yellow might retort by quoting Mr. Grant Allen, in his book on <em>The +Colour Sense</em>, to the effect that the blueness of sea and sky is mainly +poetical illusion or inaccuracy, and that sea and sky are found blue +only in one experiment out of fourteen. At morning and evening they are +usually in great part stained golden. Blue certainly has one advantage +over yellow, in that it has the privilege of colouring some of the +prettiest eyes in the world. Yellow has a chance only in cases of +jaundice and liver complaint, and his colour scheme in such cases is +seldom appreciated. Again, green has the contract for the greater bulk +of the vegetable life of the globe; but his is a<!--Page 084--> monotonous business, +like the painting of miles and miles of palings: grass, grass, grass, +trees, trees, trees, <em>ad infinitum</em>; whereas yellow leads a roving, +versatile life, and is seldom called upon for such monotonous labour. +The sands of Sahara are probably the only conspicuous instance of yellow +thus working by the piece. It is in the quality, in the diversity of the +things it colours, rather than in their mileage or tonnage, that yellow +is distinguished; though, for that matter, we suppose, the sun is as big +and heavy as most things, and that is yellow. Of course, when we say +yellow we include golden, and all varieties of the colour—saffron, +orange, flaxen, tawny, blonde, topaz, citron, etc.</p> + +<p>If the sun may reasonably be described as the most important object in +the world, surely money is the next. That, as we know, is, in its most +potent metallic form, yellow also. The 'yellow gold' is a favourite +phrase in certain forms of poetry; and 'yellow-boys' is a term of +natural affection among sailors. Following the example of their lord the +sun, most fires and lights are yellow<!--Page 085--> or golden, and it is only in +times of danger or superstition that they burn red or blue. And, if +yellow be denied entrance to beautiful eyes, it enjoys a privilege +which—except in the case of certain indigo-staining African tribes, who +cannot be said to count—blue has never claimed: that of colouring +perhaps the loveliest thing in the world, the hair of woman. Hair is +naturally golden—unnaturally also. When Browning sings pathetically of +'dear dead women—with such hair too!' he continues:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'What's become of all the <em>gold</em></p> + <p>Used to hang and brush their bosoms'—</p> +</div> + +<p>not 'all the blue' or 'all the brown,' though some of us, it is true, +are condemned to wear our hair brown or blue-black. But such are only +unhappy exceptions. Yellow or gold is the rule. The bravest men and the +fairest women have had golden hair, and, we may add, in reference to +another distinction of the colour we are celebrating, golden hearts. +Hair at the present time is doing its best to conform to its normal +conditions of colour. Numerous instances might be adduced of its +changing from black to gold, in obedience to<!--Page 086--> chemical law. 'Peroxide of +hydrogen!' says the cynic. 'Beauty!' says the lover of art.</p> + +<p>And it might be argued, in a world of inevitable compromise, that the +damage done to the physical health and texture of the hair thus playing +the chameleon may well be overbalanced by the happiness, and consequent +increased effectiveness, of the person thus dyeing for the sake of +beauty. Thaumaturgists lay much stress on the mystic influence of +colours; and who knows but that, if we were only allowed to dye our hair +what colour we chose, we might be different men and women? Strange +things are told of women who have dyed their hair the colour of blood or +of wine, and we know from Christina Rossetti that golden hair is +negotiable in fairyland—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'"You have much gold upon your head,"</p> + <p>They answered all together:</p> + <p class="indent1">"Buy from us with a golden curl."'</p> +</div> + +<p>Whether Laura could have done business with the goblin merchantmen with +an oxidised curl is a difficult point, for fairies have sharp eyes; and, +though it be impossible for a mortal to tell the real gold from the +false<!--Page 087--> gold hair, the fairies may be able to do so, and might reject the +curl as counterfeit.</p> + +<p>Again, if in the vegetable world green almost universally colours the +leaves, yellow has more to do with the flowers. The flowers we love best +are yellow: the cowslip, the daffodil, the crocus, the buttercup, half +the daisy, the honeysuckle, and the loveliest rose. Yellow, too, has its +turn even with the leaves; and what an artist he shows himself when, in +autumn, he 'lays his fiery finger' upon them, lighting up the forlorn +woodland with splashes—pure palette-colour of audacious gold! He hangs +the mulberry with heart-shaped yellow shields—which reminds one of the +heraldic importance of 'or,'—and he lines the banks of the Seine with +phantasmal yellow poplars. And other leaves still dearer to the heart +are yellow likewise; leaves of those sweet old poets whose thoughts seem +to have turned the pages gold. Let us dream of this: a maid with yellow +hair, clad in a yellow gown, seated in a yellow room, at the window a +yellow sunset, in the grate a yellow fire, at her side a yellow +lamplight, on her knee a Yellow Book. And the letters<!--Page 088--> we love best to +read—when we dare—are they not yellow too? No doubt some disagreeable +things are reported of yellow. We have had the yellow-fever, and we have +had pea-soup. The eyes of lions are said to be yellow, and the ugliest +cats—the cats that infest one's garden—are always yellow. Some +medicines are yellow, and no doubt there are many other yellow +disagreeables; but we prefer to dwell upon the yellow blessings. I had +almost forgotten that the gayest wines are yellow. Nor has religion +forgotten yellow. It is to be hoped yellow will not forget religion. The +sacred robe of the second greatest religion of the world is yellow, 'the +yellow robe' of the Buddhist friar; and when the sacred harlots of +Hindustan walk in lovely procession through the streets, they too, like +the friars, are clad in yellow. Amber is yellow; so is the orange; and +so were stage-coaches and many dashing things of the old time; and pink +is yellow by lamplight. But gold-mines, it has been proved, are not so +yellow as is popularly supposed. Hymen's robe is Miltonically 'saffron,' +and the dearest petti<!--Page 089-->coat in all literature—not forgetting the +'tempestuous' garment of Herrick's Julia—was 'yaller.' Yes!—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>''Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,</p> + <p>An' er name was Supi-yaw-lat, jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen.'</p> +</div> + +<p>Is it possible to say anything prettier for yellow than that?</p> + + + + +<!--Page 090--> +<h3><a name="essay09">LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN</a></h3> + + +<p>My Dear Sir,—I agree with every word you say. You have my entire +sympathy. The world is indeed hard, hard to the sad—particularly hard +to the unsuccessful. A sure five hundred a year covers a multitude of +sorrows. It is ever an ill wind for the shorn lamb. If it be true that +nothing succeeds like success, it is no less sadly true that nothing +fails like failure. And when one thinks of it, it is only natural, for +every failure is an obstruction in the stream of life. Metaphorical +writers are fond of saying that the successful ride to success on the +back of the failures. It is true that many rise on stepping-stones of +their dead relations—but that is because their relations have been +financial successes.<!--Page 091--> In truth, instead of the failure making the +fortune of the successful, it is just the reverse. A very successful man +would be the more successful were it not for the failures—on whom he +has either to spend his money to support, or his time to advise. The +strong are said to be impatient towards the weak—and is it to be +wondered at, in a world where even the strongest need all their +strength, in a sea where the best swimmer needs all his wind and muscle +and skill to keep afloat? If success is sometimes 'unfeeling' towards +failure, failure is often unfair to success. Of course, 'it is He that +hath made us and not we ourselves,' but that is a text that cuts both +ways; and when all is said and done, the failure detracts from the force +in the universe; he is the clog on the wheel of fortune. To say that the +successful man benefits by the failure of others is as true as it would +be to say that the ratepayer benefits by the poor-rates. You use the +word 'charlatan' somewhat profusely of several successful writers, and +no doubt you are right. But you must remember that it<!--Page 092--> is a favourite +charge against the gifted and the fortunate. Because we have failed by +fair means, we are sure the other fellows have succeeded by foul. And, +moreover, one is apt to forget how much talent is needed to be a +charlatan. Never look down upon a charlatan. Courage, skill, personal +force or charm, great knowledge of human nature, dramatic instinct, and +industry—few charlatans succeed (and no one is called a charlatan till +he <em>does</em> succeed, be his success as low or high as you please) without +possessing a majority of these qualities; how many of which—it would be +interesting to know—do you possess?</p> + +<p>Indeed, it would seem to need more gifts to be a rogue than an honest +man, and there is a sense in which every great man may be described as a +charlatan—<em>plus</em> greatness; greatness being an almost indefinable +quality, a quality, at any rate, on which there is a bewildering +diversity of opinion.</p> + +<p>You seem a little cross with publishers and editors. They have not +proved the distinguished, brilliant, and sympathetic beings you imagined +them in your boyish<!--Page 093--> dreams. No doubt, publishers and editors enter +hardly into the kingdom of heaven. But then, you see, they don't care so +much about that; they are much more interested in the next election at +certain fashionable clubs. It is really a little hard on them that they +should suffer from the ignorant misconception of the literary amateur. +It is only those who have had no dealings with them who would be unfair +enough to expect publishers or editors to be literary men. They are +business men—business men <em>par excellence</em>—and a good thing, too, for +their papers and their authors. You lament their mercenary view of life; +but, judging by your letter, even you are not disposed to regard money +as the root of all evil.</p> + +<p>You cannot understand why you have failed where others have succeeded. +You have far more Greek than Keats, more history than Scott, and you +know nineteen languages—ten of them to speak. With so many +accomplishments, it must indeed be hard to fail—though you do not seem +to have found it difficult. You have travelled<!--Page 094--> too—have been twice +round the world, and have a thorough knowledge of the worst hotels. +Certainly, it is singular. Nevertheless, I must confess that the dullest +men I have ever met have been professors of history; the worst poets +have not only known Greek, but French as well; and, generally speaking +the most tiresome of my acquaintances have more degrees than I have +Latin to name them in. Alas! it is not experience, or travel, or +language, but the use we make of them, that makes literary success, +which, one may add, is particularly dependent—perhaps not +unnaturally—on the use we make of language. A book may be a book, +although there is neither Latin nor Greek, nor travel, nor +experience—in fact 'nothing' in it; and though, like myself, you may +pay an Oxford professor a thousand a year to correct your proofs, you +may still miss immortality.</p> + +<p>To these intellectual and general equipments you add goodness of heart, +sincerity of conviction, and martyrdom for your opinions; you are, it +would seem, like many others of us, the best fellow and<!--Page 095--> greatest man of +your acquaintance. Permit me to remind you that we are not talking of +goodness of heart, of strength or beauty of character, but of success, +which is a thing apart, a fine art in itself.</p> + +<p>You confess that you are somewhat unpractical: you expect +others—hard-worked journalists who never met you—to tell you what to +read, how to form your style, and how 'to get into the magazines.' You +are, you say, with something of pride, but a poor business man. That is +a pity, for nearly every successful literary man of the day, and +particularly the novelists, are excellent business men. Indeed, the +history of literature all round has proved that the men who have been +masters of words have also been masters of things—masters of the facts +of life for which those words stand. Many writers have mismanaged their +affairs from idleness and indifference, but few from incapacity. Leigh +Hunt boasted that he could never master the multiplication-table. +Perhaps that accounts for his comparative failure as a writer. +Incompetence in one art is far from being a guarantee of competency in +another, and a<!--Page 096--> man is all the more likely to make a name if he is able +to make a living—though, judging from Coleridge, it seems a good plan +to let another hard-worked man support one's wife and children. On the +other hand, though business faculty is a great deal, it is not +everything: for a man may be as punctual and methodical as Southey, and +yet miss the prize of his high calling, or as generally 'impossible' as +Blake, and yet win his place among the immortals.</p> + +<p>In fact, after all, success in literature has something to do with +writing. In temporary success, industry and business faculty, and an +unworked field—be it Scotland, Ireland, or the Isle of Man (any place +but plain England!)—are the chief factors. For that more lasting +success which we call fame other qualities are needed, such qualities as +imagination, fancy, and magic and force in the use of words. Can you +honestly say, O beloved, though tiresome, correspondent, that these +great gifts are yours? Judging from your letter—but Heaven forbid that +I should be unkind! For, need I say I love you with a fellow-feeling? Do +you think that you<!--Page 097--> are the only unappreciated genius on the planet—not +to speak of all the other unappreciated geniuses on all the other +planets? Thank goodness, the postal arrangements with the latter are as +yet defective! Others there are with hearts as warm, minds as profound, +and style at least as attractive, who languish in unmerited +neglect—Miltons inglorious indeed, though far from mute.</p> + +<p>Believe me, you are not alone. In fact, there are so many like you that +it would be quite easy for you to find society without worrying me. And, +for all of us, there is the consolation that, though we fail as writers, +we may still succeed as citizens, as husbands and fathers and friends. +As Whitman would say—because you are not Editor of <em>The Times</em>, do you +give in that you are less than a man? There are poets that have never +entered into the Bodley Head, and great prose-writers who have never sat +in an editorial chair. Be satisfied with your heavenly crowns, O you +whining unsuccessful, and leave to your inferiors the earthly +five-shilling pieces.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 098--> +<h3><a name="essay10">A POET IN THE CITY</a></h3> + + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'In the midway of this our mortal life,</p> + <p>I found me in a gloomy wood, astray.'</p> +</div> + +<p>I (and when I say I, I must be understood to be speaking dramatically) +only venture into the City once a year, for the very pleasant purpose of +drawing that twelve-pound-ten by which the English nation, ever so +generously sensitive to the necessities, not to say luxuries, of the +artist, endeavours to express its pride and delight in me. It would be a +very graceful exercise of gratitude for me here to stop and parenthesise +the reader on the subject of all that twelve-pound-ten has been to me, +how it has quite changed the course of my life, given me that +long-desired opportunity of doing my best work in peace, for which so +often I vainly sighed in Fleet Street, and even allowed me an indulgence +in minor luxuries which I<!--Page 099--> could not have dreamed of enjoying before the +days of that twelve-pound-ten. Now not only peace and plenty, but +leisure and luxury are mine. There is nothing goes so far as—Government +money.</p> + +<p>Usually on these literally State occasions, I drive up in state, that is +in a hansom. There is only one other day in the year on which I am so +splendid, but that is another beautiful story. It, too, is a day and an +hour too joyous to be approached otherwise than on winged wheels, too +stately to be approached in merely pedestrian fashion. To go on foot to +draw one's pension seems a sort of slight on the great nation that does +one honour, as though a Lord Mayor should make his appearance in the +procession in his office coat.</p> + +<p>So I say it is my custom to go gaily, and withal stately, to meet my +twelve-pound-ten in a hansom. For many reasons the occasion always seems +something of an adventure, and I confess I always feel a little excited +about it—indeed, to tell the truth, a little nervous. As I glide along +in my state barge (which seems a much more<!--Page 100--> proper and impressive image +for a hansom than 'gondola,' with its reminiscences of Earl's Court) I +feel like some fragile country flower torn from its roots, and +bewilderingly hurried along upon the turbid, swollen stream of London +life.</p> + +<p>The stream glides sweetly with a pleasant trotting tinkle of bells by +the green parkside of Piccadilly, and sweet is it to hear the sirens +singing, and to see them combing their gilded locks, on the yellow sands +of Piccadilly Circus—so called, no doubt, from the number of horses and +the skill of their drivers. Here are the whirling pools of pleasure, +merry wheels of laughing waters, where your hansom glides along with a +golden ease—it is only when you enter the First Cataract of the Strand +that you become aware of the far-distant terrible roar of the Falls! +They are yet nearly two miles away, but already, like Niagara, thou +hearest the sound thereof—the fateful sound of that human Niagara, +where all the great rivers of London converge: the dark, strong floods +surging out from the gloomy fastnesses of the East End, the +quick-running streams from the palaces<!--Page 101--> of the West, the East with its +wagons, the West with its hansoms, the four winds with their omnibuses, +the horses and carriages under the earth jetting up their companies of +grimy passengers, the very air busy with a million errands.</p> + +<p>You are in the rapids—metaphorically speaking—as you crawl down +Cheapside; and here where the Bank of England and the Mansion House rise +sheer and awful from, shall we say, this boiling caldron, this 'hell' of +angry meeting waters—Threadneedle Street and Cornhill, Queen Victoria +Street and Cheapside, each 'running,' again metaphorically, 'like a +mill-race'—here in this wild maelstrom of human life and human +conveyances, here is the true 'Niagara in London,' here are the most +wonderful falls in the world—the London Falls.</p> + +<p>'Yes!' I said softly to myself, and I could see the sly sad smile on the +face of the dead poet, at the thought of whose serene wisdom a silence +like snow seemed momentarily to cover up the turmoil—'Yes!' I said +softly, 'there is still the same old crush at the corner of Fenchurch +Street!'</p><!--Page 102--> + +<p>By this time I had disbursed one of my two annual cab-fares, and was +standing a little forlorn at that very corner. It was a March afternoon, +bitter and gloomy; lamps were already popping alight in a desolate way, +and the east wind whistled mournfully through the ribs of the +passers-by. A very unflowerlike man was dejectedly calling out +'daffadowndillies' close by. The sound of the pretty old word, thus +quaintly spoken, brightened the air better than the electric lights +which suddenly shot rows of wintry moonlight along the streets. I bought +a bunch of the poor pinched flowers, and asked the man how he came to +call them 'daffadowndillies.'</p> + +<p>'D'vunshur,' he said, in anything but a Devonshire accent, and then the +east wind took him and he was gone—doubtless to a neighbouring tavern; +and no wonder, poor soul! Flowers certainly fall into strange hands here +in London.</p> + +<p>Well, it was nearing four, and if I wanted a grateful country's +twelve-pound-ten, I must make haste; so presently I found myself in a +great hall, of which I have no clearer<!--Page 103--> impression than that there were +soft little lights all about me, and a soft chime of falling gold, like +the rippling of Pactolus. I have a sort of idea, too, of a great number +of young men with most beautiful moustaches, playing with golden +shovels; and as I thus stood among the soft lights and listened to the +most beautiful sound in the world, I thought that thus must Danæ have +felt as she stood amid the falling shower. But I took care to see that +my twelve sovereigns and a half were right number and weight for all +that.</p> + +<p>Once more in the street, I lingered a while to take a last look at the +Falls. What a masterful alien life it all seemed to me! No single +personality could hope to stand alone amid all that stress of ponderous, +bullying forces. Only public companies, and such great impersonalities, +could hope to hold their own, to swim in such a whirlpool—and even +they, I had heard it whispered, far away in my quiet starlit garret, +sometimes went down. 'How,' I cried, 'would—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'... my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your deeps and heights ...</p> + <p>Rush of suns, and roll of systems, and your fiery clash of meteorites,'</p> +</div><!--Page 104--> + +<p>again quoting poetry. I always quote poetry in the City, as a +protest—moreover, it clears the air.</p> + +<p>The more people buffeted against me the more I felt the crushing sense +of almost cosmic forces. Everybody was so plainly an atom in a public +company, a drop of water in a tyrannous stream of human +energy—companies that cared nothing for their individual atoms, streams +that cared nothing for their component drops; such atoms and drops, for +the most part, to be had for thirty shillings a week. These people about +me seemed no more like individual men and women than individual puffs in +a mighty rushing wind, or the notes in a great scheme of music, are men +and women—to the banker so many pens with ears whereon to perch them, +to the capitalist so many 'hands,' and to the City man generally so many +'helpless pieces of the game he plays' up there in spidery nooks and +corners of the City.</p> + +<p>As I listened to the throbbing of the great human engines in the +buildings about me, a rising and a falling there seemed as of those<!--Page 105--> +great steel-limbed monsters, weird contortionists of metal, that jet up +and down, and writhe and wrestle this way and that, behind the long +glass windows of great water-towers, or toil like Vulcan in the bowels +of mighty ships. An expression of frenzy seems to come up even from the +dumb tossing steel; sometimes it seems to be shaking great knuckled +fists at one and brandishing threatening arms, as it strains and sweats +beneath the lash of the compulsive steam. As one watches it, there seems +something of human agony about its panic-stricken labours, and something +like a sense of pity surprises one—a sense of pity that anything in the +world should have to work like that, even steel, even, as we say, +senseless steel. What, then, of these great human engine-houses! Will +the engines always consent to rise and fall, night and day, like that? +or will there some day be a mighty convulsion, and this blind Samson of +labour pull down the whole engine-house upon his oppressors? Who knows? +These are questions for great politicians and thinkers to decide, not +for a poet, who is too much terrified by such<!--Page 106--> forces to be able calmly +to estimate and prophesy concerning them.</p> + +<p>Yes! if you want to realise Tennyson's picture of 'one poor poet's +scroll' ruling the world, take your poet's scroll down to Fenchurch +Street and try it there. Ah, what a powerless little 'private interest' +seems poetry there, poetry 'whose action is no stronger than a flower.' +In days of peace it ventures even into the morning papers; but, let only +a rumour of war be heard, and it vanishes like a dream on doomsday +morning. A County Council election passeth over it and it is gone.</p> + +<p>Yet it was near this very spot that Keats dug up the buried beauty of +Greece, lying hidden beneath Finsbury Pavement! and in the deserted City +churches great dramatists lie about us. Maybe I have wronged the +City—and at this thought I remembered a little bookshop but a few yards +away, blossoming like a rose right in the heart of the wilderness.</p> + +<p>Here, after all, in spite of all my whirlpools and engine-houses, was +for me the greatest danger in the City. Need I say,<!--Page 107--> therefore, that I +promptly sought it, hovered about it a moment—and entered? How much of +that grateful governmental twelve-pound-ten came out alive, I dare not +tell my dearest friend.</p> + +<p>At all events I came out somehow reassured, more rich in faith. There +was a might of poesy after all. There were words in the little +yellow-leaved garland, nestling like a bird in my hand, that would +outlast the bank yonder, and outlive us all. I held it up. How tiny it +seemed, how frail amid all this stone and iron! A mere flower—a flower +from the seventeenth century—long-lived for a flower! Yes, an +<em>immortelle</em>.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 108--> +<h3><a name="essay11">BROWN ROSES</a></h3> + +<p>'Well, I never thought to see this day, sir,' said Gibbs, with something +like tears in his voice, as he reluctantly plied his scissors upon +Hyacinth Rondel's distinguished curls.</p> + +<p>'Nor I, Gibbs—nor I!' said Rondel sadly, relapsing into silence again, +with his head meekly bent over the white sheet spread to catch his shorn +beauty.</p> + +<p>'To think of the times, sir, that I have dressed your head,' continued +Gibbs, whose grief bore so marked an emphasis, 'and to think that after +to-day ...'</p> + +<p>'But you forget, my dear Gibbs, that I shall now be a more constant +customer than ever!'</p> + +<p>'Ah, sir, but that will be different. It will be mere machine-cutting, +lawn-mowing, steam-reaping, if you understand me; there'll<!--Page 109--> be no +pleasure in it, no artistic pleasure, I mean.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Gibbs, and you are an artist—I have often told you that.'</p> + +<p>'Ah, sir, but I am coming to the conclusion that it is better not to be +an artist, better to be born just like every one else. In these days one +suffers too much. Why, sir, I haven't in the whole of my business six +heads like yours, and I go on cutting all the rest week in and week out, +just for the pleasure of dressing those six—and now there'll only be +five.'</p> + +<hr> + +<p>'It looks like a winding-sheet,' mused Rondel presently, after a long +silence, broken only by the soft crunch and click of the fatal scissors, +as they feasted on the beautiful brown silk.</p> + +<p>'It do indeed, sir,' said Gibbs, with a shudder, as another little globe +of golden brown rolled down into Rondel's lap.</p> + +<p>'Poor brown roses!' sighed the poet, after another silence; 'they are +just like brown roses, aren't they, Gibbs?'</p> + +<p>'They are indeed, sir!'</p><!--Page 110--> + +<p>'Brown roses scattered over the winding-sheet of one's youth—eh, +Gibbs?'</p> + +<p>'They are indeed, sir.'</p> + +<p>'That's rather a pretty image, don't you think, Gibbs?'</p> + +<p>'Indeed I do, sir!'</p> + +<p>'Well, well, they have bloomed their last; and when Juliet's white hands +come seeking with their silver fingers, white maidens lost in the brown +enchanted forest, there will not be a rose left for her to gather.'</p> + +<p>'Believe me, sir, I would more gladly have cut off your head than your +hair—that is, figuratively speaking,' sobbed the artist-in-hair-oils.</p> + +<p>'Yes, my head would hardly be missed—you are quite right, Gibbs; but my +hair! What will they do without it at first nights and private views? It +was worth five shillings a week to many a poor paragraph-writer. Well, I +must try and make up for it by my beard!'</p> + +<p>'Your beard, sir?' exclaimed Gibbs in horror.</p> + +<p>'Yes, Gibbs; for some years I have been a Nazarene—that is, a Nazarite, +with the top<!--Page 111--> half of my head; now I am going to change about and be a +Nazarite with the lower. The razor has kissed my cheeks and my chin and +the fluted column of my throat for the last time.'</p> + +<p>'You cannot mean it, sir!' said Gibbs, suspending his murderous task a +moment.</p> + +<p>'It's quite true, Gibbs.'</p> + +<p>'Does she wish that too, sir?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, that too.'</p> + +<p>'Well, sir, I have heard of men making sacrifices for their wives, but +of all the cruel....'</p> + +<p>'Please don't, Gibbs. It does no good. And Mrs. Rondel's motive is a +good one.'</p> + +<p>'Of course, sir, I cannot presume—and yet, if it wouldn't be presuming, +I should like to know why you are making this great, I may say this +noble, sacrifice?'</p> + +<p>'Well, Gibbs, we're old friends, and I'll tell you some day, but I +hardly feel up to it to-day.'</p> + +<p>'Of course not, sir, of course not—it's only natural,' said Gibbs +tenderly, while the scissors once more took up the conversation.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 112--> +<h3><a name="essay12">THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR</a></h3> + + +<p>'That is how the donkey tells his love!' I said one day, with intent to +be funny, as the prolonged love-whoop of a distant donkey was heard in +the land.</p> + +<p>'Don't be too ready to laugh at donkeys,' said my friend. 'For,' he +continued, 'even donkeys have their dreams. Perhaps, indeed, the most +beautiful dreams are dreamed by donkeys.'</p> + +<p>'Indeed,' I said, 'and now that I think of it, I remember to have said +that most dreamers are donkeys, though I never expected so scientific a +corroboration of a fleeting jest.'</p> + +<p>Now, my friend is an eminent scientist and poet in one, a serious +combination; and he took my remarks with seriousness at once scientific +and poetic.</p><!--Page 113--> + +<p>'Yes,' he went on, 'that is where you clever people make a mistake. You +think that because a donkey has only two vowel-sounds wherewith to +express his emotions, he has no emotions to express. But let me tell +you, sir ...'</p> + +<p>But here we both burst out laughing—</p> + +<p>'You Golden Ass!' I said,'take a munch of these roses; perhaps they will +restore you.'</p> + +<p>'No,' he resumed, 'I am quite serious. I have for many years past made a +study of donkeys—high-stepping critics call it the study of Human +Nature—however, it's the same thing—and I must say that the more I +study them the more I love them. There is nothing so well worth studying +as the misunderstood, for the very reason that everybody thinks he +understands it. Now, to take another instance, most people think they +have said the last word on a goose when they have called it "a +goose"!—but let me tell you, sir ...'</p> + +<p>But here again we burst out laughing—</p> + +<p>'Dear goose of the golden eggs,' I said, 'pray leave to discourse on +geese to-night<!--Page 114-->—though lovely and pleasant would the discourse +be;—to-night I am all agog for donkeys.'</p> + +<p>'So be it,' said my friend,' and if that be so, I cannot do better than +tell you the story of the donkey that loved a star—keeping for another +day the no less fascinating story of the goose that loved an angel.'</p> + +<p>By this time I was, appropriately, all ears.</p> + +<p>'Well,' he once more began, 'there was once a donkey, quite an intimate +friend of mine—and I have no friend of whom I am prouder—who was +unpractically fond of looking up at the stars. He could go a whole day +without thistles, if night would only bring him stars. Of course he +suffered no little from his fellow-donkeys for this curious passion of +his. They said well that it did not become him, for indeed it was no +little laughable to see him gazing so sentimentally at the remote and +pitiless heavens. Donkeys who belonged to Shakespeare Societies recalled +the fate of Bottom, the donkey who had loved a fairy; but our donkey +paid little heed. There is perhaps only one advantage<!--Page 115--> in being a +donkey—namely, a hide impervious to criticism. In our donkey's case it +was rather a dream that made him forget his hide—a dream that drew up +all the sensitiveness from every part, from hoof, and hide, and ears, so +that all the feeling in his whole body was centred in his eyes and +brain, and those, as we have said, were centred on a star. He took it +for granted that his fellows should sneer and kick-out at him—it was +ever so with genius among the donkeys, and he had very soon grown used +to these attentions of his brethren, which were powerless to withdraw +his gaze from the star he loved. For though he loved all the stars, as +every individual man loves all women, there was one star he loved more +than any other; and standing one midnight among his thistles, he prayed +a prayer, a prayer that some day it might be granted him to carry that +star upon his back—which, he recalled, had been sanctified by the holy +sign—were it but for ever so short a journey. Just to carry it a little +way, and then to die. This to him was a dream beyond the dreams of +donkeys.</p> + +<p>'Now, one night,' continued my friend,<!--Page 116--> taking breath for himself and +me, 'our poor donkey looked up to the sky, and lo! the star was nowhere +to be seen. He had heard it said that stars sometimes fall. Evidently +his star had fallen. Fallen! but what if it had fallen upon the earth? +Being a donkey, the wildest dreams seemed possible to him. And, strange +as it may seem, there came a day when a poet came to his master and +bought our donkey to carry his little child. Now, the very first day he +had her upon his back, the donkey knew that his prayer had been +answered, and that the little swaddled babe he carried was the star he +had prayed for. And, indeed, so it was; for so long as donkeys ask no +more than to fetch and carry for their beloved, they may be sure of +beauty upon their backs. Now, so long as this little girl that was a +star remained a little girl, our donkey was happy. For many pretty years +she would kiss his ugly muzzle and feed his mouth with sugar—and thus +our donkey's thoughts sweetened day by day, till from a natural +pessimist he blossomed into a perfectly absurd optimist, and dreamed the +donkiest of dreams. But, one<!--Page 117--> day, as he carried the girl who was really +a star through the spring lanes, a young man walked beside her, and +though our donkey thought very little of his talk—in fact, felt his +plain "hee-haw" to be worth all its smart chirping and twittering—yet +it evidently pleased the maiden. It included quite a number of +vowel-sounds—though, if the maiden had only known, it didn't mean half +so much as the donkey's plain monotonous declaration.</p> + +<p>'Well, our donkey soon began to realise that his dream was nearing its +end; and, indeed, one day his little mistress came bringing him the +sweetest of kisses, the very best sugar in the very best shops, but for +all that our donkey knew that it meant good-bye. It is the charming +manner of English girls to be at their sweetest when they say good-bye.</p> + +<p>'Our dreamer-donkey went into exile as servant to a woodcutter, and his +life was lenient if dull, for the woodcutter had no sticks to waste upon +his back; and next day his young mistress who was once a star took a +pony for her love, whom some time<!--Page 118--> after she discarded for a talented +hunter, and, one fine day, like many of her sex, she pitched her +affections upon a man—he too being a talented hunter. To their wedding +came all the countryside. And with the countryside came the donkey. He +carried a great bundle of firewood for the servants' hall, and as he +waited outside, gazing up at his old loves the stars, while his master +drank deeper and deeper within, he revolved many thoughts. But he is +only known to have made one remark—in the nature, one may think, of a +grim jest—</p> + +<p>'"After all!" he was heard to say, "she has married a donkey—after +all!"</p> + +<p>'No doubt it was feeble; but then our donkey was growing old and bitter, +and hope deferred had made him a cynic.'</p> + + + + +<!--Page 119--> +<h3><a name="essay13">ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES</a></h3> + +<p>Like all people who live apart from it, the Founder of the Christian +religion was possessed of a profound knowledge of the world. As, +according to the proverb, the woodlander sees nothing of the wood for +its trees, so those who live in the world know nothing of it. They know +its gaudy, glittering surface, its Crystal Palace fireworks, and the +paste-diamonds with which it bedecks itself; they know its music-halls +and its night clubs, its Piccadillys and its politics, its restaurants +and its salons; but of the bad—or good?—heart of it all they know +nothing. In more meanings than one, it takes a saint to catch a sinner; +and Christ certainly knew as well as saved the sinner.</p> + +<p>But none of His precepts show a truer knowledge of life and its +conditions than<!--Page 120--> His commandment that we should love our enemies. He +realised—can we doubt?—that, without enemies, the Church He bade His +followers build could not hope to be established. He knew that the +spiritual fire He strove to kindle would spread but little, unless the +four winds of the world blew against it. Well, indeed, may the Christian +Church love its enemies, for it is they who have made it.</p> + +<p>Indeed, for a man, or a cause, that wants to get on, there is nothing +like a few hearty, zealous enemies. Most of us would never be heard of +if it were not for our enemies. The unsuccessful man counts up his +friends, but the successful man numbers his enemies. A friend of mine +was lamenting, the other day, that he could not find twelve people to +disbelieve in him. He had been seeking them for years, he sighed, and +could not get beyond eleven. But, even so, with only eleven he was a +very successful man. In these kind-hearted days enemies are becoming so +rare that one has to go out of one's way to make them. The true +interpretation, therefore, of the easiest of the commandments is<!--Page 121-->—make +your enemies, and your enemies will make you.</p> + +<p>So soon as the armed men begin to spring up in our fields, we may be +sure that we have not sown in vain.</p> + +<p>Properly understood, an enemy is but a negative embodiment of our +personalities or ideas. He is an involuntary witness to our vitality. +Much as he despises us, greatly as he may injure us, he is none the less +a creature of our making. It was we who put into him the breath of his +malignity, and inspired the activity of his malice. Therefore, with his +very existence so tremendous a tribute, we can afford to smile at his +self-conscious disclaimers of our significance. Though he slay us, we +<em>made</em> him—to 'make an enemy,' is not that the phrase?</p> + +<p>Indeed, the fact that he is our enemy is his one <em>raison d'être</em>. That +alone should make us charitable to him. Live and let live. Without us +our enemy has no occupation, for to hate us is his profession. Think of +his wives and families!</p> + +<p>The friendship of the little for the great is an old-established +profession; there is but<!--Page 122--> one older—namely, the hatred of the little +for the great; and, though it is perhaps less officially recognised, it +is without doubt the more lucrative. It is one of the shortest roads to +fame. Why is the name of Pontius Pilate an uneasy ghost of history? +Think what fame it would have meant to be an enemy of Socrates or +Shakespeare! <em>Blackwood's Magazine</em> and <em>The Quarterly Review</em> only +survive to-day because they once did their best to strangle the genius +of Keats and Tennyson. Two or three journals of our own time, by the +same unfailing method, seek that circulation from posterity which is +denied them in the present.</p> + +<p>This is particularly true in literature, where the literary enemy is as +organised a tradesman as the literary agent. Like the literary agent, he +naturally does his best to secure the biggest men. No doubt the time +will come when the literary cut-throat—shall we call him?—will publish +dainty little books of testimonials from authors, full of effusive +gratitude for the manner in which they have been slashed and bludgeoned +into fame. 'Butcher to Mr. Grant Allen' may then be<!--Page 123-->come a familiar +legend over literary shop-fronts:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'Ah! did you stab at Shelley's heart</p> + <p class="indent1">With silly sneer and cruel lie?</p> + <p>And Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Keats,</p> + <p class="indent1">To murder did you nobly try?</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>You failed, 'tis true; but what of that?</p> + <p class="indent1">The world remembers still your name—</p> + <p>'Tis fame, <em>for you</em>, to be the cur</p> + <p class="indent1">That barks behind the heels of Fame.'</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Any one who is fortunate enough to have enemies will know that all this +is far from being fanciful. If one's enemies have any other <em>raison +d'être</em> beyond the fact of their being our enemies—what is it? They are +neither beautiful nor clever, wise nor good, famous nor, indeed, +passably distinguished. Were they any of these, they would not have +taken to so humble a means of getting their living. Instead of being our +enemies, they could then have afforded to employ enemies on their own +account.</p> + +<p>Who, indeed, are our enemies? Broadly speaking, they are all those +people who lack what we possess.</p> + +<p>If you are rich, every poor man is necessarily your enemy. If you are +beautiful, the<!--Page 124--> great democracy of the plain and ugly will mock you in +the streets. It will be the same with everything you possess. The +brainless will never forgive you for possessing brains, the weak will +hate you for your strength, and the evil for your good heart. If you can +write, all the bad writers are at once your foes. If you can paint, the +bad painters will talk you down. But more than any talent or charm you +may possess, the pearl of price for which you will be most bitterly +hated will be your success. You can be the most wonderful person that +ever existed, so long as you don't succeed, and nobody will mind. 'It is +the sunshine,' says some one, 'that brings out the adder.' So powerful, +indeed, is success that it has been known to turn a friend into a foe. +Those, then, who wish to engage a few trusty enemies out of place need +only advertise among the unsuccessful.</p> + +<p><em>P.S.</em>—For one service we should be particularly thankful to our +enemies—they save us so much in stimulants. Their unbelief so helps our +belief, their negatives make us so positive.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 125--> +<h3><a name="essay14">THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE</a></h3> + +<p>It is a curious truth that, whereas in every other art deliberate choice +of method and careful calculation of effect are expected from the +artist, in the greatest and most difficult art of all, the art of life, +this is not so. In literature, painting, or sculpture you first evolve +your conception, and then, after long study of it, as it glows and +shimmers in your imagination, you set about the reverent selection of +that form which shall be its most truthful incarnation, in words, in +paint, in marble. Now life, as has been said many times, is an art too. +Sententious morality from time past has told us that we are each given a +part to play, evidently implying, with involuntary cynicism, that the +art of life is—the art of acting.</p> + +<p>As with the actor, we are each given a<!--Page 126--> certain dramatic conception for +the expression of which we have precisely the same artistic +materials—namely, our own bodies, sometimes including heart and brains. +One has often heard the complaint of a certain actor that he acts +himself. On the metaphorical stage of life the complaint and the implied +demand are just the reverse. How much more interesting life would be if +only more people had the courage and skill to act themselves, instead of +abjectly understudying some one else! Of course, there are supers on the +stage of life as on the real stage. It is proper that these should dress +and speak and think alike. These one courteously excepts from the +generalisation that the composer of the play, as Marcus Aurelius calls +him, has given each of us a certain part to play—that part simply +oneself: a part, need one say, by no means as easy as it seems; a part +most difficult to study, and requiring daily rehearsal. So difficult is +it, indeed, that most people throw up the part, and join the ranks of +the supers—who, curiously enough, are paid much more handsomely than +the principals. They enter one<!--Page 127--> of the learned or idle professions, join +the army or take to trade, and so speedily rid themselves of the irksome +necessity of being anything more individual than 'the learned counsel,' +'the learned judge,' 'my lord bishop,' or 'the colonel,' names +impersonal in application as the dignity of 'Pharaoh,' whereof the name +and not the man was alone important. Henceforth they are the Church, the +Law, the Army, the City, or that vaguer profession Society. Entering one +of these, they become as lost to the really living world as the monk who +voluntarily surrenders all will and character of his own at the +threshold of his monastery: bricks in a prison wall, privates in the +line, peas in a row. But, as I say, these are the parts that pay. For +playing the others, indeed, you are not paid, but expected to +pay—dearly.</p> + +<p>It is full time we turned to those on whom falls the burden of those +real parts. Such, when quite young, if they be conscientious artists, +will carefully consider themselves, their gifts and possibilities, study +to discover their artistic <em>raison d'être</em> and how best to<!--Page 128--> fulfil it. +He or she will say: Here am I, a creature of great gifts and exquisite +sensibilities, drawn by great dreams, and vibrating to great emotions; +yet this potent and exquisite self is as yet, I know, but unwrought +material of the perfect work of art it is intended that I should make of +it—but the marble wherefrom, with patient chisel, I must liberate the +perfect and triumphant ME! As a poet listening with trembling ear to the +voice of his inspiration, so I tremulously ask myself—what is the +divine conception that is to become embodied in me, what is the divine +meaning of ME? How best shall I express it in look, in word, in deed, +till my outer self becomes the truthful symbol of my inner self—till, +in fact, I have successfully placed the best of myself on the outside +—for others besides myself to see, and know and love?</p> + +<p>What is my part, and how am I to play it?</p> + +<p>Returning to the latter image, there are two difficulties that beset one +in playing a part on the stage of life, right at the outset. You are not +allowed to 'look' it, or 'dress' it! What would an actor think, who, +asked to<!--Page 129--> play Hamlet, found that he would be expected to play it +without make-up and in nineteenth-century costume? Yet many of us are in +a like dilemma with similar parts. Actors and audience must all wear the +same drab clothes and the same immobile expression. It is in vain you +protest that you do not really belong to this absurd and vulgar +nineteenth century, that you have been spirited into it by a cruel +mistake, that you really belong to mediæval Florence, to Elizabethan, +Caroline, or at latest Queen Anne England, and that you would like to be +allowed to look and dress as like it as possible. It is no use; if you +dare to look or dress like anything but your own tradesmen—and other +critics—it is at your peril. If you are beautiful, you are expected to +disguise a fact that is an open insult to every other person you look +at; and you must, as a general rule, never look, wear, feel, or say what +everybody else is not also looking, wearing, feeling, or saying.</p> + +<p>Thus you get some hint of the difficulty of playing the part of yourself +on this stage of life.</p><!--Page 130--> + +<p>In these matters of dressing and looking your part musicians seem +granted an immunity denied to all their fellow-artists. Perhaps it is +taken for granted that the musician is a fool—the British public is so +intuitive. Yet it takes the same view of the poet, without allowing him +a like immunity. And, by the way, what a fine conception of his part had +Tennyson—of the dignity, the mystery, the picturesqueness of it! +Tennyson would have felt it an artistic crime to look like his +publisher; yet what poet is there left us to-day half so +distinguished-looking as his publisher?</p> + +<p>Indeed, curiously enough, among no set of men does the desire to look as +commonplace as the rest of the world seem so strong as among men of +letters. Perhaps it is out of consideration for the rest of the world; +but, whatever the reason, immobility of expression and general +mediocrity of style are more characteristic of them at present than even +the military.</p> + +<p>It is surely a strange paradox that we should pride ourselves on +schooling to foolish insensibility, on eliminating from them every<!--Page 131--> mark +of individual character, the faces that were intended subtly and +eloquently to image our moods—to look glad when we are glad, sorry when +we are sorry, angry in anger, and lovely in love.</p> + +<p>The impassivity of the modern young man is indeed a weird and wonderful +thing. Is it a mark to hide from us the appalling sins he none the less +openly affects? Is it meant to conceal that once in his life he paid a +wild visit to 'The Empire'—by kind indulgence of the County Council? +that he once chucked a barmaid under the chin, that he once nearly got +drunk, that he once spoke to a young lady he did not know—and then ran +away?</p> + +<p>One sighs for the young men of the days of Gautier and Hugo, the young +men with red waistcoats who made asses of themselves at first nights and +on the barricades, young men with romance in their hearts and passion in +their blood, fearlessly sentimental and picturesquely everything.</p> + +<p>The lover then was not ashamed that you should catch radiant glimpses of +his love in his eyes—nay! if you smiled kindly on him,<!--Page 132--> he would take +you by the arm and insist on your breaking a bottle with him in honour +of his mistress. Joy and sorrow then wore their appropriate colours, +according, so to say, to the natural sumptuary laws of the emotions—one +of which is that the right place for the heart is the sleeve.</p> + +<p>It is the duty of those who are great, or to whom great destinies of joy +or sorrow have been dealt, to wear their distinctions for the world to +see. It is good for the world, which in its crude way indicates the +rudiments of this dramatic art of life, when it decrees that the bride +shall walk radiant in orange blossom, and the mourner sadden our streets +with black—symbols ever passing before us of the moving vicissitudes of +life.</p> + +<p>The mourner cannot always be sad, or the bride merry; the bride indeed +sometimes weeps at the altar, and the mourner laughs a savage cynical +laugh at the grave; but for those moments in which they awhile forget +parts more important than themselves, the tailor and the dressmaker have +provided symbolical garments, just as military decorations have been +provided for heroes<!--Page 133--> without the gift of looking heroic, and sacerdotal +vestments for the priest, who, like a policeman, is not always on duty.</p> + +<p>In playing his part the conscientious artist in life, like any other +actor, must often seem to feel more than he really feels at a given +moment, say more than he means. In this he is far from being +insincere—though he must make up his mind to be accused daily of +insincerity and affectation. On the contrary, it will be his very +sincerity that necessitates his make-believe. With his great part ever +before him in its inspiring completeness, he must be careful to allow no +merely personal accident of momentary feeling or action to jeopardise +the general effect. There are moments, for example, when a really true +lover, owing to such masterful natural facts as indigestion, a cold, or +extreme sleepiness, is unable to feel all that he knows he really feels. +To 'tell the truth,' as it is called, under such circumstances, would +simply be a most dangerous form of lying. There is no duty we owe to +truth more imperative than that of lying stoutly on occasion—for, +indeed, there is often no other way of con<!--Page 134-->veying the whole truth than +by telling the part-lie.</p> + +<p>A watchful sincerity to our great conception of ourselves is the first +and last condition, of our creating that finest work of art—a +personality; for a personality, like a poet, is not only born but made.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 135--> +<h3><a name="essay15">THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX</a></h3> + +<p>In an essay on Vauvenargues Mr. John Morley speaks with characteristic +causticity of those epigrammatists 'who persist in thinking of man and +woman as two different species,' and who make verbal capital out of the +fancied distinction in the form of smart epigrams beginning '<em>Les +femmes</em>.' It is one of Shakespeare's cardinal characteristics that <em>he +understood woman</em>. Mr. Meredith's fame as a novelist is largely due to +the fact that he too <em>understands women</em>. The one spot on the sun of +Robert Louis Stevenson's fame, so we are told, is that he could <em>never +draw a woman</em>. His capacity for drawing men counted for nothing, +apparently, beside this failure. Evidently the Sphinx has not the face +of a woman for nothing. That is why no one has read her riddle, +translated<!--Page 136--> her mystic smile. Yet many people smile mysteriously, +without any profound meanings behind their smile, with no other reason +than a desire to mystify. Perhaps the Sphinx smiles to herself just for +the fun of seeing us take her smile so seriously. And surely women must +so smile as they hear their psychology so gravely discussed. Of course, +the superstition is invaluable to them, and it is only natural that they +should make the most of it. Man is supposed to be a complete ignoramus +in regard to all the specialised female 'departments'—from the supreme +mystery of the female heart to the humble domestic mysteries of a +household. Similarly, men are supposed to have no taste in women's +dress, yet for whom do women clothe themselves in the rainbow and the +sea-foam, if not to please men? And was not the high-priest of that +delicious and fascinating mystery a man—if it be proper to call the +late M. Worth a man,—as the best cooks are men, and the best waiters?</p> + +<p>It would seem to be assumed from all this mystification that men are +beings clear as daylight, both to themselves and to women.<!--Page 1137--> Poor, +simple, manageable souls, their wants are easily satisfied, their +psychology—which, it is implied, differs little from their +physiology—long since mapped out.</p> + +<p>It may be so, but it is the opinion of some that men's simplicity is no +less a fiction than women's mysterious complexity, and that human +character is made up of much the same qualities in men and women, +irrespective of a merely rudimentary sexual distinction, which has, of +course, its proper importance, and which the present writer would be the +last to wish away. From that quaint distinction of sex springs, of +course, all that makes life in the smallest degree worth living, from +great religions to tiny flowers. Love and beauty and poetry; +Shakespeare's plays, Burne-Jones's pictures, and Wagner's operas—all +such moving expressions of human life, as science has shown us, spring +from the all-important fact that 'male and female created He them.'</p> + +<p>This everybody knows, and few are fools enough to deny. Many people, +however, confuse this organic distinction of sex with its time-worn +conventional symbols; just<!--Page 138--> as religion is commonly confused with its +external rites and ceremonies. The comparison naturally continues itself +further; for, as in religion, so soon as some traditional garment of the +faith has become outworn or otherwise unsuitable, and the proposal is +made to dispense with or substitute it, an outcry immediately is raised +that religion itself is in danger—so with sex, no sooner does one or +the other sex propose to discard its arbitrary conventional +characteristics, or to supplement them by others borrowed from its +fellow-sex, than an outcry immediately is raised that sex itself is in +danger.</p> + +<p>Sex—the most potent force in the universe—in danger because women +wear knickerbockers instead of petticoats, or military men take to +corsets and cosmetics!</p> + +<p>That parallel with religion may be pursued profitably one step further. +In religion, the conventional test of your faith is not how you live, +not in your kindness of heart or purity of mind, but how you believe—in +the Trinity, in the Atonement; and do you turn to the East during the +recital of the Apostles' Creed? These and such, as every<!--Page 139--> one knows, are +the vital matters of religion. And it is even so with sex. You are not +asked for the realities of manliness or womanliness, but for the +shadows, the arbitrary externalities, the fashions of which change from +generation to generation.</p> + +<p>To be truly womanly you must never wear your hair short; to be truly +manly you must never wear it long. To be truly womanly you must dress as +daintily as possible, however uncomfortably; to be truly manly you must +wear the most hideous gear ever invented by the servility of tailors—a +strange succession of cylinders from head to heel; cylinder on head, +cylinder round your body, cylinders on arms and cylinders on legs. To be +truly womanly you must be shrinking and clinging in manner and trivial +in conversation; you must have no ideas, and rejoice that you wish for +none; you must thank Heaven that you have never ridden a bicycle or +smoked a cigarette; and you must be prepared to do a thousand other +absurd and ridiculous things. To be truly manly you must be and do the +opposite of all these things, with this exception—that with you<!--Page 140--> the +possession of ideas is optional. The finest specimens of British manhood +are without ideas; but that, I say, is, generally speaking, a matter for +yourself. It is indeed the only matter in which you have any choice. +More important matters, such as the cut of your clothes and hair, the +shape of your face, the length of your moustache and the pattern of your +cane—all these are very properly regulated for you by laws of fashion, +which you could never dream of breaking. You may break every moral law +there is—or rather, was—and still remain a man. You may be a bully, a +cad, a coward and a fool, in the poor heart and brains of you; but so +long as you wear the mock regimentals of contemporary manhood, and are +above all things plain and undistinguished enough, your reputation for +manhood will be secure. There is nothing so dangerous to a reputation +for manhood as brains or beauty.</p> + +<p>In short, to be a true woman you have only to be pretty and an idiot, +and to be a true man you have only to be brutal and a fool.</p> + +<p>From these misconceptions of manliness<!--Page 141--> and womanliness, these +superstitions of sex, many curious confusions have come about. They so +to say, professional differentiation between the sexes had at one time +gone so far that men were credited with the entire monopoly of a certain +set of human qualities, and women with the monopoly of a certain other +set of human qualities; yet every one of these are qualities which one +would have thought were proper to, and necessary for, all human beings +alike, male and female.</p> + +<p>In a dictionary of a date (1856) when everything on earth and in heaven +was settled and written in penny cyclopædias and books of deportment, I +find these delicious definitions—</p> + +<p><em>Manly</em>: becoming a man; firm; brave; undaunted; dignified; noble; +stately; not boyish or womanish.</p> + +<p><em>Womanly</em>: becoming a woman; feminine; as <em>womanly</em> behaviour.</p> + +<p>Under <em>Woman</em> we find the adjectives—soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, +kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender, timorous, modest.</p> + +<p>Who can doubt that the dictionary maker defined and distributed his +adjectives aright<!--Page 142--> for the year 1856? Since then, however, many alarming +heresies have taken root in our land, and some are heard to declare that +both these sets of adjectives apply to men and women alike, and are, in +fact, necessities of any decent human outfit. Otherwise the conclusion +is obvious, that no one desirous of the adjective 'manly' must ever +be—soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous, or modest; and no one desirous of the adjective +'womanly' be—firm, brave, undaunted, dignified, noble, or stately.</p> + +<p>But surely the essentials of 'manliness' and 'womanliness' belong to man +and woman alike—the externals are purely artistic considerations, and +subject to the vagaries of fashion. In art no one would think of +allowing fashion any serious artistic opinion. It is usually the art +which is out of fashion that is most truly art. Similarly, fashions in +manliness or womanliness have nothing to do with real manliness or +womanliness. Moreover, the adjectives 'manly' or 'womanly,' applied to +works of art, or the artistic surfaces of men and women, are<!--Page 143--> +irrelevant—that is to say, impertinent. You have no right to ask a +poem or a picture to look manly or womanly, any more than you have any +right to ask a man or a woman to look manly or womanly. There is no such +thing as looking manly or womanly. There is looking beautiful or ugly, +distinguished or commonplace, individual or insignificant. The one law +of externals is beauty in all its various manifestations. To ask the sex +of a beautiful person is as absurd as it would be to ask the publisher +the sex of a beautiful book. Such questions are for midwives and +doctors.</p> + +<p>It was once the fashion for heroes to shed tears on the smallest +occasion, and it does not appear that they fought the worse for it; some +of the firmest, bravest, most undaunted, most dignified, most noble, +most stately human beings have been women; as some of the softest, +mildest, most pitiful and flexible, most kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous and modest human beings have been men. Indeed, some of +the bravest men that ever trod this planet have worn corsets, and it +needs more courage<!--Page 144--> nowadays for a man to wear his hair long than to +machine-gun a whole African nation. Moreover, quite the nicest women one +knows ride bicycles—in the rational costume.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 145--> +<h3><a name="essay16">THE FALLACY OF A NATION</a></h3> + +<p>It is, I am given to understand, a familiar axiom of mathematics that no +number of ciphers placed in front of significant units, or tens or +hundreds of units, adds in the smallest degree to the numerical value of +those units. The figure one becomes of no more importance however many +noughts are marshalled in front of it—though, indeed, in the +mathematics of human nature this is not so. Is not a man or woman +considered great in proportion to the number of ciphers that walk in +front of him, from a humble brace of domestics to guards of honour and +imperial armies?</p> + +<p>A parallel profound truth of mathematics is that a nought, however many +times it be multiplied, remains nought; but again we find the reverse +obtain in the mathematics of human nature. One might have supposed<!--Page 146--> that +the result of one nobody multiplied even fifty million times would still +be nobody. However, such is far from being the case. Fifty million +nobodies make—a nation. Of course, there is no need for so many. I am +reckoning as a British subject, and speak of fifty million merely as an +illustration of the general fact that it is the multiplication of +nobodies that makes a nation. 'Increase and multiply' was, it will be +remembered, the recipe for the Jewish nation.</p> + +<p>Nobodies of the same colour, tongue, and prejudices have but to +congregate together in a crowd sufficiently big for other similar crowds +to recognise them, and then they are given a name of their own, and +become recognised as a nation—one of the 'Great Powers.'</p> + +<p>Beyond those differences in colour, tongue, and prejudices there is +really no difference between the component units—or rather ciphers—of +all these several national crowds. You have seen a procession of various +trades-unions filing toward Hyde Park, each section with its particular +banner with a strange device: 'The United Guild of Paperhangers,'<!--Page 147--> 'The +Ancient Order of Plumbers,' and so on. And you may have marvelled to +notice how alike the members of the various carefully differentiated +companies were. So to say, they each and all might have been plumbers; +and you couldn't help feeling that it wouldn't have mattered much if +some of the paper-hangers had by mistake got walking amongst the +plumbers, or <em>vice versa</em>.</p> + +<p>So the great trades-unions of the world file past, one with the odd word +'Russia' on its banner; another boasting itself 'Germany'—this with a +particularly bumptious and self-important young man walking backward in +front of it, in the manner of a Salvation Army captain, and imperiously +waving an iron wand; still another 'nation' calling itself 'France'; and +yet another boasting the biggest brass band, and called 'England.' Other +smaller bodies of nobodies, that is, smaller nations, file past with +humbler tread—though there is really no need for their doing so. For, +as we have said, they are in every particular like to those haughtier +nations who take precedence of them. In fact, one or two of them, such +as Norway<!--Page 148--> and Denmark—were a truer system of human mathematics to +obtain—are really of more importance than the so-called greater +nations, in that among their nobodies they include a larger percentage +of intellectual somebodies.</p> + +<p>Remembering that percentage of wise men, the formula of a nation were +perhaps more truly stated in our first mathematical image. The wise men +in a nation are as the units with the noughts in front of them. And when +I say wise men I do not, indeed, mean merely the literary men or the +artists, but all those somebodies with some real force of character, +people with brains and hearts, fighters and lovers, saints and thinkers, +and the patient, industrious workers. Such, if you consider, are really +no integral part of the nation among which they are cast. They have no +part in what are grandiloquently called national interests—war, +politics, and horse-racing to wit. A change of Government leaves them as +unmoved as an election for the board of guardians. They would as soon +think of entering Parliament or the County Council, as of yearning to +manage the gasworks, or to go about<!--Page 149--> with one of those carts bearing the +legend 'Aldermen and Burgesses of the City of London' conspicuously upon +its front. Their main concern in political changes is the rise and fall +of the income-tax, and, be the Cabinet Tory or Liberal, their rate +papers come in for the same amount. It is likely that national changes +would affect them but little more. What more would a foreign invasion +mean than that we should pay our taxes to French, Russian, or German +officials, instead of to English ones? French and Italians do our +cooking, Germans manage our music, Jews control our money markets; +surely it would make little difference to us for France, Russia, or +Germany to undertake our government. The worst of being conquered by +Russia would be the necessity of learning Russian; whereas a little +rubbing up of our French would make us comfortable with France. Besides, +to be conquered by France would save us crossing the Channel to Paris, +and then we might hope for cafés in Regent Street, and an emancipated +literature. As a matter of fact, so-called national interests are merely +certain<!--Page 150--> private interests on a large scale, the private interests of +financiers, ambitious politicians, soldiers, and great merchants. +Broadly speaking, there are no rival nations—there are rival markets; +and it is its Board of Trade and its Stock Exchange rather than its +Houses of Parliament that virtually govern a country. Thus one seaport +goes down and another comes up, industries forsake one country to bless +another, the military and naval strengths of nations fluctuate this way +and that; and to those whom these changes affect they are undoubtedly +important matters—the great capitalist, the soldier, and the +politician; but to the quiet man at home with his wife, his children, +his books, and his flowers, to the artist busied with brave translunary +matters, to the saint with his eyes filled with 'the white radiance of +eternity,' to the shepherd on the hillside, the milkmaid in love, or the +angler at his sport—what are these pompous commotions, these busy, +bustling mimicries of reality? England will be just as good to live in +though men some day call her France. Let the big busybodies divide her +amongst them<!--Page 151--> as they like, so that they leave one alone with one's fair +share of the sky and the grass, and an occasional, not too vociferous, +nightingale.</p> + +<p>The reader will perhaps forgive the hackneyed references to Sir Thomas +Browne peacefully writing his <em>Religio Medici</em> amid all the commotions +of the Civil War, and to Gautier calmly correcting the proofs of his new +poems during the siege of Paris. The milkman goes his rounds amid the +crash of empires. It is not his business to fight. His business is to +distribute his milk—as much after half-past seven as may be +inconvenient. Similarly, the business of the thinker is with his +thought, the poet with his poetry. It is the business of politicians to +make national quarrels, and the business of the soldier to fight them. +But as for the poet—let him correct his proofs, or beware the printer.</p> + +<p>The idea, then, of a nation is a grandiloquent fallacy in the interests +of commerce and ambition, political and military. All the great and +good, clever and charming people belong to one secret nation, for which +there is no name unless it be the Chosen<!--Page 152--> People. These are the lost +tribes of love, art, and religion, lost and swamped amid alien peoples, +but ever dreaming of a time when they shall meet once more in Jerusalem.</p> + +<p>Yet though they are thus aliens, taking and wishing no part in the +organisation of the 'nations' among which they dwell, this does not +prevent those nations taking part and credit in them. And whenever a +brave soldier wins a battle, or an intrepid traveller discovers a new +land, his particular nation flatters itself, as though it—the million +nobodies—had done it. With a profound indifference to, indeed an active +dislike of, art and poetry, there is nothing on which a nation prides +itself so much as upon its artists and poets, whom, invariably, it +starves, neglects, and even insults, as long as it is not too silly to +do so.</p> + +<p>Thus the average Englishman talks of Shakespeare—as though he himself +had written the plays; of India—as though he himself had conquered it. +And thus grow up such fictions as 'national greatness' and 'public +opinion.'</p> + +<p>For what is 'national greatness' but the<!--Page 153--> glory reflected from the +memories of a few great individuals? and what is 'public opinion' but +the blustering echoes of the opinion of a few clever young men on the +morning papers?</p> + +<p>For how can people in themselves little become great by merely +congregating into a crowd, however large? And surely fools do not become +wise, or worth listening to, merely by the fact of their banding +together.</p> + +<p>A 'public opinion' on any matter except football, prize-fighting, and +perhaps cricket, is merely ridiculous—by whatever brutal physical +powers it may be enforced—ridiculous as a town council's opinion upon +art; and a nation is merely a big fool with an army.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 154--> +<h3><a name="essay17">THE GREATNESS OF MAN</a></h3> + +<p>Ignorant, as I inevitably am, dear reader, of your intellectual and +spiritual upbringing, I can hardly guess whether the title of my article +will impress you as a platitude or as a paradox. Goodness knows, some +men and women think quite enough of themselves as it is, and, from a +certain momentary point of view, there may seem little occasion indeed +to remind man of his importance.</p> + +<p>I refer to your intellectual and spiritual upbringing, because I venture +to wonder if it was in the least like my own. I was brought up, I +rejoice to say, in the bosom of an orthodox Puritan family. I was led +and driven to believe that man was everybody, and that God was +somebody—and that not merely the Sabbath, but the whole universe, was +made for man: that the stars were his bedtime candles, and that the sun<!--Page 155--> +arose to ensure his catching the 8.37 of a morning.</p> + +<p>On this belief I acted for many years. Every young man believes that +there is no god but God, and that he is born to be His prophet—though +perhaps that belief is not so common nowadays. I am speaking of many +years ago.</p> + +<p>Science, however, has long since changed all that. Those terrible Muses, +geology, astronomy, and particularly biology, have reduced man to a +humility which, if in some degree salutary, becomes in its excess highly +dangerous. Why should one maggot in this great cheese of the world take +itself more seriously than others? Why dream mightily and do bravely if +we are but a little higher than the beasts that perish? Nature cares +nothing about us, and her giant forces laugh at our fancies. The world +has no such meaning as we thought. Poets and saints, deluded by +unhealthy imaginations, have misled us, and it is quite likely that the +wild waves are really saying nothing more important than 'Beecham's +Pills.'</p> + +<p>'Give us a definition of life,' I asked a<!--Page 156--> certain famous scientist and +philosopher whom I am privileged to call my friend.</p> + +<p>'Nothing easier!' he gaily replied. 'Life is a product of solar energy, +falling upon the carbon compounds, on the outer crust of a particular +planet, in a particular corner of the solar system.'</p> + +<p>'And that,' I said, 'really satisfies you as a definition of life—of +all the wistful wonder of the world!' And as I spoke I thought of Moses +with mystically shining face upon the Mount of the Law, of Ezekiel rapt +in his divine fancies, of Socrates drinking his cup of hemlock, of +Christ's agony in the garden; the golden faces of the great of the world +passed as in a dream before me,—soldiers, saints, poets, and lovers. I +thought of Horatius on the bridge, of the holy and gentle soul of St. +Francis, of Chatterton in his splendid despair, and in fancy I went with +the awestruck citizens of Verona to reverently gaze at the bodies of two +young lovers who had counted the world well lost if they might only +leave it together.</p> + +<p>The carbon compounds!</p> + +<p>I took down <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>, listened<!--Page 157--> to its passionate spheral +music, and the carbon compounds have never troubled me again.</p> + +<p>Love laughs at the carbon compounds, and a great book, a noble act, a +beautiful face, make nonsense of such cheap formula for the mystery of +human life.</p> + +<p>Yet this parable of the carbon compounds is a fair sample of all that +science can tell us when we come to ultimates. We go away from its +oracles with a mouthful of sounding words, which may seem very +impressive till we examine their emptiness. What, for example, is all +this rigmarole about solar energy and the carbon compounds but a more +pompous way of putting the old scriptural statement that man was made of +the dust of the ground? To say that God took a handful of dust and +breathed upon it and it became man, is no harder to realise than that +solar rays falling upon that dust should produce humanity and all the +various phantasmagoria of life. If anything, it is more explanatory. It +leaves us with an inspiring mystery for explanation.</p> + +<p>In saying this, I do not forget our debt to<!--Page 158--> science. It has done much +in clearing our minds of cant, in popularising more systematic thinking, +and in instituting sounder methods of observation. In some directions it +has deepened our sense of wonder. It has broadened our conception of the +universe, though I fear it has been at the expense of narrowing our +conception of man. With Hamlet it contemptuously says, 'What is this +quintessence of dust!' It is so impressed by the mileage and tonnage of +the universe, so abased before the stupendous measurements of the +cosmos, the appalling infinity and eternity of its space and time, that +it forgets the marvel of the mind that can grasp all these conceptions, +forgets, too, that, big and bullying as the forces of nature may be, man +has been able in a large measure to control, indeed to domesticate, +them. Surely the original fact of lightning is little more marvellous +than the power of man to turn it into his errand-boy or his horse, to +light his rooms with it, and imprison it in pennyworths, like the genius +in the bottle, in the underground railway. Mere size seems unimpressive +when we contem<!--Page 159-->plate such an extreme of littleness as say the ant, that +pin-point of a personality, that mere speck of being, yet including +within its infinitesimal proportions a clever, busy brain, a soldier, a +politician, and a merchant. That such and so many faculties should have +room to operate within that tiny body—there is a marvel before which, +it seems to me, the billions of miles that keep us from falling into the +jaws of the sun, and the tonnage of Jupiter, are comparatively +insignificant and conceivable.</p> + +<p>No, we must not allow ourselves to be frightened by the mere size and +weight of the universe, or be depressed because our immediate genealogy +is not considered aristocratic. Perhaps, after all, we are sons of God, +and as Mr. Meredith finely puts it, our life here may still be</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'... a little holding</p> + <p>To do a mighty service.'</p> +</div> + +<p>'Things of a day!' exclaims Pindar. 'What is a man? What is a man not?'</p> + +<p>It is good for our Nebuchadnezzars, the kings of the world, and +conceited, successful people generally, to measure themselves<!--Page 160--> against +the great powers of the universe, to humble their pride by contemplation +of the fixed stars; but a too humble attitude toward the Infinite, a too +constant pondering upon eternity, is not good for us, unless, so to say, +we can live with them as friends, with the inspiring feeling that, +little as we may seem, there is that in us which is no less infinite, no +less cosmic, and that our passions and dreams have, as Mr. William +Watson puts it, 'a relish of eternity.'</p> + +<p>Readers of Amiel's 'Journal' will know what a sterilising, petrifying +influence his trance-like contemplation of the Infinite had upon his +life. Amiel was simply hypnotised by the universe, as a man may +hypnotise himself by gazing fixedly at a star.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pater, you will remember, has a remarkable study of a similar +temperament in his <em>Imaginary Portraits</em>. Sebastian van Storck, like +Amiel, had become hypnotised by the Infinite. It paralysed in him all +impulse or power 'to be or do any limited thing.'</p> + +<p>'For Sebastian, at least,' we read, 'the world and the individual alike +had been<!--Page 161--> divested of all effective purpose. The most vivid of finite +objects, the dramatic episodes of Dutch history, the brilliant +personalities which had found their parts to play in them, that golden +art, surrounding one with an ideal world, beyond which the real world +was discernible indeed, but etherealised by the medium through which it +came to one; all this, for most men so powerful a link to existence, +only set him on the thought of escape—into a formless and nameless +infinite world, evenly grey.... Actually proud, at times, of his +curious, well-reasoned nihilism, he could but regard what is called the +business of life as no better than a trifling and wearisome delay.'</p> + +<p>This mood, once confined to a few mystics is likely to become a common +one, is already, one imagines, far from infrequent—so the increase of +suicide would lead us to suppose. Robbed of his hope of a glorious +immortality, stripped of his spiritual significance, bullied and +belittled by science on every hand, man not unnaturally begins to feel +that it is no use taking his life seriously, that, in fact, it betrays a +lack of humour to do so. While<!--Page 162--> he was a supernatural being, a son of +God, it was with him a case of <em>noblesse oblige</em>; and while he is happy +and comfortable he doesn't mind giving up the riddle of the world. It is +only the unhappy that ever really think. But what is he to do when agony +and despair come upon him, when all that made his life worth living is +taken from him? How is he to sustain himself? where shall he look for +his strength or his hope? He looks up at the sky full of stars, but he +is told that God is not there, that the city of God is long since a +ruin, and that owls hoot to each other across its moss-grown fanes and +battlements; he looks down on the earth, full of graves, a vast +necropolis of once radiant dreams, with the living for its +phantoms,—and there is no comfort anywhere. Happy is he if some simple +human duty be at hand, which he may go on doing blindly and +dumbly—till, perhaps, the light come again. It is difficult to offer +comfort to such a one. Comfort is cheap, and we know nothing. When life +holds nothing for our love and delight, it is difficult to explain why +we should go on living it—except on<!--Page 163--> the assumption that it matters, +that it is, in some mystical way, supremely important, how we live it, +and what we make of those joys and sorrows which, say some, are but +meant as mystical trials and tests.</p> + +<p>Sebastian van Storck refused 'to be or do any limited thing,' but the +answer to his mysticism is to be found in a finer mysticism, that which +says that there is no limited act or thing, but that the significance, +as well as the pathos, of eternity is in our smallest joys and sorrows, +as in our most everyday transactions, and the greatness of God incarnate +in His humblest child.</p> + +<p>This, the old doctrine of the microcosm, seems in certain moments, +moments one would wish to say, of divination, strangely plain and +clear—when, in Blake's words, it seems so easy to</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'... see a world in a grain of sand,</p> + <p class="indent1">And a heaven in a wild flower;</p> + <p>Hold infinity in the palm of your hand</p> + <p class="indent1">And Eternity in an hour.'</p> +</div> + +<p>Perhaps in the street, an effect of light, a passing face, yes, even the +plaintive grind of a street organ, some such everyday circum<!--Page 164-->stance, +affects you suddenly in quite a strange way. It has become +universalised. It is no longer a detail of the Strand, but a cryptic +symbol of human life. It has been transfigured into a thing of infinite +pathos and infinite beauty, and, sad or glad, brings to you an +inexplicable sense of peace, an unshakable conviction that man is a +spirit, that his life is indeed of supreme and lovely significance, and +that his destiny is secure and blessed.</p> + +<p>Matthew Arnold, ever sensitive to such spiritual states, has described +these trance-like visitations in 'The Buried Life'—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'Only, but this is rare—</p> + <p>When a beloved hand is laid in ours,</p> + <p>When, jaded with the rush and glare</p> + <p>Of the interminable hours,</p> + <p>Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,</p> + <p>When our world-deafen'd ear</p> + <p>Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd—</p> + <p>A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,</p> + <p>And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again:</p> + <p>The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,</p> + <p>And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.</p> + <p>A man becomes aware of his life's flow,</p> + <p>And hears its winding murmur; and he sees</p> + <p>The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'And there arrives a lull in the hot race</p> + <p>Wherein he doth for ever chase</p><!--Page 165--> + <p>That flying and elusive shadow, rest.</p> + <p>An air of coolness plays upon his face,</p> + <p>And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.</p> + <p>And then he thinks he knows</p> + <p>The hills where his life rose,</p> + <p>And the sea where it goes.'</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>'To be or do any limited thing'! What indeed, we ask in such hours, is a +limited thing, when all the humble interests of our daily life are +palpably big with eternity? Is the first kiss of a great love a limited +thing? though there is, unhappily, no denying that it comes to an end! +When a young husband and wife smile across to each other above the sleep +of their little child—is that a limited thing? When the siren voices of +the world blend together on the lips of a young poet, and with rapt eyes +and hot heart he makes a song as of the morning stars—is that a limited +thing? Are love, and genius, and duty done in the face of death—are +these limited things? I think not—and man, indeed, knows better.</p> + +<p>Greatness is not relative. It is absolute. It is not for man to depress +himself by measuring himself against the eternities and the immensities +external to him. What he<!--Page 166--> has to do is to look inward upon himself, to +fathom the eternities and the immensities in his own heart and brain.</p> + +<p>And the more man sees himself forsaken by the universe, the more +opportunity to vindicate his own greatness. Is there no kind heart +beating through the scheme of things?—man's heart shall still be kind. +Will the eternal silence make mock of his dreams and his idealisms, +laugh coldly at 'the splendid purpose in his eyes'? Well, so be it. His +dreams and idealisms are none the less noble things, and if the gods do +thus make mock of mortal joy and pain—let us be grateful that we were +born mere men.</p> + +<p>Moreover, he has one great answer to the universe—the answer of +courage. He is still Prometheus, and there is no limit to what he can +bear. Let the vultures of pain rend his heart as they will, he can still +hiss 'coward' in the face of the Eternal. Nay, he can even laugh at his +sufferings—thanks to the spirit of humour, that most blessed of +ministering angels, without which surely the heart of humanity had long +since broken, by<!--Page 167--> which man is able to look with a comical eye upon +terrors, as it were taking themselves so seriously, coming with such +Olympian thunders and lightnings to break the spirit of a mere six foot +of earth!</p> + +<p>But while his courage and his humour are defences of which he cannot be +disarmed, whatever be the intention of the Eternal, it is by no means +certain that nature does not mean kindly by man. Perhaps the pain of the +world is but the rough horseplay of great powers that mean but jest—and +kill us in it: as though one played at 'tick' with an elephant!</p> + +<p>Perhaps, after all,—who knows?—God is love, and His great purpose +kind.</p> + +<p>Surely, when you think of it, the existence in man of the senses of love +and pity implies the probability of their existence elsewhere in the +universe too.</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'Into that breast which brings the rose</p> + <p>Shall I with shuddering fall.'</p> +</div> + +<p>So runs the profoundest thought in modern poetry—and need I say it is +Mr. Meredith's?</p> + +<p>As the fragrance and colour of the rose must in some occult way be +properties of<!--Page 168--> the rude earth from which they are drawn by the sun, may +not human love also be a kindly property of matter—that mysterious +life-stuff in which is packed such marvellous potentialities? Evidently +love must be somewhere in the universe—else it had not got into the +heart of man; and perhaps pity slides down like an angel in the rays of +the solar energy, while there is the potential beating of a human heart +even in the hard crust of the carbon compounds.</p> + +<p>I confess that this seems to me no mere fancy, but a really comforting +speculation. Pain, we say, is inherent in the scheme of the universe; +but is not love seen to be no less inherent, too?</p> + +<p>There must be some soul of beauty to animate the lovely face of the +world, some soul of goodness to account for its saints. If the gods are +cruel, it is strange that man should be so kind, and that some pathetic +spirit of tenderness should seem to stir even in the bosoms of beasts +and birds.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, we cannot too often insist that, whatever uncertainties there +be, man has one certainty—himself. Science has<!--Page 169--> really adduced nothing +essential against his significance. That he is not as big as an Alp, as +heavy as a star, or as long-lived as an eagle, is nothing against his +proper importance. Even a nobleman is of more significance in the world +than his acres, and giants are not proverbial for their intellectual or +spiritual qualities. The ant is of more importance than the ass, and the +great eye of a beautiful woman is more significant than the whole clayey +bulk of Mars.</p> + +<p>After all the scientific mockery of the old religious ideal of the +importance of man, one begins to wonder if his Ptolemaic fancy that he +was the centre of the universe, and that it was all made for him, is not +nearer the If truth than the pitiless theories which hardly allow him +equality with the flea that perishes.</p> + +<p>Suppose if, after all, the stars were really meant as his bedtime +candles, and the sun's purpose in rising is really that he may catch the +8.37!</p> + +<p>For, as Sir Thomas Browne says in his solemn English, 'there is surely a +piece of Divinity in us, something that was before the elements, and +owes no homage unto the sun.'</p><!--Page 170--> + +<p>The long winter of materialistic science seems to be breaking up, and +the old ideals are seen trooping back with something more than their old +beauty, in the new spiritual spring that seems to be moving in the +hearts of men.</p> + +<p>After all its talk, science has done little more than correct the +misprints of religion. Essentially, the old spiritualistic and poetic +theories of life are seen, not merely weakly to satisfy the cravings of +man's nature, but to be mostly in harmony with certain strange and +moving facts in his constitution, which the materialists +unscientifically ignore.</p> + +<p>It was important, and has been helpful, to insist that man is an animal, +but it is still more important to insist that he is a spirit as well. He +is, so to say, an animal by accident, a spirit by birthright: and, +however homely his duties may occasionally seem, his life is bathed in +the light of a sacred transfiguring significance, its smallest acts +flash with divine meanings, its highest moments are rich with 'the +pathos of eternity,' and its humblest duties mighty with the +responsibilities of a god.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 171--> +<h3><a name="essay18">DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS</a></h3> + +<h4><em>A DIALOGUE</em><br> +(<em>To the Memory of J.S. and T.C.L.</em>)</h4> + +<h4>PERSONS: SCRIPTOR AND LECTOR.</h4> + +<p>[This dialogue was written originally as a rejoinder to certain +criticisms on a book of mine entitled, <em>The Religion of a Literary +Man</em>—<em>Religio Scriptoris</em>—hence the names given to the two 'persons.' +It was written in March 1894, before an event in the writer's life to +which, erroneously, some have supposed it to refer.]</p> + + +<p>LECTOR. But do you really mean, Scriptor, that you have no desire for +the life after death?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. I never said quite that, Lector, though perhaps I might almost +have gone so far. What I did say was that we have been accustomed to +exaggerate its importance to us here and now, that it really matters +less to us than we imagine.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. I see. But you must speak for yourself, Scriptor. I am sure that +it matters<!--Page 172--> much to many, to most of us. It does, I know, to me.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Less than you think, my dear Lector. Besides, you are really +too young to know. It is true that, as years go, you are ten years my +senior, but what of that? You have that vigorous health which is the +secret of perpetual youth. You have not yet realised decay, not to speak +of death. The immortality of the soul is a question wide of you, who +have as yet practically no doubt of the immortality of the body. But +I—well, it would be melodramatic to say that I face death every day. +The metaphor applies but to desperate callings and romantic complaints. +To some Death comes like a footpad, suddenly, and presents his +pistol—and the smoke that curls upward from his empty barrel is your +soul.</p> + +<p>To another he comes featureless, a stealthily accumulating London fog, +that slowly, slowly chokes the life out of you, without allowing you the +consolation of a single picturesque moment, a single grand attitude. For +you, probably, Death will only come when you die. I have to live with +him as well. I<!--Page 173--> shall smoulder for years, you will be carried to heaven, +like Enoch, in a beautiful lightning.</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p class="indent3">'A simple child</p> + <p>That lightly draws its breath,</p> + <p>And feels its life in every limb,</p> + <p>What can it know of Death?'</p> +</div> + +<p>That's you, my dear Lector, for all your forty years.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. All the more reason, Scriptor, that you should desire a +hereafter. You sometimes talk of the work you would do if you were a +robust Philistine such as I. Would it not be worth while to live +again, if only to make sure of that <em>magnum opus</em>—just to realise +those dreams that you say are daily escaping you?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Ah! so speaks the energetic man, eager to take the world on +his shoulders. I know the images of death that please you, +Lector—such as that great one of Arnold's, about 'the sounding +labour-house vast of being.'</p> + +<p>But, Lector, you who love work so well—have you never heard tell of +a thing called Rest? Have you never known what it is to be tired, my +Lector?—not tired at the end<!--Page 174--> of a busy day, but tired in the morning, +tired in the Memnonian sunlight, when larks and barrel-organs start on +their blithe insistent rounds. No, the man who is tired of a morning +sings not music-hall songs in his bedroom as he dashes about in his +morning bath. But will you never want to go to bed, Lector? Will you +be always like the children who hate to be sent to bed, and think that +when they are grown up they will never go to bed at all? Yet in a few +years' time how glad they are of the stray chance of bed at ten. May +it not be so with sleep's twin-brother? In our young vigour, driven by +a hundred buoyant activities, enticed by dream on dream, time seems so +short for all we think we have to do; but surely when the blood begins +to thin, and the heart to wax less extravagantly buoyant, when comfort +croons a kettle-song whose simple spell no sirens of ambition or +romance can overcome—don't you think that then 'bedtime' will come to +seem the best hour of the day, and 'Death as welcome as a friend would +fall'?</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But you are no fair judge, Scrip<!--Page 175-->tor. You say my health, my +youth, as you waggishly call it, puts me out of court. Yet surely your +ill-health and low spirits just as surely vitiate your judgment?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Admitted, so far as my views are the outcome of my +particular condition. But you forget that the condition I have been +supposing is not merely particular, but, on the contrary, the most +general among men. Was it not old age?—which, like youth, is +independent of years. You may be young beyond your years, I may be old +in advance of them; but old age does come some time, and with it the +desire of rest.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But does not old age spend most of its thought in dwelling +fondly on its lost youth, hanging like a remote sunrise in its +imagination? Is it not its one yearning desire just to live certain +hours of its youth over again?—and would the old man not give all he +possesses for the certainty of being born young again into eternity?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. He would give everything—but the certainty of rest. After +seventy years of ardent life one needs a long sleep to refresh us +in. Besides, age may not be so<!--Page 176--> sure of the advantages of youth. All is +not youth that laughs and glitters. Youth has its hopes, which are +uncertain; but age has its memories, which are sure; youth has its +passions, but age has its comforts.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. Your answers come gay and pat, Scriptor, but your voice +betrays you. In spite of you, it saddens all your words. Tell me, have +you ever known what it is actually to lose any one who is dear to you? +Have you looked on death face to face?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Yes, Lector, I have—but once. It is now about five years +ago, but the impression of it haunts me to this hour. Perhaps the +memory is all the keener because it was my one experience. In a world +where custom stales all things, save Cleopatra, it is all the better +perhaps not to see even too much of Death, lest we grow familiar with +him. For instance, doctors and soldiers, who look on him daily, seem +to lose the sense of his terror—nay, worse, of his tragedy. Maybe it +is something in his favour, and Death, like others, may only need to +be known to be loved.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But tell me, Scriptor, of this sad experience, which even now +it moves you to<!--Page 177--> name; or is the memory too sad to recall?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Sad enough, Lector, but beautiful for all that, beautiful as +winter. It was winter when she of whom I am thinking died—a winter +that seemed to make death itself whiter and colder on her marble +forehead. It is but one sad little story of all the heaped-up sorrow +of the world; but in it, as in a shell, I seem to hear the murmur of +all the tides of tears that have surged about the lot of man from the +beginning.</p> + +<p>There were two dear friends of mine whom I used to call the happiest +lovers in the world. They had loved truly from girlhood and boyhood, +and after some struggle—for they were not born into that class which +is denied the luxury of struggle—at length saw a little home bright +in front of them. And then Jenny, who had been ever bright and strong, +suddenly and unaccountably fell ill. Like the stroke of a sword, like +the stride of a giant, Death, to whom they had never given a thought, +was upon them. It was consumption, and love could only watch and +pray. Suddenly my<!--Page 178--> friend sent for me, and I saw with my own eyes what +at a distance it had seemed impossible to believe. As I entered the +house, with the fresh air still upon me, I spoke confidently, with +babbling ignorant tongue. 'Wait till you see her face!' was all my +poor stricken friend could say.</p> + +<p>Ah! her face! How can I describe it? It was much sweeter afterwards, +but now it was so dark and witchlike, so uncanny, almost wicked, so +thin and full of inky shadows. She sat up in her bed, a wizened little +goblin, and laughed a queer, dry, knowing laugh to herself, a laugh +like the scraping of reeds in a solitary place. A strange black +weariness seemed to be crushing down her brows, like the 'unwilling +sleep' of a strong narcotic. She would begin a sentence and let it +wither away unfinished, and point sadly and almost humorously to her +straight black hair, clammy as the feathers of a dead bird lying in +the rain. Her hearing was strangely keen. And yet she did not know, +was not to know. How was one to talk to her—talk of being well again, +and books and country walks, when she had so<!--Page 179--> plainly done with all +these things? How bear up when she, with a half-sad, half-amused +smile, showed her thin wrists?—how say that they would soon be strong +and round again? Ugh! she was already beginning to be different from +us, already putting off our body-sweet mortality, and putting on the +fearful garments of death, changing before our eyes from ruddy +familiar humanity into a being of another element, an element we dread +as the fish dreads the air. Soon we should not be able to talk to +her. Soon she would have unlearnt all the sweet grammar of earth. She +was no longer Jenny, but a fearful symbol of mysteries at which the +flesh crept. She was going to die.</p> + +<p>Have you never looked ahead towards some trial, some physical trial, +maybe an operation?—for perhaps the pains of the body are the +keenest, after all—those of the spirit are at least in some part +metaphor. You look forward with dread, yet it is at last over. It is +behind you. And have you never thought that so it will be with death +some day? Poor little Jenny was to face the great operation.</p><!--Page 180--> + +<p>Next time I saw her she was dead. In our hateful English fashion, they +had shut her up in a dark room, and we had to take candles to see +her. I shall never forget the moment when my eyes first rested on that +awful snow-white sheet, so faintly indented by the fragile form +beneath, lines very fragile, but oh! so hard and cold, like the +indentations upon frozen snow; never forget my strange unaccountable +terror when he on one side and I on the other turned down the icy +sheet from her face. But terror changed to awe and reverence, as her +face came upon us with its sweet sphinx-like smile. Lying there, with +a little gold chain round her neck and a chrysanthemum in the bosom of +her night-gown, there was a curious regality about her, a look as +though she wore a crown our eyes were unable to see. And while I gazed +upon her, the sobs of my friend came across the bed, and as he called +to her I seemed to hear the eternal Orpheus calling for his lost +Eurydice. Poor lad!—poor maid! Here, naked and terrible, was all the +tragedy of the world compressed into an hour, the Medusa-face of life +that turns the bravest<!--Page 181--> to stone. Surely, I felt, God owed more than He +could ever repay to these two lovers, whom it had been so easy to +leave to their simple joys. And from that night to this I can never +look upon my white bed without seeing afar off the moment when it, +too, will bear the little figure of her I love best in the world, +bound for her voyage to the Minotaur Death; just as I never put off my +clothes at night, and stretch my limbs down among the cool sheets, +without thinking of the night when I shall put off my clothes for the +last time and close my eyes for ever.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But, my friend, this is to feel too much; it is morbid.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Morbid! How can one really <em>feel</em> and not be morbid? If one +be morbid, one can still be brave.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But surely, true-lover as you are, it would be a joy to you to +think that this terrible parting of death will not be final. We cannot +love so well without hoping that we may meet our loved ones somewhere +after death.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Hopes! wishes! desires! What of them? We hope, we <em>desire</em> +all things.<!--Page 182--> Who has not cried for the moon in his time? But what is +the use of talking of what we desire? Does life give us all we wish, +however passionately we wish it, and is Death any more likely to +listen to the cry of our desires? Of course we <em>wish it</em>, wish it with +a pathetic urgency which is too poignant to bear, and which the wise +man bravely stifles. It would all be different if we <em>knew</em>.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But does not science even, of late, hold out the promise of +its probability?—and the greatest poets and thinkers have always been +convinced of its truth.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. The promise of a probability! O my Lector, what a poor +substitute is that for a certainty! And as for the great men you speak +of, what does their 'instinctive' assurance amount to but a strong +sense of their own existence at the moment of writing or speaking? +Does one of them anywhere assert immortality as a <em>fact</em>—a fact of +which he has his own personal proof and knowledge—a scientific, not +an imaginative, theological fact? Arguments on the subject are +naught. It is waste of time to read them; unsupported by fact,<!--Page 183--> they +are one and all cowardly dreams, a horrible hypocritical clutching at +that which their writers have not the courage to forgo.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. Yet may not a dream be of service to reality, my friend? Is it +not certain that people are all the better and all the happier for +this dream, as you call it?—for what seems to me this sustaining +faith?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Happier? Some people, perhaps, in a lazy, unworthy +fashion. But 'better'? Well, so long as we believed in 'eternal +punishment' no doubt people were sometimes terrified into 'goodness' +by the picture of that dread vista of torment, as no doubt they were +bribed into it by the companion picture of a green unbounded Paradise; +but, O my friend, what an unworthy kind of goodness, the mere mask of +virtue! And now that the Inferno has practically disappeared from our +theology, the belief in eternal life simply means unlimited cakes and +ale, for good and evil alike, for all eternity. How such a belief can +be moralising I fail to understand. To my mind, indeed, far from being +moralising, this belief in immortality is responsible<!--Page 184--> for no +inconsiderable portion of the wrong and misery of the world. It is the +baneful narcotic which has soothed the selfish and the slothful from +the beginning. It is that unlimited credit which makes the bankrupt. +It simply gives us all eternity to procrastinate in. Instead of +manfully eating our peck of dirt here and now, we leave it and all +such disagreeables to the hereafter.</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'He said, "I believe in Eternal Life,"</p> + <p>As he threw his life away—</p> + <p class="indent3">What need to hoard?</p> + <p class="indent3">He could well afford</p> + <p>To squander his mortal day.</p> + <p>With Eternity his, what need to care?—</p> + <p>A sort of immortal millionaire.'</p> +</div> + +<p>LECTOR. I am glad to be reminded, Scriptor, that you are a poet, for the +line of your argument had almost made me forget it. One expects other +views from a poet.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. When, my dear Lector, shall we get rid of the silly idea that +the poet should give us only the ornamental view of life, and rock us to +sleep, like babies, with pretty lullabies? Is it not possible to make +<em>facts</em> sing as well as fancies? With all this beautiful world to sing +of—for beautiful it<!--Page 185--> is, however it be marred; with this wonderful +life—and wonderful and sweet it is though it is shot through with such +bitter pain; with such <em>certainties</em> for his theme, we yet beg him to +sing to us of shadows!</p> + +<p>And you talk of 'faith.' 'Faith' truly is what we want, but it is faith +in the life here, not in the life hereafter. Faith in the life here! Let +our poets sing us that. And such as would deny it—I would hang them as +enemies of society.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But, at all events, to keep to our point—you at least <em>hope</em> +for immortality. If Edison, say, were suddenly to discover it for us as +a scientific certainty, you would welcome the news?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Well, yes and no! Have you seen the 'penny' phonographs in the +Strand? You should go and have a pennyworth of the mysteries of time and +space! How long will Edison's latest magic toy survive this +popularisation, I wonder? For a little moment it awakens the sense of +wonder in the idly curious, who set the demon tube to their ears; but if +they make any remarks at all, it is of the cleverness of Mr. Edison,<!--Page 186--> +the probable profits of the invention—and not a word of the wonder of +the world! So it would be with the undiscovered country. I was blamed +the other day as being cheaply smart because I said that if 'one +traveller returned,' his resurrection would soon be as commonplace as +the telephone, and that enterprising firms would be interviewing him as +to the prospects of opening branch establishments in Hades. Yet it is a +perfectly serious, and, I think, true remark; for who that knows the +modern man, with his small knowingness, and his utter incapacity for +reverence, would doubt that were Mr. Edison actually to be the Columbus +of the Unseen, it would soon be as overrun with gaping tourists as +Switzerland, and that within a year railway companies would be +advertising 'Bank-holidays in Eternity'?</p> + +<p>No! let us keep the Unseen—or, if it must be discovered, let the key +thereof be given only to true-lovers and poets.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 187--> +<h3><a name="essay19">A SEAPORT IN THE MOON</a></h3> + + +<p>No one is so hopelessly wrong about the stars as the astronomer, and I +trust that you never pay any attention to his remarks on the moon. He +knows as much about the moon as a coiffeur knows of the dreams of the +fair lady whose beautiful neck he makes still more beautiful. There is +but one opinion upon<!--Page 188--> the moon—namely, our own. And if you think that +science is thus wronged, reflect a moment upon what science makes of +things near at hand. Love, it says, is merely a play of pistil and +stamen, our most fascinating poetry and art is 'degeneration,' and human +life, generally speaking, is sufficiently explained by the 'carbon +compounds'—God-a-mercy! If science makes such grotesque blunders about +radiant matters right under its nose, how can one think of taking its +opinion upon matters so remote as the stars—or even the moon, which is +comparatively near at hand?</p> + +<p>Science says that the moon is a dead world, a cosmic ship littered with +the skeletons of its crew, and from which every rat of vitality has long +since escaped. It is the ghost that rises from its tomb every night, to +haunt its faithless lover, the world. It is a country of ancient +silver-mines, unworked for centuries. You may see the gaping mouths of +the dark old shafts through your telescopes. You may even see the +rusting pit tackle, the ruinous engine-houses, and the idle pick and +shovel. Or you may say that it is counterfeit silver, coined to take in +the young fools who love to gaze upon it. It is, so to speak, a bad +half-crown.</p> + +<p>As you will! but I am of Endymion's belief—and no one was ever more +intimate with the moon. For me the moon is a country of great seaports, +whither all the ships of our dreams come home. From all quarters of the +world, every day of the week, there are ships sailing to the moon. They +are the ships that sail just when and where you please. You take your +passage on that<!--Page 189--> condition. And it is ridiculous to think for what a +trifle the captain will take you on so long a journey. If you want to +come back, just to take an excursion and no more, just to take a lighted +look at those coasts of rose and pearl, he will ask no more than a glass +or two of bright wine—indeed, when the captain is very kind, a flower +will take you there and back in no time; if you want to stay whole days +there, but still come back dreamy and strange, you may take a little +dark root and smoke it in a silver pipe, or you may drink a little phial +of poppy-juice, and thus you shall find the Land of Heart's Desire; but +if you are wise and would stay in that land for ever, the terms are even +easier—a little powder shaken into a phial of water, a little piece of +lead no bigger than a pea, and a farthing's-worth of explosive fire, and +thus also you are in the Land of Heart's Desire for ever.</p> + +<p>I dreamed last night that I stood on the blustering windy wharf, and the +dark ship was there. It was impatient, like all of us, to leave the +world. Its funnels belched black smoke, its engines throbbed against<!--Page 190--> +the quay like arms that were eager to strike and be done, and a bell +was beating impatient summons to be gone. The dark captain stood ready +on the bridge, and he looked into each of our faces as we passed on +board. 'Is it for the long voyage?' he said. 'Yes! the long voyage,' I +said—and his stern eyes seemed to soften as I answered.</p> + +<p>At last we were all aboard, and in the twinkling of an eye were out of +sight of land. Yet, once afloat, it seemed as though we should never +reach our port in the moon—so it seemed to me as I lay awake in my +little cabin, listening to the patient thud and throb of the great +screws, beating in the ship's side like a human heart.</p> + +<p>Talking with my fellow-voyagers, I was surprised to find that we were +not all volunteers. Some, in fact, complained pitifully. They had, they +said, been going about their business a day or two before, and suddenly +a mysterious captain had laid hold of them, and pressed them to sail +this unknown sea. Thus, without a word of warning, they had been +compelled to leave behind them all they held dear. This, one felt, was a +little hard of<!--Page 191--> the captain; but those of us whose position was exactly +the reverse, who had friends on the other side, all whose hopes indeed +were invested there, were too selfishly expectant of port to be severe +on the captain who was taking us thither.</p> + +<p>There were three friends I had especially set out to see: two young +lovers who had emigrated to those colonies in the moon just after their +marriage, and there was another. What a surprise it would be to all +three, for I had written no letter to say I was coming. Indeed, it was +just a sudden impulse, the pistol-flash of a long desire.</p> + +<p>I tried to imagine what the town would be like in which they were now +living. I asked the captain, and he answered with a sad smile that it +would be just exactly as I cared to dream it.</p> + +<p>'Oh, well then,' I thought, 'I know what it will be like. There shall be +a great restless, tossing estuary, with Atlantic winds for ever ruffling +the sails of busy ships, ships coming home with laughter, ships leaving +home with sad sea-gull cries of farewell. And the shaggy tossing water +shall be bounded on<!--Page 192--> either bank with high granite walls, and on one +bank shall be a fretted spire soaring with a jangle of bells, from amid +a tangle of masts, and underneath the bells and the masts shall go +streets rising up from the strand, streets full of faces, and sweet with +the smell of tar and the sea. O captain! will it be morning or night +when we come to my city? In the morning my city is like a sea-blown +rose, in the night it is bright as a sailor's star.</p> + +<p>'If it be early morning, what shall I do? I shall run to the house in +which my friends lie in happy sleep, never to be parted again, and kiss +my hand to their shrouded window; and then I shall run on and on till +the city is behind and the sweetness of country lanes is about me, and I +shall gather flowers as I run, from sheer wantonness of joy; and then at +last, flushed and breathless, I shall stand beneath her window. I shall +stand and listen, and I shall hear her breathing right through the heavy +curtains, and the hushed garden and the sleeping house will bid me keep +silence, but I shall cry a great cry up to the morning star, and say, +"No, I will not<!--Page 193--> keep silence. Mine is the voice she listens for in her +sleep. She will wake again for no voice but mine. Dear one, awake, the +morning of all mornings has come!"'</p> + +<p>As I write, the moon looks down at me like a Madonna from the great +canvas of the sky. She seems beautiful with the beauty of all the eyes +that have looked up at her, sad with all the tears of all those eyes; +like a silver bowl brimming with the tears of dead lovers she seems. +Yes, there are seaports in the moon; there are ships to take us there.</p> + + + + +<h3>THE END</h3> + + + +<p>Most of the foregoing essays have made a first appearance either in +<em>The Yellow Book</em>, <em>The Nineteenth Century</em>, <em>The Cosmopolitan</em>, <em>The +Westminster Gazette</em>, or <em>The Realm</em>, to the editors of which the writer +is indebted for kind permission to reprint.</p> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14103 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f986e41 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #14103 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14103) diff --git a/old/14103-8.txt b/old/14103-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..04b19ae --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14103-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4060 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Prose Fancies (Second Series), by Richard Le Gallienne + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Prose Fancies (Second Series) + +Author: Richard Le Gallienne + +Release Date: November 20, 2004 [EBook #14103] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSE FANCIES (SECOND SERIES) *** + + + + +Produced by Brendan Lane, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +PROSE FANCIES + +(SECOND SERIES) + +BY + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE + + + +LONDON: JOHN LANE + +CHICAGO: H.S. STONE AND CO. + +1896 + + + + +TO + +MAGGIE LE GALLIENNE + +WITH LOVE + + Poor are the gifts of the poet-- + Nothing but words! + The gifts of kings are gold, + Silver, and flocks and herds, + Garments of strange soft silk, + Feathers of wonderful birds, + Jewels and precious stones, + And horses white as the milk-- + These are the gifts of kings: + But the gifts that the poet brings + Are nothing but words. + + Forty thousand words! + Take them--a gift of flies! + Words that should have been birds, + Words that should have been flowers, + Words that should have been stars + In the eternal skies. + Forty thousand words! + Forty thousand tears-- + All out of two sad eyes. + + + + + CONTENTS PAGE + + A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN, 1 + SPRING BY PARCEL POST, 20 + THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND, 27 + THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET, 39 + VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT, 49 + THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE, 58 + ABOUT THE SECURITIES, 67 + THE BOOM IN YELLOW, 79 + LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN, 90 + A POET IN THE CITY, 98 + BROWN ROSES, 108 + THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR, 112 + ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES, 119 + THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE, 125 + THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX, 135 + THE FALLACY OF A NATION, 145 + THE GREATNESS OF MAN, 154 + DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS, 171 + A SEAPORT IN THE MOON, 187 + + + + +A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN + + +At one end of the city that I love there is a tall, dingy pile of +offices that has evidently seen more prosperous fortunes. It is not the +aristocratic end. It is remote from the lordly street of the fine shops +of the fair women, where in the summer afternoons the gay bank clerks +parade arm-in-arm in the wake of the tempestuous petticoat. It lies +aside from the great exchange which looks like a scene from _Romeo and +Juliet_ in the moonlight, from the town-hall from whose clocked and +gilded cupola ring sweet chimes at midnight, and whence, throned above +the city, a golden Britannia, in the sight of all men, is seen visibly +ruling the waves--while in the square below the death of Nelson is +played all day in stone, with a frieze of his noble words about the +pedestal. England expects! What an influence that stirring challenge +has yet upon the hearts of men may be seen by any one who will study the +faces of the busy, imaginative cotton-brokers, who, in the thronged and +humming mornings, sell what they have never seen to a customer they will +never see. + +In fact, the end I mean is just the very opposite end to that. It is the +end where the cotton that everybody sells and nobody buys _is_ seen, +piled in great white stacks, or swinging in the air from the necks of +mighty cranes, cranes that could nip up an elephant with as little ado, +and set him down on the wharf, with a box on his ugly ears for his +cowardly trumpeting. It is the end that smells of tar, the domain of the +harbourmasters, where the sailor finds a 'home,'--not too sweet, and +where the wild sea is tamed in a maze of granite squares and basins; the +end where the riggings and buildings rise side by side, and a clerk +might swing himself out upon the yards from his top-floor desk. Here is +the Custom House, and the conversation that shines is full of freightage +and dock dues; here are the shops that sell nothing but oilskins, +sextants, and parrots, and here the taverns do a mighty trade in rum. + +It was in this quarter, for a brief sweet time, that Love and Beauty +made their strange home, as though a pair of halcyons should choose to +nest in the masthead of a cattleship. Love and Beauty chose this +quarter, as, alas! Love and Beauty must choose so many things--for its +cheapness. Love and Beauty were poor, and office rents in this quarter +were exceptionally low. But what should Love and Beauty do with an +office? Love was a poor poet in need of a room for his bed and his +rhymes, and Beauty was a little blue-eyed girl who loved him. + +It was a shabby, forbidding place, gloomy and comfortless as a warehouse +on the banks of Styx. No one but Love and Beauty would have dared to +choose it for their home. But Love and Beauty have a great confidence in +themselves--a confidence curiously supported by history,--and they never +had a moment's doubt that this place was as good as another for an +earthly Paradise. So Love signed an agreement for one great room at the +very top, the very masthead of the building, and Beauty made it pretty +with muslin curtains, flowers, and dainty makeshifts of furniture, but +chiefly with the light of her own heavenly face. A stroke of luck coming +one day to the poet, the lovers, with that extravagance which the poor +alone have the courage to enjoy, procured a piano on the kind-hearted +hire-purchase system, a system specially conceived for lovers. Then, +indeed, for many a wonderful night that room was not only on the seventh +floor, but in the seventh heaven; and as Beauty would sit at the piano, +with her long hair flying loose, and her soul like a whirl of starlight +about her brows, a stranger peering in across the soft lamplight, seeing +her face, hearing her voice, would deem that the long climb, flight +after flight of dreary stair, had been appropriately rewarded by a +glimpse of heaven. + +Certainly it must have seemed a strange contrast from the life about and +below it. The foot of that infernal stair plunged in the warm +rum-and-thick-twist atmosphere of a sailor's tavern--and 'The Jolly +Shipmates' was a house of entertainment by no means to be despised. +Often have I sat there with the poet, drinking the whisky from which +Scotland takes its name, among wondering sea-boots and sou'-westers, who +could make nothing of that wild hair and that still wilder talk. + +From the kingdom of rum and tar you mounted into a zone of commission +agents fund shipbrokers, a chill, unoccupied region, in which every +small office bore the names of half a dozen different firms, and yet +somehow could not contrive to look busy. Finally came an airy echoing +landing, a region of empty rooms, which the landlords in vain +recommended as studios to a city that loved not art. Here dwelt the +keeper and his kind-hearted little wife, and no one besides save Love +and Beauty. There was thus a feeling of rarefaction in the atmosphere, +as though at this height it was only the Alpine flora of humanity that +could find root and breathing. But once along the bare passage and +through a certain door, and what a sudden translation it was into a +gracious world of books and flowers and the peace they always bring. + +Once upon a time, in that enchanted past where dwell all the dreams we +love best, precisely, with loving punctuality, at five in the afternoon, +a pretty, girlish figure, like Persephone escaping from the shades, +stole through the rough sailors at the foot of that sordid Jacob's +ladder and made her way to the little heaven at the top. + +I shall not describe her, for the good reason that I cannot. Leonardo, +ever curious of the beauty that was most strangely exquisite, once in an +inspired hour painted such a face, a face wrought of the porcelain of +earth with the art of heaven. But, whoever should paint it, God +certainly made it--must have been the comment of any one who caught a +glimpse of that little figure vanishing heavenwards up that stair, like +an Assumption of Fra Angelico's--that is, any one interested in art and +angels. + +She had not long to wait outside the door she sought, for the poet, who +had listened all day for the sound, had ears for the whisper of her +skirts as she came down the corridor, and before she had time to knock +had already folded her in his arms. The two babes in that thieves' wood +of commission agents and shipbrokers stood silent together for a +moment, in the deep security of a kiss such as the richest millionaire +could never buy--and then they fell to comparing notes of their day's +work. The poet had had one of his rare good days. He had made no money, +his post had been even more disappointing than usual,--but he had +written a poem, the best he had ever written, he said, as he always said +of his last new thing. He had been burning to read it to somebody all +afternoon--had with difficulty refrained from reading it to the +loquacious little keeper's wife as she brought him some coals--so it was +not to be expected that he should wait a minute before reading it to her +whom indeed it strove to celebrate. With arms round each other's necks, +they bent over the table littered with the new-born poem, all blots and +dashes like the first draft of a composer's score, and the poet, deftly +picking his way among the erasures and interlineations, read aloud the +beautiful words--with a full sense of their beauty!--to ears that deemed +them more beautiful even than they were. The owners of this now valuable +copyright allow me to irradiate my prose with three of the verses. + +'Ah! what,' half-chanted, half-crooned the poet-- + + 'Ah! what a garden is your hair!-- + Such treasure as the kings of old, + In coffers of the beaten gold, + Laid up on earth--and left it there.' + +So tender a reference to hair whose beauty others beside the poet had +loved must needs make a tender interruption--the only kind of +interruption the poet could have forgiven--and 'Who,' he continued-- + + 'Who was the artist of your mouth? + What master out of old Japan + Wrought it so dangerous to man ...' + +And here it was but natural that laughter and kisses should once more +interrupt-- + + 'Those strange blue jewels of your eyes, + Painting the lily of your face, + What goldsmith set them in their place-- + Forget-me-nots of Paradise? + + 'And that blest river of your voice, + Whose merry silver stirs the rest + Of water-lilies in your breast ...' + +At last, in spite of more interruptions, the poem came to an +end--whereupon, of course, the poet immediately read it through once +more from the beginning, its personal and emotional elements, he felt, +having been done more justice on a first reading than its artistic +excellences. + +'Why, darling, it is splendid,' was his little sweetheart's comment; +'you know how happy it makes me to think it was written for me, don't +you?' And she took his hands and looked up at him with eyes like the +morning sky. + +Romance in poetry is almost exclusively associated with very refined +ethereal matters, stars and flowers and such like--happily, in actual +life it is often associated with much humbler objects. Lovers, like +children, can make their paradises out of the quaintest materials. +Indeed, our paradises, if we only knew, are always cheap enough; it is +our hells that are so expensive. Now these lovers--like, if I mistake +not, many other true lovers before and since--when they were +particularly happy, when some special piece of good luck had befallen +them, could think of no better paradise than a little dinner together in +their seventh-story heaven. 'Ah! wilderness were Paradise enow!' + +To-night was obviously such an occasion. But, alas! where was the money +to come from? They didn't need much--for it is wonderful how happy you +can be on five shillings, if you only know how. At the same time it is +difficult to be happy on ninepence--which was the entire fortune of the +lovers at the moment. Beauty laughingly suggested that her celebrated +hair might prove worth the price of their dinner. The poet thought a +pawnbroker might surely be found to advance ten shillings on his +poem--the original MS. too,--else had they nothing to pawn, save a few +gold and silver dreams which they couldn't spare. What was to be done? +Sell some books, of course! It made them shudder to think how many poets +they had eaten in this fashion. It was sheer cannibalism--but what was +to be done? Their slender stock of books had been reduced entirely to +poetry. If there had only been a philosopher or a modern novelist, the +sacrifice wouldn't have seemed so unnatural. And then Beauty's eyes fell +upon a very fat informing-looking volume on the poet's desk. + +'Wouldn't this do?' she said. + +'Why, of course!' he exclaimed; 'the very thing. A new history of +socialism just sent me for review. Hang the review; we want our dinner, +don't we, little one? And then I've read the preface, and looked through +the index--quite enough to make a column of, with a plentiful supply of +general principles thrown in! Why, of course, there's our dinner for +certain, dull and indigestible as it looks. It's worth fifty minor poets +at old Moser's. Come along....' + +So off went the happy pair--ah! how much happier was Beauty than ever so +many fine ladies one knows who have only, so to say, to rub their +wedding-rings for a banquet to rise out of the ground, with the most +distinguished guests around the table, champagne of the best, and +conversation of the worst. + +Old Moser found histories of socialism profitable, more profitable +perhaps than socialism, and he actually gave five-and-sixpence for the +volume. With the ninepence already in their pockets, you will see that +they were now possessors of quite a small fortune. Six-and-threepence! +It wouldn't pay for one's lunch nowadays. Ah! but that is because the +poor alone know the art of dining. + +You needn't wish to be happier and merrier than those two lovers, as +they gaily hastened to that bright and cosy corner of the town where +those lovely ham-and-beef shops make glad the faces of the passers-by. O +those hams with their honest shining faces, polished like mahogany--and +the man inside so happy all day slicing them with those wonderful long +knives (which, of course, the superior class of reader has never seen) +worn away to a veritable thread, a mere wire, but keen as Excalibur. +Beauty used to calculate in her quaint way how much steel was worn away +with each pound of ham, and how much therefore went to the sandwich. And +what an artist was the carver! What a true eye! what a firm, flexible +wrist! never a shaving of fat too much--he was too great an artist for +that. Then there were those dear little cream cheeses, and those little +brown jugs of yellow cream come all the way from Devonshire--you could +hear the cows lowing across the rich pasture, and hear the milkmaids +singing and the milk whizzing into the pail, as you looked at them. + +And then those perfectly lovely sausages--I beg the reader's pardon! I +forgot that the very mention of the word smacks of vulgarity. Yet, all +the same, I venture to think that a secret taste for sausages among the +upper classes is more widespread than we have any idea of. I confess +that Beauty and her poet were at first ashamed of admitting their vulgar +frailty to each other. They needed to know each other very well first. +Yet there is nothing, when once confessed, that brings two people so +close as--a taste for sausages. + +'You darling!' exclaimed Beauty, with something like tears in her voice, +when her poet first admitted this touch of nature--and then next moment +they were in fits of laughter that a common taste for a very 'low' food +should bring tears to their eyes! But such are the vagaries of love--as +you will know, if you know anything about it--'vulgar,' no doubt, though +only the vulgar would so describe them--for it is only vulgarity that +is always 'refined.' + +Then there was the florist's to visit. What beautiful trades some people +ply! To sell flowers is surely like dealing in fairies. Beautiful must +grow the hands that wire them, and sweet the flower-girl's every +thought! + +There remained but the wine merchant's, or, had we not better say at +once, the grocer's, for our lovers could afford no rarer vintages than +Tintara or the golden burgundy of Australia; and it is wonderful to +think what a sense of festivity one of those portly colonial flagons +lent to their little dining-table. Sometimes, I may confide, when they +wanted to feel very dissipated, and were _very_ rich, they would allow +themselves a small bottle of Benedictine--and you should have seen +Beauty's eyes as she luxuriously sipped at her green little liqueur +glass; for, like most innocent people, she enjoyed to the full the +delight of feeling occasionally wicked. However, these were rare +occasions, and this night was not one of them. + +Half a pound of black grapes completed their shopping, and then, with +their arms full of their purchases, they made their way home again, the +two happiest people in what is, after all, a not unhappy world. + +Then came the cooking and the laying of the table. For all her Leonardo +face, Beauty was a great cook--like all good women, she was as earthly +in some respects as she was heavenly in others, which I hold to be a +wise combination--and, indeed, both were excellent cooks; and the poet +was unrivalled at 'washing up,' which, I may say, is the only skeleton +at these Bohemian feasts. + +You should have seen the gusto with which Beauty pricked those +sausages--I had better explain to the un-Bohemian reader that to attempt +to cook a sausage without first pricking it vigorously with a fork, to +allow for the expansion of its juicy gases, is like trying to smoke a +cigar without first cutting off the end--and oh! to hear again their +merry song as they writhed in torment in the hissing pan, like Christian +martyrs raising hymns of praise from the very core of Smithfield fires. + +Meanwhile, the poet would be surpassing himself in the setting-out of +the little table, cutting up the bread reverently as though it were for +an altar--as indeed it was,--studying the effect of the dish of +tomatoes, now at this corner, now at that, arranging the flowers with +much more care than he arranged the adjectives in his sonnets, and +making ever so sumptuous an effect with that half a pound of grapes. + +And then at last the little feast would begin, with a long grace of eyes +meeting and hands clasping: true eyes that said, 'How good it is to +behold you, to be awake together in this dream of life!' true hands that +said, 'I will hold you fast for ever--not death even shall pluck you +from my hand, shall loose this bond of you and me'; true eyes, true +hands, that had immortal meanings far beyond the speech of mortal words. + +And it had all come out of that dull history of socialism, and had cost +little more than a crown! What lovely things can be made out of money! +Strange to think that a little silver coin of no possible use or beauty +in itself can be exchanged for so much tangible, beautiful pleasure. A +piece of money is like a piece of opium, for in it lie locked up the +most wonderful dreams--if you have only the brains and hearts to dream +them. + +When at last the little feast grew near its end, Love and Beauty would +smoke their cigarettes together; and it was a favourite trick of theirs +to lower the lamp a moment, so that they might see the stars rush down +upon them through the skylight which hung above their table. It gave +them a sense of great sentinels, far away out in the lonely universe, +standing guard over them, seemed to say that their love was safe in the +tender keeping of great forces. They were poor, but then they had the +stars and the flowers and the great poets for their servants and +friends; and, best of all, they had each other. Do you call that being +poor? + +And then, in the corner, stood that magical box with the ivory keys, +whose strings waited ready night and day--strange media through which +the myriad voices, the inner-sweet thoughts, of the great world-soul +found speech, messengers of the stars to the heart, and of the heart to +the stars. + +Beauty's songs were very simple. She got little practice, for her poet +only cared to have her sing over and over again the same sweet songs; +and perhaps if you had heard her sing 'Ask nothing more of me, sweet,' +or 'Darby and Joan,' you would have understood his indifference to +variety. + +At last the little feast is quite, quite finished. Beauty has gone home; +her lover still carries her face in his heart as she waved and waved and +waved to him from the rattling lighted tramcar; long he sits and sits +thinking of her, gazing up at those lonely ancient stars; the air is +still bright with her presence, sweet with her thoughts, warm with her +kisses, and as he turns to the shut piano, he can still see her white +hands on the keys and her girlish face raised in an ecstasy--Beata +Beatrix--above the music. + + 'O love, my love! if I no more should see + Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, + Nor image of thine eyes in any spring-- + How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope + The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, + The wind of Death's imperishable wing!' + +And then ... he would throw himself upon his bed, and burst into tears. + + * * * * * + + 'And they are gone: aye, ages long ago + These lovers fled away into the storm.' + +That seventh-story heaven once more leads a dull life as the office of a +ship-chandler, and harsh voices grate the air where Beauty sang. The +books and the flowers and the lovers' faces are gone for ever. I suppose +the stars are the same, and perhaps they sometimes look down through +that roof-window, and wonder what has become of those two lovers who +used to look up at them so fearlessly long ago. + +But friends of mine who believe in God say that He has given His angels +charge concerning that dingy old seventh-floor heaven, and that, for +those who have eyes to see, there is no place where a great dream has +been dreamed that is not thus watched over by the guardian angels of +memory. + +_For M. Le G., 25 September 1895._ + + + + +SPRING BY PARCEL POST + + + They've taken all the spring from the country to the town-- + Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow.... + +So began to jig and jingle my thoughts as in my letters and newspapers +this morning I read, buried alive among the solitary fastnesses of the +Surrey hills, the last news from town. The news I envied most was that +spring had already reached London. 'Now,' ran a pretty article on spring +fashions, 'the sunshine makes bright the streets, and the +flower-baskets, like huge bouquets, announce the gay arrival of spring.' +I looked up and out through my hillside window. The black ridge on the +other side of the valley stood a grim wall of burnt heather against the +sky--which sky, like the bullets in the nursery rhyme, was made +unmistakably of lead; a close rain was falling methodically, and, +generally speaking, the world looked like a soaked mackintosh. It wasn't +much like the gay arrival of spring, and grimly I mused on the +advantages of life in town. + +Certainly, it did seem hard, I reflected, that town should be ahead of +us even in such a country matter as spring. Flower-baskets indeed! Why, +we haven't as much as a daisy for miles around. It is true that on the +terrace there the crocuses blaze like a street on fire, that the +primroses thicken into clumps, lying among their green leaves like +pounds of country butter; it is true that the blue cones of the little +grape hyacinth are there, quaintly formal as a child's toy-flowers; yes! +and the big Dutch hyacinths are already shamelessly _enceinte_ with +their buxom waxen blooms, so fat and fragrant--(one is already delivered +of a fine blossom. Well, that is a fine baby, to be sure! say the other +hyacinths, with babes no less bonny under their own green aprons--all +waiting for the doctor sun). Then among the blue-green blades of the +narcissus, here and there you see a stem topped with a creamish +chrysalis-like envelope, from which will soon emerge a beautiful eye, +rayed round with white wings, looking as though it were meant to fly, +but remaining rooted--a butterfly on a stalk; while all the beds are +crowded with indeterminate beak and blade, pushing and elbowing each +other for a look at the sun, which, however, sulkily declines to look at +them. It is true there is spring on the terrace, but even so it is +spring imported from the town--spring bought in Holborn, spring +delivered free by parcel post; for where would the terrace have been but +for the city seedsman--that magician who sends you strangely spotted +beans and mysterious bulbs in shrivelled cerements, weird little +flower-mummies that suggest centuries of forgotten silence in painted +Egyptian tombs. This strange and shrivelled thing can surely never live +again, we say, as we hold it in our hands, seeing not the glowing +circles of colour, tiny rings of Saturn, packed so carefully inside this +flower-egg, the folds of green and silver silk wound round and round the +precious life within. + +But, of course, this is all the seedsman's cunning, and no credit to +Nature; and I repeat, that were it not for railways and the parcel +post--goodness knows whether we should ever get any spring at all in the +country! Think of the days when it had to travel down by stage-coach. +For, left to herself, what is the best Nature can do for you with March +well on the way? Personally, I find the face of the country practically +unchanged. It is, to all intents and purposes, the same as it has been +for the last three or four months--as grim, as unadorned, as bleak, as +draughty, and generally as comfortless as ever. There isn't a flower to +be seen, hardly a bird worth listening to, not a tree that is not +winter-naked, and not a chair to sit down upon. If you want flowers on +your walks you must bring them with you; songs, you must take a poet +under your arm; and if you want to rest, lean laboriously on your +stick--or take your chance of rheumatism. + +Of course your specialists, your botanists, your nature-detectives, will +tell you otherwise. They have surprised a violet in the act of +blossoming; after long and excited chase have discovered a clump of +primroses in their wild state; seen one butterfly, heard one cuckoo. But +as one swallow does not make a summer, it takes more than one cuckoo to +make a spring. I confess that only yesterday I saw three sulphur +butterflies, with my own eyes; I admit the catkins, and the +silver-notched palm; and I am told on good colour-authority that there +is a lovely purplish bloom, almost like plum-bloom, over certain copses +in the valley; by taking thought, I have observed the long horizontal +arms of the beech growing spurred with little forked branches of +spear-shaped buds, and I see little green nipples pushing out through +the wolf-coloured rind of the dwarf fir-trees. Spring is arming in +secret to attack the winter--that is sure enough, but spring in secret +is no spring for me. I want to see her marching gaily with green +pennons, and flashing sun-blades, and a good band. + +I want butterflies as they have them at the Lyceum--'butterflies all +white,' 'butterflies all blue,' 'butterflies of gold,' and I should +particularly fancy 'butterflies all black.' But there, again, you +see,--you must go to town, within hearing of Mrs. Patrick Campbell's +_voix d'or_. I want the meadows thickly inlaid with buttercups and +daisies; I want the trees thick with green leaves, the sky all larks and +sunshine; I want hawthorn and wild roses--both at once; I want some go, +some colour, some warmth in the world. Oh, where are the pipes of Pan? + +The pipes of Pan are in town, playing at street corners and in the +centres of crowded circuses, piled high with flower-baskets blazing with +refulgent flowery masses of white and gold. Here are the flowers you can +only buy in town; simple flowers enough, but only to be had in town. +Here are fragrant banks of violets every few yards, conflagrations of +daffodils at every crossing, and narcissus in scented starry garlands +for your hair. + +You wander through the Strand, or along Regent Street, as through the +meadows of Enna--sweet scents, sweet sounds, sweet shapes, are all about +you; the town-butterflies, white, blue, and gold, 'wheel and shine' and +flutter from shop to shop, suddenly resurgent from their winter +wardrobes as from a chrysalis; bright eyes flash and flirt along the +merry, jostling street, while the sun pours out his golden wine +overhead, splashing it about from gilded domes and bright-faced +windows--and ever are the voices at the corners and the crossings +calling out the sweet flower-names of the spring! + + * * * * * + +But here in the country it is still all rain and iron. I am tired of +waiting for this slow-moving provincial spring. Let us to the town to +meet the spring--for: + + They've taken all the spring from the country to the town-- + Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow; + And if you want a primrose, you write to London now, + And if you need a nightingale, well,--Whiteley sends it down. + + + + +THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND + + +In an age curious of new pleasures, the merry-go-round seems still to +maintain its ancient popularity. I was the other day the delighted, +indeed the fascinated, spectator of one in full swing in an old +Thames-side town. It was a very superior example, with a central musical +engine of extraordinary splendour, and horses that actually curveted, as +they swirled maddeningly round to the strains of 'The Man that Broke the +Bank at Monte Carlo.' How I longed to join the wild riders! But though I +am a brave man, I confess that to ride a merry-go-round in front of a +laughter-loving Cockney public is more than I can dare. I had to content +myself with watching the faces of the riders. I noticed particularly one +bright-eyed little girl, whose whole passionate young soul seemed to be +on fire with ecstasy, and for whom it was not difficult to prophesy +trouble when time should bring her within reach of more dangerous +excitements. Then there was a stolid little boy, dull and unmoved in +expression, as though he were in church. Life, one felt sure, would be +safe enough, and stupid enough, for him; the world would have no music +to stir or draw him. The fifes would go down the street with a sweet +sound of marching feet, and the eyes of other men would brighten and +their blood be all glancing spears and streaming banners, but he would +remain behind his counter; from the strange hill beyond the town the +dear, unholy music, so lovely in the ears of other men and maids, would +call to him in vain, and morning and evening the stars would sing above +his draper's shop, but he never hear a word. + +What particularly struck me was the number of quite grown-up, even +elderly, people who came and had their pennyworth of horse-exercise. Now +it was a grave young workman quietly smoking his pipe as he revolved; +now it was a stout middle-aged woman returning from marketing, on whom +the Zulu music and the whirling horses laid their irresistible spells. +Unless ye become as little children! + +Is the Kingdom of Heaven really at hand? For, indeed, men and women, and +perhaps particularly literary men and women, are once more becoming as +little children in their pleasures. + +Seriously, one of the most curious and significant of recent literary +phenomena is the sudden return of the literary man to physical, and +so-called 'Philistine,' pleasures and modes of recreation. Perhaps +Stevenson set the fashion with his canoe and his donkey. But at the +moment that he was valiantly daring any one to tell him whether there +was anything better worth doing 'than fooling among boats,' Edward +Fitzgerald, all unconscious and careless of literary fashions, was +giving still more practical expression to the physical faith that was in +him, by going shares in a Lowestoft herring-lugger, and throwing his +heart as well as his money into the fortunes of its noble skipper +'Posh.' A literary man _par excellence_, Mr. Lang reproaches his sires +for his present way of life-- + + 'Why lay your gipsy freedom down + And doom your child to pen and ink?' + +and by steady and persistent golfing, and writing about angling and +cricket, comes as near to the noble savage as is possible to so +incorrigibly civilised a man. Mr. Henley--that Berserker of the +pen--sings the sword with a vigour that makes one curious to see him +using it, and we all know Mr. Kipling's views on the matter. Then Mr. +Bernard Shaw rides a bicycle! + +Those men of letters whose inclinations or opportunities do not lead +them to these out-of-door, and more or less ferocious, pleasures seek to +forget themselves at the music-hall, the Aquarium, or the numerous +Earl's Court exhibitions. They become amateurs of foreign dancing, +connoisseurs of the trapeze, or they leave their great minds at home and +go up the Great Wheel. Earl's Court, particularly, is becoming quite a +modern Vauxhall--Tan-ta-ra-ra! Earl's Court! Earl's Court!--and Mr. Imre +Kiralfy, with his conceptions and designs, is to our generation what +Albert Smith was to the age of Dickens and Edmund Yates. + +It takes some experience of life to realise how right this is; to +realise that, after all our fine philosophies and cocksure sciences, +there is no better answer to the riddle of things than a good game of +cricket or an exciting spin on one's 'bike.' The real inner significance +of Earl's Court--Mr. Kiralfy will no doubt be prepared to hear--is the +failure of science as an answer to life. We give up the riddle, and +enjoy ourselves with our wiser children. Simple pleasures, no doubt, for +the profound! But what is simple, and what is profound? + +The simple joy we get from 'fooling among boats' on a summer day, the +thrill of a well-hit ball, the rapture of a skilful dive, are no more +easy to explain than the more complicated pleasures of literature, or +art, or religion. And why is it--to come closer to our theme--that the +round or the whirling have such attraction for us? What is the secret of +the fascination of the circle? Why is it that the turning of anything, +be it but a barrel-organ or a phrase, holds one as with an hypnotic +power? I confess that I can never genuinely pity a knife-grinder, +however needy. Think of the pleasure of driving that wheel all day, the +merry chirp of the knife on the stone, and the crisp, bright spray of +the flying sparks! Why, he does 'what some men dream of all their +lives'! Wheels of all kinds have the same strange charm; mill-wheels, +colliery-wheels, spinning-wheels, water-wheels, and wheeling waters: +there may--who knows?--have been a certain pleasure in being broken on +the wheel, and, at all events, that hideous punishment is another +curious example of the fascination of the circle. It would take a whole +volume to illustrate the prevalence of the circle in external nature, in +history, and, even more significant, in language. We all know, or think +we know, that the world is round-- + + 'This orb--this round + Of sight and sound,' + +as Mr. Quiller Couch sings--though I remember a porter at school who was +sure that it was flat, and who used to say that Hamlet's + + 'How weary, stale, _flat_, and unprofitable + Seem to me all the uses of this _world_!' + +was a cryptic reference to Shakespeare's secret belief in his theory. +Many of the things we love most are round. Is not money, according to +the proverb, made round that it may go round, and are not the men most +in demand described as 'all-round men'? Nor are all-round women without +their admirers. Events, we know, move in a circle, as time moves in +cycles--though, alas! not on them. The ballet and the bicycle are +popular forms of the circle, and it is the charm of the essay to be +'roundabout.' + +Again, how is it that that which on a small scale does not impress us at +all, when on a large scale impresses us so much? What is the secret of +the impressiveness of size, bulk, height, depth, speed, and mileage? +Philosophically, a mountain is no more wonderful than a molehill, yet no +man is knighted for climbing a molehill. One little drop of water and +one little grain of sand are essentially as wonderful as 'the mighty +ocean' or 'the beauteous land' to which they contribute. A balloon is +no more wonderful than an air-bubble, and were you to build an Atlantic +liner as big as the Isle of Wight it would really be no more remarkable +than an average steam-launch. Nobody marvels at the speed of a snail, +yet, given a snail's pace to start with, an express train follows as a +matter of course. Movement, not the rate of movement, is the mystery. +Precisely the same materials, the same forces, the same methods, are +employed in the little as in the big of these examples. Why should mere +accumulation, reiteration, and magnification make the difference? We may +ask why? But it does, for all that. If we answer that these mammoth +multiplications impress us because they are so much bigger, taller, +fatter, faster, etc., than we are, the question arises--How many times +bigger than a man must a mountain be before it impresses us? Perhaps the +problem has already been tackled by the schoolman who pondered how many +angels could dance on the point of a needle. + +However, these and similar first principles, it will readily be seen, +are far from being irrelevant for the visitor at the Earl's Court +Exhibition. No doubt they are continually discussed by the thousands who +daily and nightly throng that very charming dream-world which Mr. +Kiralfy has built 'midmost the beating' of our 'steely sea.' + +To an age that is over-read and over-fed Mr. Kiralfy brings the message: +'Leave your great minds at home, and go up the Great Wheel!' and I heard +his voice and obeyed. The sensation is, I should say, something between +going up in a balloon and being upon shipboard--a sensation compounded, +maybe, of the creaking of the circular rigging, the pleasure of rising +in the air, the freshening of the air as you ascend, the strange feeling +of the earth receding and spreading out beneath you, the curious +diminution of the people below--to their proper size. You will hear +original minds all about you comparing them to ants, and it is curious +to notice the involuntary feeling of contempt that possesses you as you +watch them. I believe one has a half-defined illusion that we are +growing greater as they are growing smaller. Ants and flies! ants and +flies! with here and there a fiery centipede in the shape of a District +train dashing in and out amongst them. We lose the power of +understanding their motions, and their throngs and movements do indeed +seem as purposeless at this height as the hurry-scurrying about an +anthill. At this height, indeed, one seems to understand how small a +matter a bank smash may seem to the Almighty; though, as a lady said to +me--as we clung tightly together in terror 'a-top of the topmost +bough'--it must be gratifying to see so many churches. + +Those who would keep their illusions about the beauty of London had +better stay below, at least in the daytime, for it makes one's heart +sink to look on those miles and miles of sordid grey roofs huddled in +meaningless rows and crescents, just for all the world like a huge +child's box of wooden bricks waiting to be arranged into some +intelligible pattern. Of course, this is not London proper. Were the +Great Wheel set up in Trafalgar Square, one is fain to hope that the +view from it would be less disheartening--though it might be better not +to try. + +By night, except for the bright oases of the Indian Exhibition, the view +is little more than a black blank, a great inky plain with faint sparks +and rows of light here and there, as though the world had been made of +saltpetre paper, and had lately been set fire to. Were you a traveller +from Mars you would say that the world was very badly lighted. But, for +all that, night is the time for the Great Wheel, for the conflagration +of pleasure at our feet makes us forget the void dark beyond. Then the +Wheel seems like a great revolving spider's web, with fireflies +entangled in it at every turn, and the little engine-house at the +centre, with its two electric lights, seems like the great lord spider, +with monstrous pearls for his eyes. And, as in the daytime the height +robs the depth of its significance, strips poor humanity of any +semblance of impressive or attractive meaning, at night the effect is +just the reverse. What a fairy-world is this opening out beneath our +feet, with its golden glowing squares and circles and palaces, with its +lamplit gardens and pagodas! and who are these gay and beautiful beings +flitting hither and thither, and passing from one bright garden to +another on the stream of pleasure? If this many-coloured, passionate +dream be really human life, let us hasten to be down amongst it once +more! And, after all, is not this flattering night aspect of the world +more true than that disheartening countenance of it in the daylight? +Those golden squares and glowing gardens and flashing waters are, of +course, an illusion of the magician Kiralfy's, yet what power could the +illusion have upon us without the realities of beauty and love and +pleasure it attracts there? + + + + +THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET + + +One morning of all mornings the citizens of Verona were startled by +strange news. Tragic forces, to which they had been accustomed to pay +little heed, had been at work in their city during the dark hours, and +young Romeo of the Montagues, handsome, devil-may-care lad as they had +known him, and little Juliet of the Capulets, that madcap, merry, gentle +young mistress, lay dead, side by side in the church of Santa Maria. + +Death! surely they were used to death! and Love, flower of the clove! +they were used to _love_. But here were love and death, that somehow +they could not understand. So they hurried in wondering groups to Santa +Maria, that they might gaze at the dead lovers, and thus perhaps come to +understand. + +Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came. And their +presence-chamber was bright with candles and flowers, and sweet with +the sweet smell of death. The air that had drunk in their wild words +and their last long looks of heavenly love still hung about the dark +corners, as the air where a rose has been holds a little while the +memory of its breath. Yes! that morning, in that dank but shining +tomb, you might draw into you the very breath of love. The air you +breathed had passed through the sweet lungs of Juliet, it had been +etherealised with her holy passion, and washed clean with her lovely +words. And now, for a little while yet, it feasted on the fair peace +of their glad young faces. To-morrow, or the next day, or the next +week, they would belong to the unvisited treasure-house of the past, +but now this morning of all mornings, this day that could never come +again, they still belonged to the real and radiant present. + +Flowers there are that bloom but once in a hundred years, but here in +this tomb had blossomed one of those marvellous flowers that bloom but +once throughout eternity. Poets and kings in after-times, O men of +Verona, will yearn to have seen what you look upon to-day. For you, you +thick and greasy citizens, are chosen out of all time to behold this +beauty. There were once in the world thousands of men and women who had +heard the very words of Christ as they fell from His lips, words that we +may only read. There have been men, actual living, foolish men, who have +looked on at the valour of Horatius, men who from the crowded banks of +the Nile have watched the living body of Cleopatra step into her gilded +barge, men who, standing idle in the streets of Florence, have seen the +love-light start in the great Dante's eyes, seen his hand move to his +laden heart, as the little Beatrice passed him by among her maidens. +Base men of the past, by the indulgent accident of time, have been +granted to behold these wonders, and now for you, O men of Verona, a +like wonder has been born. + + * * * * * + +Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came. + +It had been an innocent little desire, yet had all the world come +against it. It had been a simple little desire, yet too strong for all +the world to break. + +Strange this enmity of the world to love, as though men should take arms +against the song of a bird, or plot against the opening of a flower. + +But now, what was this strange homage to a love that a few hours ago had +no friend in all the daylight, a fearful bliss beneath the secret moon? +But yesterday a stupid old nurse, a herb-gathering friar, a rascally +apothecary, had been their only friends, and now was all the world come +here to do their bidding. + +No need to steal again beneath the shade of orchard walls, no need again +to heed if lark or nightingale sang in the reddening east. For the world +had grown all warm to love, warm and kind as June to the rose. + + * * * * * + +Three days lay Romeo and Juliet receiving their guests in the vault of +the Capulets, with that strange smile of welcome for all who came. +Three days the world worshipped the love it could not understand, but +still came dense and denser throngs to worship. For the news of the +wonderful flower that had blossomed in Verona had gone far and wide, and +travellers from distant cities kept pouring in to look at those strange +young lovers, who had deemed the world well lost so that they might +leave it together. + +Then the governor of the city decreed, as the time drew near when the +two lovers must be left to their peace, and it was ill that any should +lose the sight of this marvel, that on the fourth day they should be +carried through the streets in the eyes of all the people, and then be +buried together in the vault of the Capulets--for by this burial in the +same tomb, says the old chronicler who was first honoured with the +telling of their sweet story, the governor hoped to bring about a peace +between the Montagues and Capulets, at least for a little while. + +Meanwhile, though Verona was a city of many trades and professions, and +love and death were idle things, yet was there little said of business +all these days, and little else done but talk of the two lovers, of +whom, indeed, it was true, as it has seldom been true out of Holy Writ, +that death was swallowed up in victory. During these days also there +stole a strange sweetness over the city, as though the very spirit of +love had nested there, and was filling the air with its soft +breathing--as when in the first days of spring the birds sing so sweetly +that broken hearts must hide away, and hard hearts grow a little kind. +Men once more spoke kindly to their wives, and even coarse faces wore a +gentle light,--just as sometimes at evening the setting sun will turn to +tenderness even black rocks and frowning towers. + +There were many wild stories afloat about the end of the lovers. Some +said one way and some another. By some the story went that Romeo was +already dead before Juliet had awakened from her swoon, but others +declared that the poison had not worked upon him until Juliet's +awakening had made him awhile forget that he was to die. There were +those who professed to know the very words of their wild farewell, and +in fact there had been several witnesses of Juliet's agony over the body +of her lord. These had told how first she had raved and clung to him, +and called him 'Romeo,' 'Sweet Sir Romeo,' 'Husband,' and many +flower-like names, and had petted him and wooed him to come back. Then +on a sudden she had cried, God-a-mercy--how cold thou art!' and looked +at him long and strangely. Then had she grown stern, and anon soft. +'Canst thou not come back, my love? Then must I follow thee. Not so far +art thou on the way of death, but that I shall overtake thee, and +together shall we go to Pluto's realm, and seek a kinder world.' + +Thereat she had plunged Romeo's dagger into her side, though some said +she had stopped her heart's beating by the strong will of her great +love. Yea--such were the distracted rumours--some averred that at the +last she had curst Christ and His saints, and called upon Venus, who, it +was rumoured in awestruck whispers, was being worshipped once more in +secret corners of the world. + +It was strong noon when, on the fourth day, Romeo and Juliet were +carried through the bright and solemn streets, that the world might be +saved; saved as ever by the spectacle and the worship of a mysterious +nobility, [comma added by transcriber] an uncomprehended greatness, a +beauty which haunts not its daily dreams, lifted up by the humble gaze +of devout eyes into the empyrean of greater souls, stirred to an +unfamiliar passion, and fired with glimpses of a strange unworldly +truth. + +In the light of the sun the faces of the two lovers, as they lay amid +their flowers, seemed to have grown a little weary, but they still wore +their sweet and royal smile, and their laurelled brows were very white +and proud. + +And in the faces that looked upon them, as they moved slowly by, with +sweet death music, and the hushed marching of feet, and the wafted odour +of lilies, there was to be seen strangely blent a great pity for their +tragedy and a heavenly tenderness for their love. It was like a dream +passing down the streets of a dream, so deep and tender was the silence, +for only the hearts of men were speaking; though here and there a girl +sobbed, or a young man buried his face in his sleeve, and the sternest +eyes were dashed with the holy water of tears. And with the pity and +tenderness, who shall say but that in all that silent heart-speech there +was no little envy of the two who had loved so truly and died in the +springtide of their love, before the ways of love had grown dusty with +its summer, or dreary with its autumn, before its dreams had petrified +into duties, and its passion deadened into use? + +'Would it were thou and I,' said many wedded eyes one to the other, +delusively warm and soft for a moment, but all cold and hard again on +the morrow. + +And maybe some poet would say in his heart-- + +'If you loved her living, my Romeo, what were your love could you but +see her dead!' for indeed life has no beauty so wonderful as the beauty +of death. + +And, as in all places and times, there was a base remnant that gaped and +worshipped not, and in their hearts resented all this distinction paid +to a nobility they could not recognise, as the like had grumbled when +Cimabue's Madonna had been carried through the streets in glory. But of +these there is no need that we should take account, any more than of the +beasts that moved head down amid the pastures outside the town, knowing +not of the wonder that was passing within. For the ass will munch his +thistles though the Son of Man be his rider, nor will the sheep look +aside from his grazing though Apollo be the herdsman. + + * * * * * + +At length the sacred pageant was ended, gone like the passing of an +aerial music, and the people went to their homes silent, with haunted +eyes; while the Earth, which had given this beauty, took it back to +herself, and one more Persephone of human loveliness was shut within the +gates of the forgetful grave. + + + + +VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT + + +A very Pre-Raphaelite friend of mine came to me one day and said _à +propos_ of his having designed a very Early English chair: 'After all, +if one has anything to say one might as well put it into a chair!' + +I thought the remark rather delicious, as also his other remark when one +day in a curiosity-shop we were looking at another chair, which the +dealer declared to be Norman. My friend seated himself in it very +gravely, and after softly moving about from side to side, testing it, it +would appear, by the sensation it imparted to the sitting portion of his +limbs, he solemnly decided: 'I don't think the _flavour_ of this chair +is Norman!' + +I thought of this Pre-Raphaelite brother as the Sphinx and I were seated +a few evenings ago at our usual little dinner, in our usual little +sheltered corner, on the Lover's Gallery of one of the great London +restaurants. The Sphinx says that there is only one place in Europe +where one can really dine, but as it is impossible to be always within +reasonable train service of that Montsalvat of cookery, she consents to +eat with me--she cannot call it dine--at the restaurant of which I +speak. I being very simple-minded, untravelled, and unlanguaged, think +it, in my Cockney heart, a very fine place indeed, with its white marble +pillars surrounding the spacious peristyle, and flashing with a thousand +brilliant lights and colours; with its stately cooks, clothed in white +samite, mystic, wonderful, ranged behind a great altar loaded with big +silver dishes, and the sacred musicians of the temple ranged behind +them--while in and out go the waiters, clothed in white and black, +waiters so good and kind that I am compelled to think of Elijah being +waited on by angels. + +They have such an eye for a romance, too, and really take it personally +to heart if it should befall that our little table is usurped by others +that know not love. I like them, too, because they really seem to have +an eye for the strange beauty and charm of the Sphinx, quite an +unexpected taste for Botticelli. They ill conceal their envy of my lot, +and sometimes, in the meditative pauses between the courses, I see them +romantically reckoning how it might be possible by desperately saving +up, by prodigious windfalls of tips, from unexampled despatch and +sweetness in their ministrations, how it might be possible in ten years' +time, perhaps even in five--the lady would wait five years! and her +present lover could be artistically poisoned meanwhile!--how it might be +possible to come and sue for her beautiful hand. Then a harsh British +cry for 'waiter' comes like a rattle and scares away that beautiful +dream-bird, though, as the poor dreamer speeds on the quest of roast +beef for four, you can see it still circling with its wonderful blue +feathers around his pomatumed head. + +Ah, yes, the waiters know that the Sphinx is no ordinary woman. She +cannot conceal even from them the mystical star of her face, they too +catch far echoes of the strange music of her brain, they too grow +dreamy with dropped hints of fragrance from the rose of her wonderful +heart. + +How reverently do they help her doff her little cloak of silk and lace! +with what a worshipful inclination of the head, as in the presence of a +deity, do they await her verdict of choice between rival soups--shall it +be 'clear or thick'? And when she decides on 'thick,' how relieved they +seem to be, as if--well, some few matters remain undecided in the +universe, but never mind, this is settled for ever--no more doubts +possible on one portentous issue, at any rate--Madame will take her soup +'thick.' + +'On such a night' our talk fell upon whitebait. + +As the Sphinx's silver fork rustled among the withered silver upon her +plate, she turned to me and said: + +'Have you ever thought what beautiful little things these whitebait +are?' + +'Oh, yes,' I replied, 'they are the daisies of the deep sea, the +threepenny-pieces of the ocean.' + +'You dear!' said the Sphinx, who is alone in the world in thinking me +awfully clever. 'Go on, say something else, something pretty about +whitebait--there's a subject for you!' + +Then it was that, fortunately, I remembered my Pre-Raphaelite friend, +and I sententiously remarked: 'Of course, if one has anything to say one +cannot do better than say it about whitebait.... Well, whitebait....' + +But here, providentially, the band of the beef--that is, the band behind +the beef; that is, the band that nightly hymns the beef (the phrase is +to be had in three qualities)--struck up the overture from _Tannhäuser_, +which is not the only music that makes the Sphinx forget my existence; +and thus, forgetting me, she momentarily forgot the whitebait. But I +remembered, remembered hard--worked at pretty things, as metal-workers +punch out their flowers of brass and copper. The music swirled about us +like golden waves, in which swam myriad whitebait, like showers of tiny +stars, like falling snow. To me it was one grand processional of +whitebait, silver ripples upon streams of gold. + +The music stopped. The Sphinx turned to me with the soul of Wagner in +her eyes, and then she turned to the waiter: 'Would it be possible,' she +said, 'to persuade the bandmaster to play that wonderful thing over +again?' + +The waiter seemed a little doubtful, even for the Sphinx, but he went +off to the bandmaster with the air of a man who has at last an +opportunity to show that he can dare all for love. Personally, I have a +suspicion that he poured his month's savings at the bandmaster's feet, +and begged him to do this thing for the most wonderful lady in the +world; or perhaps the bandmaster was really a musician, and his +musician's heart was touched--lonely there amid the beef--to think that +there was really some one, invisible though she were to him, some +shrouded silver presence, up there among the beefeaters, who really +loved to hear great music. Perhaps it was thus made a night he has never +forgotten; perhaps it changed the whole course of his life--who knows? +The sweet reassuring request may have come to him at a moment when, sick +at heart, he was deciding to abandon real music for ever, and settle +down amid the beef and the beef-music of Old England. + +Well, however it was, the waiter came back radiant with a 'Yes' on every +shining part of him, and if the _Tannhäuser_ had been played well at +first, certainly the orchestra surpassed themselves this second time. + +When the great jinnee of music had once more swept out of the hall, the +Sphinx turned with shining eyes to the waiter: + +'Take,' she said, 'take these tears to the bandmaster. He has indeed +earned them.' + +'Tears, little one!' I said. 'See how they swim like whitebait in the +fishpools of your eyes!' + +'Oh, yes, the whitebait,' rejoined the Sphinx, glad of a subject to hide +her emotion. 'Now tell me something nice about them, though the poor +little things have long since disappeared. Tell me, for instance, how +they get their beautiful little silver waterproofs?' + +'Electric Light of the World,' I said, 'it is like this. While they are +still quite young and full of dreams, their mother takes them out in +picnic parties of a billion or so at a time to where the spring moon is +shining, scattering silver from its purse of pearl far over the wide +waters,--silver, silver, for every little whitebait that cares to swim +and pick it up. The mother, who has a contract with some such big +restaurateur as ours, chooses a convenient area of moonlight, and then +at a given sign they all turn over on their sides, and bask and bask in +the rays, little fin pressed lovingly against little fin--for this is +the happiest time in the young whitebait's life: it is at these +silvering parties that matches are made and future consignments of +whitebait arranged for. Well, night after night, they thus lie in the +moonlight, first on one side, then on the other, till by degrees, tiny +scale by scale, they have become completely lunar-plated. Ah! how sad +they are when the end of that happy time has come!' + +'And what happens to them after that?' asked the Sphinx. + +'One night when the moon is hidden their mother comes to them with +treacherous wile, and suggests that they should go off on a holiday +again to seek the moon--the moon that for a moment seems captured by the +pearl-fishers of the sky. And so off they go merrily, but, alas! no moon +appears; and presently they are aware of unwieldy bumping presences upon +the surface of the sea, presences as of huge dolphins; and rough voices +call across the water, till, scared, the little whitebaits turn home in +flight--to find themselves somehow meshed in an invisible prison, a net +as fine and strong as air, into which, O agony! they are presently +hauled, lovely banks of silver, shining like opened coffers beneath the +coarse and ragged flares of yellow torches. The rest is silence.' + +'What sad little lives! and what a cruel world it is!' said the +Sphinx--as she crunched with her knife through the body of a lark, that +but yesterday had been singing in the blue sky. Its spirit sang just +above our heads as she ate, and the air was thick with the grey ghosts +of all the whitebait she had eaten that night. + +But there were no longer any tears in her eyes. + + + + +THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE + + +The Sphinx and I sat in our little box at _Romeo and Juliet_. It was the +first time she had seen that fairy-tale of passion upon the stage. I had +seen it played once before--in Paradise. Therefore, I rather trembled to +see it again in an earthly play-house, and as much as possible kept my +eyes from the stage. All I knew of the performance--but how much was +that!--was two lovely voices making love like angels; and when there +were no words, the music told me what was going on. Love speaks so many +languages. + +One might as well look. It was as clear as moonlight to the tragic eye +within the heart. The Sphinx was gazing on it all with those eyes that +will never grow old, neither for years nor tears; but though I seemed to +be seeing nothing but an advertisement of Paderewski pianos on the +programme, I saw it--oh, didn't I see it?--all. The house had grown +dark, and the music low and passionate, and for a moment no one was +speaking. Only, deep in the thickets of my heart there sang a tragic +nightingale that, happily, only I could hear; and I said to myself, 'Now +the young fool is climbing the orchard wall! Yes, there go Benvolio and +Mercutio calling him; and now,--"he jests at scars who never felt a +wound"--the other young fool is coming out on to the balcony. God help +them both! They have no eyes--no eyes--or surely they would see the +shadow that sings "Love! Love! Love!" like a fountain in the moonlight, +and then shrinks away to chuckle "Death! Death! Death!" in the +darkness!' + +But, soft, what light from yonder window breaks! + +The Sphinx turned to me for sympathy--this time it was the soul of +Shakespeare in her eyes. + +'Yes!' I whispered, 'it is the Opening of the Eternal Rose, sung by the +Eternal Nightingale!' + +She pressed my hand approvingly; and while the lovely voices made their +heavenly love, I slipped out my silver-bound pocket-book of ivory and +pressed within it the rose which had just fallen from my lips. + +The worst of a great play is that one is so dull between the acts. Wit +is sacrilege, and sentiment is bathos. Not another rose fell from my +lips during the performance, though that I minded little, as I was the +more able to count the pearls that fell from the Sphinx's eyes. + +It took quite half a bottle of champagne to pull us up to our usual +spirits, as we sat at supper at a window where we could see London +spread out beneath us like a huge black velvet flower, dotted with fiery +embroideries, sudden flaring stamens, and rows of ant-like fireflies +moving in slow zig-zag processions along and across its petals. + +'How strange it seems,' said the Sphinx, 'to think that for every two of +those moving double-lights, which we know to be the eyes of hansoms, but +which seem up here nothing but gold dots in a very barbaric pattern of +black and gold, there are two human beings, no doubt at this time of +night two lovers, throbbing with the joy of life, and dreaming, heaven +knows what dreams!' + +'Yes,' I rejoined;' and to them I'm afraid we are even more impersonal. +From their little Piccadilly coracles our watch-tower in the skies is +merely a radiant facade of glowing windows, and no one of all who glide +by realises that the spirited illumination is every bit due to your +eyes. You have but to close them, and every one will be asking what has +gone wrong with the electric light.' + +A little nonsense is a great healer of the heart, and by means of such +nonsense as this we grew merry again. And anon we grew sentimental and +poetic, but--thank heaven! we were no longer tragic. + +Presently I had news for the Sphinx. 'The rose-tree that grows in the +garden of my mind,' I said, 'desires to blossom.' + +'May it blossom indeed,' she replied; 'for it has been flowerless all +this long evening; and bring me a rose fresh with all the dews of +inspiration--no florist's flower, wired and artificially scented, no +bloom of yesterday's hard-driven brains.' + +'I was only thinking,' I said, '_à propos_ of nightingales and roses, +that though all the world has heard the song of the nightingale to the +rose, only the nightingale has heard the answer of the rose. You know +what I mean?' + +'Know what you mean! Of course, that's always easy enough,' retorted the +Sphinx, who knows well how to be hard on me. + +'I'm so glad,' I ventured to thrust back; 'for lucidity is the first +success of expression: to make others see clearly what we ourselves are +struggling to see, believe with all their hearts what we are just daring +to hope, is--well, the religion of a literary man!' + +'Yes! it's a pretty idea,' said the Sphinx, once more pressing the rose +of my thought to her brain; 'and indeed it's more than pretty ...' + +'Thank you!' I said humbly. + +'Yes, it's _true_--and many a humble little rose will thank you for it. +For, your nightingale is a self-advertising bird. He never sings a song +without an eye on the critics, sitting up there in their stalls among +the stars. He never, or seldom, sings a song for pure love, just +because he must sing it or die. Indeed, he has a great fear of death, +unless--you will guarantee him immortality. But the rose, the trusting +little earth-born rose, that must stay all her life rooted in one spot +till some nightingale comes to choose her--some nightingale whose song +maybe has been inspired and perfected by a hundred other roses, which +are at the moment pot-pourri--ah, the shy bosom-song of the rose ...' + +Here the Sphinx paused, and added abruptly-- + +'Well--there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!' + +'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!' + +'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of +course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but +half-born--humourists always prefer to deliver themselves--so I shook my +head. + +'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of +her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey' and +'Stupid,'--which I recognised and meekly bore. + +'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But +don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no +nightingales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is +always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the +nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.' + +'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx. + +'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses--but ... +but....' + +'But what?' + +'But--well, I much prefer roses. Indeed I do.' + +'Rose of the World,' I continued with sentiment, 'draw in your thorns. I +cannot bear them.' + +'Ah!' she answered eagerly, 'that is just it. The nightingale that is +worthy of the rose will not only bear, but positively love, her thorns. +It is for that reason she wears them. The thorns of the rose properly +understood are but the tests of the nightingale. The nightingale that +is frightened of the thorns is not worthy of the rose--of that you may +be sure....' + +'I am not frightened of the thorns,' I managed to interject. + +'Sing then once more,' she cried, 'the Song of the Nightingale.' + +And it was thus I sang:-- + + O Rose of the World, a nightingale, + A Bird of the World, am I, + I have loved all the world and sung all the world, + But I come to your side to die. + + Tired of the world, as the world of me, + I plead for your quiet breast, + I have loved all the world and sung all the world-- + But--where is the nightingale's nest? + + In a hundred gardens I sung the rose, + Rose of the World, I confess-- + But for every rose I have sung before + I love you the more, not less. + + Perfect it grew by each rose that died, + Each rose that has died for you, + The song that I sing--yea, 'tis no new song, + It is tried--and so it is true. + + Petal or thorn, yea! I have no care, + So that I here abide; + Pierce me, my love, or kiss me, my love, + But keep me close to your side. + + I know not your kiss from your scorn, my love, + Your breast from your thorn, my rose, + And if you must kill me, well, kill me, my love! + But--say 'twas the death I chose. + +'Is it true?' asked the Rose. + +'As I am a nightingale,' I replied; and as we bade each other +good-night, I whispered: + +'When may I expect the Answer of the Rose?' + + + + +ABOUT THE SECURITIES + + +When I say that my friend Matthew lay dying, I want you so far as +possible to dissociate the statement from any conventional, and +certainly from any pictorial, conceptions of death which you may have +acquired. Death sometimes shows himself one of those impersonal artists +who conceal their art, and, unless you had been told, you could hardly +have guessed that Matthew was dying, dying indeed sixty miles an hour, +dying of consumption, dying because some one else had died four years +before, dying too of debt. + +Connoisseurs, of course, would have understood; at a glance would have +named the sculptor who was silently chiselling those noble hollows in +the finely modelled face,--that Pygmalion who turns all flesh to +stone,--at a glance would have named the painter who was cunningly +weighting the brows with darkness that the eyes might shine the more +with an unaccustomed light. Matthew and I had long been students of the +strange wandering artist, had begun by hating his art (it is ever so +with an art unfamiliar to us), and had ended by loving it. + +'Let us see what the artist has added to the picture since yesterday,' +said Matthew, signing to me to hand him the mirror. + +'H'm,' he murmured, 'he's had one of his lazy days, I'm afraid. He's +hardly added a touch--just a little heightened the chiaroscuro, +sharpened the nose a trifle, deepened some little the shadows round the +eyes.... + +'O why,' he presently sighed, 'does he not work a little overtime and +get it done? He's been paid handsomely enough.... + +'Paid,' he continued, 'by a life that is so much undeveloped gold-mine, +paid by all my uncashed hopes and dreams....' + +'He works fast enough for me, old fellow,' I interrupted; 'there was a +time, was there not, when he worked too fast for you and me?' + +There are moments, for certain people, when such fantastic unreality as +this is the truest realism. Matthew and I talked like this with our +brains, because we hadn't the courage to allow our hearts to break in +upon the conversation. Had I dared to say some real emotional thing, +what effect would it have had but to set poor tired Matthew a-coughing? +and it was our aim that he should die with as little to-do as +practicable. The emotional in such situations is merely the obvious. +There was no need for either of us to state the elementary feelings of +our love. I knew that Matthew was going to die, and he knew that--I was +going to live, and we pitied each other accordingly; though I confess my +feeling for him was rather one of envy,--when it was not congratulation. + +Thus, to tell the truth, we never mentioned 'the hereafter.' I don't +believe it even occurred to us. Indeed, we spent the few hours that +remained of our friendship in retailing the latest gathered of those +good stories with which we had been accustomed to salt our intercourse. + +One of Matthew's anecdotes was, no doubt, somewhat suggested by the +occasion, and I should add that he had always somewhat of an +ecclesiastical bias--would, I believe, have ended some day as a +Monsignor, a notable 'Bishop Blougram.' + +His story was of an evangelistic preacher who desired to impress his +congregation with the unmistakable reality of hell-fire. 'You know the +Black Country, my friends,' he had declaimed,' you have seen it, at +night, flaring with a thousand furnaces, in the lurid incandescence of +which myriads of unhappy beings, our fellow-creatures (God forbid!), +snatch a precarious existence--you have seen them silhouetted against +the yellow glare, running hither and thither, as it seemed from afar, in +the very jaws of the awful fire. Have you realised that the burdens with +which they thus run hither and thither are molten iron, iron to which +such a stupendous heat has been applied that it has melted, melted as +though it had been sugar in the sun?--well! returning to hell-fire, let +me tell you this, that in hell they eat this fiery molten metal for +ice-cream!--yes! and are glad to get anything so cool.' + +It was thus we talked while Matthew lay dying, for why should we not +talk as we had lived? We both laughed long and heartily over this story; +perhaps it would have amused us less had Matthew not been dying; and +then his kind old nurse brought in our lunch. We had both excellent +appetites, and were far from indifferent to the dainty little meal which +was to be our last but one together. I brought my table as close to +Matthew's pillow as was possible, and he stroked my hand with tenderness +in which there was a touch of gratitude. + +'You are not frightened of the bacteria!' he laughed sadly; and then he +told me, with huge amusement, how a friend (and a true, dear friend for +all that) had come to see him a day or two before, and had hung over the +end of the bed to say farewell, daring to approach no nearer, mopping +his fear-perspiring brows with a handkerchief soaked in 'Eucalyptus'! + +'He had brought an anticipatory elegy too,' said my friend, 'written +against my burial. I wish you'd read it for me,' and he fidgeted for it +in the nervous manner of the dying. Finding it among his pillows, he +handed it to me saying, 'You needn't be frightened of it. It is well +dosed with Eucalyptus.' + +We laughed even more over this poem than over our stories, and then we +discussed the terms of three cremation societies to which, at the +express request of my friend, I had written a day or two before. + +Then having smoked a cigar and drunk a glass of port together (for the +assured dying are allowed to 'live well'), Matthew grew sleepy, and, +tucking him beneath the counterpane, I left him, for, after all, he was +not to die that day. + +Circumstances prevented my seeing him again for a week. When I did so, +entering the room poignantly redolent of the strange sweet odour of +antiseptics, I saw that the great artist had been busy in my absence. +Indeed, his work was nearly at an end. Yet to one unfamiliar with his +methods there was still little to alarm in Matthew's face. In fact, with +the exception of his brain, and his ice-cold feet, he was alive as ever. +And even to his brain had come a certain unnatural activity, a life as +of the grave, a sort of vampire vitality, which would assuredly have +deceived any who had not known him. He still told his stories, laughed +and talked with the same unconquerable humour, was in every way alert +and practical, with this difference, that he had forgotten he was going +to die, that the world in which he exercised his various faculties was +another world to that in which, in spite of his delirium, we ate our +last boiled fowl, drank our last wine, smoked our last cigar together. +His talk was so convincingly rational, dealt with such unreal matters in +so every-day a fashion, that you were ready to think that surely it was +you and not he whose mind was wandering. + +'You might reach that pocket-book, and ring for Mrs. Davies,' he would +say in so casual a way that of course you would ring. On Mrs. Davies's +appearance he would be fumbling about among the papers in his +pocket-book, and presently he would say, with a look of frustration that +went to one's heart--'I've got a ten-pound note somewhere here for you, +Mrs. Davies, to pay you up till Saturday, but somehow I seem to have +lost it. Yet it must be somewhere about. Perhaps you'll find it as you +make the bed in the morning. I'm so sorry to have troubled you....' + +And then he would grow tired and doze a little on his pillow. + +Suddenly he would be alert again, and with a startling vividness tell me +strange stories from the dreamland into which he was now passing. + +I had promised to see him on Monday, but had been prevented, and had +wired to him accordingly. This was Tuesday. + +'You needn't have troubled to wire,' he said. 'Didn't you know I was in +London from Saturday to Monday?' + +'The doctor and Mrs. Davies didn't know,' he continued with the creepy +cunning of the dying: 'I managed to slip away to look at a house I think +of taking--in fact I've taken it. It's in--in--now, where is it? Now +isn't that silly? I can see it as plain as anything--yet I cannot, for +the life of me, remember where it is, or the number.... It was somewhere +St. John's Wood way ... never mind, you must come and see me there, when +we get in....' + +I said he was dying in debt, and thus the heaven that lay about his +deathbed was one of fantastic Eldorados, sudden colossal legacies, and +miraculous windfalls. + +'I haven't told you,' he said presently, 'of the piece of good luck that +has befallen me. You are not the only person in luck. I can hardly +expect you to believe me, it sounds so like the Arabian Nights. However, +it's true for all that. Well, one of the little sisters was playing in +the garden a few afternoons ago, making mud-pies or something of that +sort, and she suddenly scraped up a sovereign. Presently she found two +or three more, and our curiosity becoming aroused, a turn or two with +the spade revealed quite a bed of gold; and the end of it was, that on +further excavating, the whole garden proved to be one mass of +sovereigns. Sixty thousand pounds we counted ... and then, what do you +think?--it suddenly melted away....' + +He paused for a moment, and continued, more in amusement than regret-- + +'Yes--the Government got wind of it, and claimed the whole lot as +treasure-trove! + +'But not,' he added slyly, 'before I'd paid off two or three of my +biggest bills. Yes--and--you'll keep it quiet, of course,--there's +another lot been discovered in the garden, but we shall take good care +the Government doesn't get hold of it this time, you bet.' + +He told this wild story with such an air of simple conviction that, odd +as it may seem, one believed every word of it. But the tale of his +sudden good-fortune was not ended. + +'You've heard of old Lord Osterley,' he presently began again. 'Well, +congratulate me, old man: he has just died and left everything to me. +You know what a splendid library he had--to think that that will all be +mine--and that grand old park through which we've so often wandered, you +and I! Well, we shall need fear no gamekeeper now, and of course, dear +old fellow, you'll come and live with me--like a prince--and just write +your own books and say farewell to journalism for ever. Of course I can +hardly believe it's true yet. It seems too much of a dream, and yet +there's no doubt about it. I had a letter from my solicitors this +morning, saying that they were engaged in going through the securities, +and--and--but the letter's somewhere over there; you might read it. No? +can't you find it? It's there somewhere about, I know. Never mind, you +can see it again....' he finished wearily. + +'Yes!' he presently said, half to himself, 'it will be a wonderful +change! a wonderful change!' + + * * * * * + +At length the time came to say good-bye, a good-bye I knew must be the +last, for my affairs were taking me so far away from him that I could +not hope to see him for some days. + +'I'm afraid, old man,' I said, 'that I mayn't be able to see you for +another week.' + +'O never mind, old fellow, don't worry about me. I'm much better +now--and by the time you come again we shall know all about the +securities.' + +The securities! My heart had seemed like a stone, incapable of feeling, +all those last unreal hours together; but the pathos of that sad phrase, +so curiously symbolic, suddenly smote it with overwhelming pity, and the +tears sprang to my eyes for the first time. As I bent over him to kiss +his poor damp forehead, and press his hand for the last farewell, I +murmured-- + +'Yes--dear, dear old friend. We shall know all about the securities....' + + + + +THE BOOM IN YELLOW + + +Green must always have a large following among artists and art lovers; +for, as has been pointed out, an appreciation of it is a sure sign of a +subtle artistic temperament. There is something not quite good, +something almost sinister, about it--at least, in its more complex +forms, though in its simple form, as we find it in outdoor nature, it is +innocent enough; and, indeed, is it not used in colloquial metaphor as +an adjective for innocence itself? Innocence has but two colours, white +or green. But Becky Sharp's eyes also were green, and the green of the +aesthete does not suggest innocence. There will always be wearers of the +green carnation; but the popular vogue which green has enjoyed for the +last ten or fifteen years is probably passing. Even the aesthete himself +would seem to be growing a little weary of its indefinitely divided +tones, and to be anxious for a colour sensation somewhat more positive +than those to be gained from almost imperceptible _nuances_, of green. +Jaded with over-refinements and super-subtleties, we seem in many +directions to be harking back to the primary colours of life. Blue, +crude and unsoftened, and a form of magenta, have recently had a short +innings; and now the triumph of yellow is imminent. Of course, a love +for green implies some regard for yellow, and in our so-called aesthetic +renaissance the sunflower went before the green carnation--which is, +indeed, the badge of but a small schism of aesthetes, and not worn by +the great body of the more catholic lovers of beauty. + +Yellow is becoming more and more dominant in decoration--in wall-papers, +and flowers cultivated with decorative intention, such as +chrysanthemums. And one can easily understand why: seeing that, after +white, yellow reflects more light than any other colour, and thus +ministers to the growing preference for light and joyous rooms. A few +yellow chrysanthemums will make a small room look twice its size, and +when the sun comes out upon a yellow wall-paper the whole room seems +suddenly to expand, to open like a flower. When it falls upon the pot of +yellow chrysanthemums, and sets them ablaze, it seems as though one had +an angel in the room. Bill-posters are beginning to discover the +attractive qualities of the colour. Who can ever forget meeting for the +first time upon a hoarding Mr. Dudley Hardy's wonderful Yellow Girl, the +pretty advance-guard of _To-Day_? But I suppose the honour of the +discovery of the colour for advertising purposes rests with Mr. Colman; +though its recent boom comes from the publishers, and particularly from +the Bodley Head. _The Yellow Book_ with any other colour would hardly +have sold as well--the first private edition of Mr. Arthur Benson's +poems, by the way, came caparisoned in yellow, and with the identical +name, _Le Cahier Jaune_; and no doubt it was largely its title that made +the success of _The Yellow Aster_. In literature, indeed, yellow has +long been the colour of romance. The word 'yellow-back' witnesses its +close association with fiction; and in France, as we know, it is the +all but universal custom to bind books in yellow paper. Mr. Heinemann +and Mr. Unwin have endeavoured to naturalise the custom here; but, +though in cloth yellow has emphatically 'caught on,' in paper it still +hangs fire. The ABC Railway Guide is probably the only exception, and +that, it is to be hoped, is not fiction. Mr. Lang has recently followed +the fashion with his _Yellow Fairy Book_; and, indeed, one of the best +known figures in fairydom is yellow--namely, the Yellow Dwarf. Yellow, +always a prominent Oriental colour, was but lately of peculiar +significance in the Far East; for were not the sorrows of a certain high +Chinese official intimately connected with the fatal colour? The Yellow +Book, the Yellow Aster, the Yellow Jacket!--and the Yellow Fever, like +'Orion' Home's sunshine, is always with us' somewhere in the world.' The +same applies also, I suppose, to the Yellow Sea. + +Till one comes to think of it, one hardly realises how many important +and pleasant things in life are yellow. Blue and green, no doubt, +contract for the colouring of vast departments of the physical world. +'Blue!' sings Keats, in a fine but too little known sonnet-- + + '... 'Tis the life of heaven--the domain + Of Cynthia--the wide palace of the sun-- + The tent of Hesperus, and all his train-- + The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey, and dun. + Blue! 'Tis the life of waters ... + Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest green, + Married to green in all the sweetest flowers.' + +Yellow might retort by quoting Mr. Grant Allen, in his book on _The +Colour Sense_, to the effect that the blueness of sea and sky is mainly +poetical illusion or inaccuracy, and that sea and sky are found blue +only in one experiment out of fourteen. At morning and evening they are +usually in great part stained golden. Blue certainly has one advantage +over yellow, in that it has the privilege of colouring some of the +prettiest eyes in the world. Yellow has a chance only in cases of +jaundice and liver complaint, and his colour scheme in such cases is +seldom appreciated. Again, green has the contract for the greater bulk +of the vegetable life of the globe; but his is a monotonous business, +like the painting of miles and miles of palings: grass, grass, grass, +trees, trees, trees, _ad infinitum_; whereas yellow leads a roving, +versatile life, and is seldom called upon for such monotonous labour. +The sands of Sahara are probably the only conspicuous instance of yellow +thus working by the piece. It is in the quality, in the diversity of the +things it colours, rather than in their mileage or tonnage, that yellow +is distinguished; though, for that matter, we suppose, the sun is as big +and heavy as most things, and that is yellow. Of course, when we say +yellow we include golden, and all varieties of the colour--saffron, +orange, flaxen, tawny, blonde, topaz, citron, etc. + +If the sun may reasonably be described as the most important object in +the world, surely money is the next. That, as we know, is, in its most +potent metallic form, yellow also. The 'yellow gold' is a favourite +phrase in certain forms of poetry; and 'yellow-boys' is a term of +natural affection among sailors. Following the example of their lord the +sun, most fires and lights are yellow or golden, and it is only in +times of danger or superstition that they burn red or blue. And, if +yellow be denied entrance to beautiful eyes, it enjoys a privilege +which--except in the case of certain indigo-staining African tribes, who +cannot be said to count--blue has never claimed: that of colouring +perhaps the loveliest thing in the world, the hair of woman. Hair is +naturally golden--unnaturally also. When Browning sings pathetically of +'dear dead women--with such hair too!' he continues:-- + + 'What's become of all the _gold_ + Used to hang and brush their bosoms'-- + +not 'all the blue' or 'all the brown,' though some of us, it is true, +are condemned to wear our hair brown or blue-black. But such are only +unhappy exceptions. Yellow or gold is the rule. The bravest men and the +fairest women have had golden hair, and, we may add, in reference to +another distinction of the colour we are celebrating, golden hearts. +Hair at the present time is doing its best to conform to its normal +conditions of colour. Numerous instances might be adduced of its +changing from black to gold, in obedience to chemical law. 'Peroxide of +hydrogen!' says the cynic. 'Beauty!' says the lover of art. + +And it might be argued, in a world of inevitable compromise, that the +damage done to the physical health and texture of the hair thus playing +the chameleon may well be overbalanced by the happiness, and consequent +increased effectiveness, of the person thus dyeing for the sake of +beauty. Thaumaturgists lay much stress on the mystic influence of +colours; and who knows but that, if we were only allowed to dye our hair +what colour we chose, we might be different men and women? Strange +things are told of women who have dyed their hair the colour of blood or +of wine, and we know from Christina Rossetti that golden hair is +negotiable in fairyland-- + + '"You have much gold upon your head," + They answered all together: + "Buy from us with a golden curl."' + +Whether Laura could have done business with the goblin merchantmen with +an oxidised curl is a difficult point, for fairies have sharp eyes; and, +though it be impossible for a mortal to tell the real gold from the +false gold hair, the fairies may be able to do so, and might reject the +curl as counterfeit. + +Again, if in the vegetable world green almost universally colours the +leaves, yellow has more to do with the flowers. The flowers we love best +are yellow: the cowslip, the daffodil, the crocus, the buttercup, half +the daisy, the honeysuckle, and the loveliest rose. Yellow, too, has its +turn even with the leaves; and what an artist he shows himself when, in +autumn, he 'lays his fiery finger' upon them, lighting up the forlorn +woodland with splashes--pure palette-colour of audacious gold! He hangs +the mulberry with heart-shaped yellow shields--which reminds one of the +heraldic importance of 'or,'--and he lines the banks of the Seine with +phantasmal yellow poplars. And other leaves still dearer to the heart +are yellow likewise; leaves of those sweet old poets whose thoughts seem +to have turned the pages gold. Let us dream of this: a maid with yellow +hair, clad in a yellow gown, seated in a yellow room, at the window a +yellow sunset, in the grate a yellow fire, at her side a yellow +lamplight, on her knee a Yellow Book. And the letters we love best to +read--when we dare--are they not yellow too? No doubt some disagreeable +things are reported of yellow. We have had the yellow-fever, and we have +had pea-soup. The eyes of lions are said to be yellow, and the ugliest +cats--the cats that infest one's garden--are always yellow. Some +medicines are yellow, and no doubt there are many other yellow +disagreeables; but we prefer to dwell upon the yellow blessings. I had +almost forgotten that the gayest wines are yellow. Nor has religion +forgotten yellow. It is to be hoped yellow will not forget religion. The +sacred robe of the second greatest religion of the world is yellow, 'the +yellow robe' of the Buddhist friar; and when the sacred harlots of +Hindustan walk in lovely procession through the streets, they too, like +the friars, are clad in yellow. Amber is yellow; so is the orange; and +so were stage-coaches and many dashing things of the old time; and pink +is yellow by lamplight. But gold-mines, it has been proved, are not so +yellow as is popularly supposed. Hymen's robe is Miltonically 'saffron,' +and the dearest petticoat in all literature--not forgetting the +'tempestuous' garment of Herrick's Julia--was 'yaller.' Yes!-- + + ''Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, + An' er name was Supi-yaw-lat, jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen.' + +Is it possible to say anything prettier for yellow than that? + + + + +LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN + + +My Dear Sir,--I agree with every word you say. You have my entire +sympathy. The world is indeed hard, hard to the sad--particularly hard +to the unsuccessful. A sure five hundred a year covers a multitude of +sorrows. It is ever an ill wind for the shorn lamb. If it be true that +nothing succeeds like success, it is no less sadly true that nothing +fails like failure. And when one thinks of it, it is only natural, for +every failure is an obstruction in the stream of life. Metaphorical +writers are fond of saying that the successful ride to success on the +back of the failures. It is true that many rise on stepping-stones of +their dead relations--but that is because their relations have been +financial successes. In truth, instead of the failure making the +fortune of the successful, it is just the reverse. A very successful man +would be the more successful were it not for the failures--on whom he +has either to spend his money to support, or his time to advise. The +strong are said to be impatient towards the weak--and is it to be +wondered at, in a world where even the strongest need all their +strength, in a sea where the best swimmer needs all his wind and muscle +and skill to keep afloat? If success is sometimes 'unfeeling' towards +failure, failure is often unfair to success. Of course, 'it is He that +hath made us and not we ourselves,' but that is a text that cuts both +ways; and when all is said and done, the failure detracts from the force +in the universe; he is the clog on the wheel of fortune. To say that the +successful man benefits by the failure of others is as true as it would +be to say that the ratepayer benefits by the poor-rates. You use the +word 'charlatan' somewhat profusely of several successful writers, and +no doubt you are right. But you must remember that it is a favourite +charge against the gifted and the fortunate. Because we have failed by +fair means, we are sure the other fellows have succeeded by foul. And, +moreover, one is apt to forget how much talent is needed to be a +charlatan. Never look down upon a charlatan. Courage, skill, personal +force or charm, great knowledge of human nature, dramatic instinct, and +industry--few charlatans succeed (and no one is called a charlatan till +he _does_ succeed, be his success as low or high as you please) without +possessing a majority of these qualities; how many of which--it would be +interesting to know--do you possess? + +Indeed, it would seem to need more gifts to be a rogue than an honest +man, and there is a sense in which every great man may be described as a +charlatan--_plus_ greatness; greatness being an almost indefinable +quality, a quality, at any rate, on which there is a bewildering +diversity of opinion. + +You seem a little cross with publishers and editors. They have not +proved the distinguished, brilliant, and sympathetic beings you imagined +them in your boyish dreams. No doubt, publishers and editors enter +hardly into the kingdom of heaven. But then, you see, they don't care so +much about that; they are much more interested in the next election at +certain fashionable clubs. It is really a little hard on them that they +should suffer from the ignorant misconception of the literary amateur. +It is only those who have had no dealings with them who would be unfair +enough to expect publishers or editors to be literary men. They are +business men--business men _par excellence_--and a good thing, too, for +their papers and their authors. You lament their mercenary view of life; +but, judging by your letter, even you are not disposed to regard money +as the root of all evil. + +You cannot understand why you have failed where others have succeeded. +You have far more Greek than Keats, more history than Scott, and you +know nineteen languages--ten of them to speak. With so many +accomplishments, it must indeed be hard to fail--though you do not seem +to have found it difficult. You have travelled too--have been twice +round the world, and have a thorough knowledge of the worst hotels. +Certainly, it is singular. Nevertheless, I must confess that the dullest +men I have ever met have been professors of history; the worst poets +have not only known Greek, but French as well; and, generally speaking +the most tiresome of my acquaintances have more degrees than I have +Latin to name them in. Alas! it is not experience, or travel, or +language, but the use we make of them, that makes literary success, +which, one may add, is particularly dependent--perhaps not +unnaturally--on the use we make of language. A book may be a book, +although there is neither Latin nor Greek, nor travel, nor +experience--in fact 'nothing' in it; and though, like myself, you may +pay an Oxford professor a thousand a year to correct your proofs, you +may still miss immortality. + +To these intellectual and general equipments you add goodness of heart, +sincerity of conviction, and martyrdom for your opinions; you are, it +would seem, like many others of us, the best fellow and greatest man of +your acquaintance. Permit me to remind you that we are not talking of +goodness of heart, of strength or beauty of character, but of success, +which is a thing apart, a fine art in itself. + +You confess that you are somewhat unpractical: you expect +others--hard-worked journalists who never met you--to tell you what to +read, how to form your style, and how 'to get into the magazines.' You +are, you say, with something of pride, but a poor business man. That is +a pity, for nearly every successful literary man of the day, and +particularly the novelists, are excellent business men. Indeed, the +history of literature all round has proved that the men who have been +masters of words have also been masters of things--masters of the facts +of life for which those words stand. Many writers have mismanaged their +affairs from idleness and indifference, but few from incapacity. Leigh +Hunt boasted that he could never master the multiplication-table. +Perhaps that accounts for his comparative failure as a writer. +Incompetence in one art is far from being a guarantee of competency in +another, and a man is all the more likely to make a name if he is able +to make a living--though, judging from Coleridge, it seems a good plan +to let another hard-worked man support one's wife and children. On the +other hand, though business faculty is a great deal, it is not +everything: for a man may be as punctual and methodical as Southey, and +yet miss the prize of his high calling, or as generally 'impossible' as +Blake, and yet win his place among the immortals. + +In fact, after all, success in literature has something to do with +writing. In temporary success, industry and business faculty, and an +unworked field--be it Scotland, Ireland, or the Isle of Man (any place +but plain England!)--are the chief factors. For that more lasting +success which we call fame other qualities are needed, such qualities as +imagination, fancy, and magic and force in the use of words. Can you +honestly say, O beloved, though tiresome, correspondent, that these +great gifts are yours? Judging from your letter--but Heaven forbid that +I should be unkind! For, need I say I love you with a fellow-feeling? Do +you think that you are the only unappreciated genius on the planet--not +to speak of all the other unappreciated geniuses on all the other +planets? Thank goodness, the postal arrangements with the latter are as +yet defective! Others there are with hearts as warm, minds as profound, +and style at least as attractive, who languish in unmerited +neglect--Miltons inglorious indeed, though far from mute. + +Believe me, you are not alone. In fact, there are so many like you that +it would be quite easy for you to find society without worrying me. And, +for all of us, there is the consolation that, though we fail as writers, +we may still succeed as citizens, as husbands and fathers and friends. +As Whitman would say--because you are not Editor of _The Times_, do you +give in that you are less than a man? There are poets that have never +entered into the Bodley Head, and great prose-writers who have never sat +in an editorial chair. Be satisfied with your heavenly crowns, O you +whining unsuccessful, and leave to your inferiors the earthly +five-shilling pieces. + + + + +A POET IN THE CITY + + + 'In the midway of this our mortal life, + I found me in a gloomy wood, astray.' + +I (and when I say I, I must be understood to be speaking dramatically) +only venture into the City once a year, for the very pleasant purpose of +drawing that twelve-pound-ten by which the English nation, ever so +generously sensitive to the necessities, not to say luxuries, of the +artist, endeavours to express its pride and delight in me. It would be a +very graceful exercise of gratitude for me here to stop and parenthesise +the reader on the subject of all that twelve-pound-ten has been to me, +how it has quite changed the course of my life, given me that +long-desired opportunity of doing my best work in peace, for which so +often I vainly sighed in Fleet Street, and even allowed me an indulgence +in minor luxuries which I could not have dreamed of enjoying before the +days of that twelve-pound-ten. Now not only peace and plenty, but +leisure and luxury are mine. There is nothing goes so far as--Government +money. + +Usually on these literally State occasions, I drive up in state, that is +in a hansom. There is only one other day in the year on which I am so +splendid, but that is another beautiful story. It, too, is a day and an +hour too joyous to be approached otherwise than on winged wheels, too +stately to be approached in merely pedestrian fashion. To go on foot to +draw one's pension seems a sort of slight on the great nation that does +one honour, as though a Lord Mayor should make his appearance in the +procession in his office coat. + +So I say it is my custom to go gaily, and withal stately, to meet my +twelve-pound-ten in a hansom. For many reasons the occasion always seems +something of an adventure, and I confess I always feel a little excited +about it--indeed, to tell the truth, a little nervous. As I glide along +in my state barge (which seems a much more proper and impressive image +for a hansom than 'gondola,' with its reminiscences of Earl's Court) I +feel like some fragile country flower torn from its roots, and +bewilderingly hurried along upon the turbid, swollen stream of London +life. + +The stream glides sweetly with a pleasant trotting tinkle of bells by +the green parkside of Piccadilly, and sweet is it to hear the sirens +singing, and to see them combing their gilded locks, on the yellow sands +of Piccadilly Circus--so called, no doubt, from the number of horses and +the skill of their drivers. Here are the whirling pools of pleasure, +merry wheels of laughing waters, where your hansom glides along with a +golden ease--it is only when you enter the First Cataract of the Strand +that you become aware of the far-distant terrible roar of the Falls! +They are yet nearly two miles away, but already, like Niagara, thou +hearest the sound thereof--the fateful sound of that human Niagara, +where all the great rivers of London converge: the dark, strong floods +surging out from the gloomy fastnesses of the East End, the +quick-running streams from the palaces of the West, the East with its +wagons, the West with its hansoms, the four winds with their omnibuses, +the horses and carriages under the earth jetting up their companies of +grimy passengers, the very air busy with a million errands. + +You are in the rapids--metaphorically speaking--as you crawl down +Cheapside; and here where the Bank of England and the Mansion House rise +sheer and awful from, shall we say, this boiling caldron, this 'hell' of +angry meeting waters--Threadneedle Street and Cornhill, Queen Victoria +Street and Cheapside, each 'running,' again metaphorically, 'like a +mill-race'--here in this wild maelstrom of human life and human +conveyances, here is the true 'Niagara in London,' here are the most +wonderful falls in the world--the London Falls. + +'Yes!' I said softly to myself, and I could see the sly sad smile on the +face of the dead poet, at the thought of whose serene wisdom a silence +like snow seemed momentarily to cover up the turmoil--'Yes!' I said +softly, 'there is still the same old crush at the corner of Fenchurch +Street!' + +By this time I had disbursed one of my two annual cab-fares, and was +standing a little forlorn at that very corner. It was a March afternoon, +bitter and gloomy; lamps were already popping alight in a desolate way, +and the east wind whistled mournfully through the ribs of the +passers-by. A very unflowerlike man was dejectedly calling out +'daffadowndillies' close by. The sound of the pretty old word, thus +quaintly spoken, brightened the air better than the electric lights +which suddenly shot rows of wintry moonlight along the streets. I bought +a bunch of the poor pinched flowers, and asked the man how he came to +call them 'daffadowndillies.' + +'D'vunshur,' he said, in anything but a Devonshire accent, and then the +east wind took him and he was gone--doubtless to a neighbouring tavern; +and no wonder, poor soul! Flowers certainly fall into strange hands here +in London. + +Well, it was nearing four, and if I wanted a grateful country's +twelve-pound-ten, I must make haste; so presently I found myself in a +great hall, of which I have no clearer impression than that there were +soft little lights all about me, and a soft chime of falling gold, like +the rippling of Pactolus. I have a sort of idea, too, of a great number +of young men with most beautiful moustaches, playing with golden +shovels; and as I thus stood among the soft lights and listened to the +most beautiful sound in the world, I thought that thus must Danæ have +felt as she stood amid the falling shower. But I took care to see that +my twelve sovereigns and a half were right number and weight for all +that. + +Once more in the street, I lingered a while to take a last look at the +Falls. What a masterful alien life it all seemed to me! No single +personality could hope to stand alone amid all that stress of ponderous, +bullying forces. Only public companies, and such great impersonalities, +could hope to hold their own, to swim in such a whirlpool--and even +they, I had heard it whispered, far away in my quiet starlit garret, +sometimes went down. 'How,' I cried, 'would-- + + '... my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your deeps and heights ... + Rush of suns, and roll of systems, and your fiery clash of meteorites,' + +again quoting poetry. I always quote poetry in the City, as a +protest--moreover, it clears the air. + +The more people buffeted against me the more I felt the crushing sense +of almost cosmic forces. Everybody was so plainly an atom in a public +company, a drop of water in a tyrannous stream of human +energy--companies that cared nothing for their individual atoms, streams +that cared nothing for their component drops; such atoms and drops, for +the most part, to be had for thirty shillings a week. These people about +me seemed no more like individual men and women than individual puffs in +a mighty rushing wind, or the notes in a great scheme of music, are men +and women--to the banker so many pens with ears whereon to perch them, +to the capitalist so many 'hands,' and to the City man generally so many +'helpless pieces of the game he plays' up there in spidery nooks and +corners of the City. + +As I listened to the throbbing of the great human engines in the +buildings about me, a rising and a falling there seemed as of those +great steel-limbed monsters, weird contortionists of metal, that jet up +and down, and writhe and wrestle this way and that, behind the long +glass windows of great water-towers, or toil like Vulcan in the bowels +of mighty ships. An expression of frenzy seems to come up even from the +dumb tossing steel; sometimes it seems to be shaking great knuckled +fists at one and brandishing threatening arms, as it strains and sweats +beneath the lash of the compulsive steam. As one watches it, there seems +something of human agony about its panic-stricken labours, and something +like a sense of pity surprises one--a sense of pity that anything in the +world should have to work like that, even steel, even, as we say, +senseless steel. What, then, of these great human engine-houses! Will +the engines always consent to rise and fall, night and day, like that? +or will there some day be a mighty convulsion, and this blind Samson of +labour pull down the whole engine-house upon his oppressors? Who knows? +These are questions for great politicians and thinkers to decide, not +for a poet, who is too much terrified by such forces to be able calmly +to estimate and prophesy concerning them. + +Yes! if you want to realise Tennyson's picture of 'one poor poet's +scroll' ruling the world, take your poet's scroll down to Fenchurch +Street and try it there. Ah, what a powerless little 'private interest' +seems poetry there, poetry 'whose action is no stronger than a flower.' +In days of peace it ventures even into the morning papers; but, let only +a rumour of war be heard, and it vanishes like a dream on doomsday +morning. A County Council election passeth over it and it is gone. + +Yet it was near this very spot that Keats dug up the buried beauty of +Greece, lying hidden beneath Finsbury Pavement! and in the deserted City +churches great dramatists lie about us. Maybe I have wronged the +City--and at this thought I remembered a little bookshop but a few yards +away, blossoming like a rose right in the heart of the wilderness. + +Here, after all, in spite of all my whirlpools and engine-houses, was +for me the greatest danger in the City. Need I say, therefore, that I +promptly sought it, hovered about it a moment--and entered? How much of +that grateful governmental twelve-pound-ten came out alive, I dare not +tell my dearest friend. + +At all events I came out somehow reassured, more rich in faith. There +was a might of poesy after all. There were words in the little +yellow-leaved garland, nestling like a bird in my hand, that would +outlast the bank yonder, and outlive us all. I held it up. How tiny it +seemed, how frail amid all this stone and iron! A mere flower--a flower +from the seventeenth century--long-lived for a flower! Yes, an +_immortelle_. + + + + +BROWN ROSES + +'Well, I never thought to see this day, sir,' said Gibbs, with something +like tears in his voice, as he reluctantly plied his scissors upon +Hyacinth Rondel's distinguished curls. + +'Nor I, Gibbs--nor I!' said Rondel sadly, relapsing into silence again, +with his head meekly bent over the white sheet spread to catch his shorn +beauty. + +'To think of the times, sir, that I have dressed your head,' continued +Gibbs, whose grief bore so marked an emphasis, 'and to think that after +to-day ...' + +'But you forget, my dear Gibbs, that I shall now be a more constant +customer than ever!' + +'Ah, sir, but that will be different. It will be mere machine-cutting, +lawn-mowing, steam-reaping, if you understand me; there'll be no +pleasure in it, no artistic pleasure, I mean.' + +'Yes, Gibbs, and you are an artist--I have often told you that.' + +'Ah, sir, but I am coming to the conclusion that it is better not to be +an artist, better to be born just like every one else. In these days one +suffers too much. Why, sir, I haven't in the whole of my business six +heads like yours, and I go on cutting all the rest week in and week out, +just for the pleasure of dressing those six--and now there'll only be +five.' + + * * * * * + +'It looks like a winding-sheet,' mused Rondel presently, after a long +silence, broken only by the soft crunch and click of the fatal scissors, +as they feasted on the beautiful brown silk. + +'It do indeed, sir,' said Gibbs, with a shudder, as another little globe +of golden brown rolled down into Rondel's lap. + +'Poor brown roses!' sighed the poet, after another silence; 'they are +just like brown roses, aren't they, Gibbs?' + +'They are indeed, sir!' + +'Brown roses scattered over the winding-sheet of one's youth--eh, +Gibbs?' + +'They are indeed, sir.' + +'That's rather a pretty image, don't you think, Gibbs?' + +'Indeed I do, sir!' + +'Well, well, they have bloomed their last; and when Juliet's white hands +come seeking with their silver fingers, white maidens lost in the brown +enchanted forest, there will not be a rose left for her to gather.' + +'Believe me, sir, I would more gladly have cut off your head than your +hair--that is, figuratively speaking,' sobbed the artist-in-hair-oils. + +'Yes, my head would hardly be missed--you are quite right, Gibbs; but my +hair! What will they do without it at first nights and private views? It +was worth five shillings a week to many a poor paragraph-writer. Well, I +must try and make up for it by my beard!' + +'Your beard, sir?' exclaimed Gibbs in horror. + +'Yes, Gibbs; for some years I have been a Nazarene--that is, a Nazarite, +with the top half of my head; now I am going to change about and be a +Nazarite with the lower. The razor has kissed my cheeks and my chin and +the fluted column of my throat for the last time.' + +'You cannot mean it, sir!' said Gibbs, suspending his murderous task a +moment. + +'It's quite true, Gibbs.' + +'Does she wish that too, sir?' + +'Yes, that too.' + +'Well, sir, I have heard of men making sacrifices for their wives, but +of all the cruel....' + +'Please don't, Gibbs. It does no good. And Mrs. Rondel's motive is a +good one.' + +'Of course, sir, I cannot presume--and yet, if it wouldn't be presuming, +I should like to know why you are making this great, I may say this +noble, sacrifice?' + +'Well, Gibbs, we're old friends, and I'll tell you some day, but I +hardly feel up to it to-day.' + +'Of course not, sir, of course not--it's only natural,' said Gibbs +tenderly, while the scissors once more took up the conversation. + + + + +THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR + + +'That is how the donkey tells his love!' I said one day, with intent to +be funny, as the prolonged love-whoop of a distant donkey was heard in +the land. + +'Don't be too ready to laugh at donkeys,' said my friend. 'For,' he +continued, 'even donkeys have their dreams. Perhaps, indeed, the most +beautiful dreams are dreamed by donkeys.' + +'Indeed,' I said, 'and now that I think of it, I remember to have said +that most dreamers are donkeys, though I never expected so scientific a +corroboration of a fleeting jest.' + +Now, my friend is an eminent scientist and poet in one, a serious +combination; and he took my remarks with seriousness at once scientific +and poetic. + +'Yes,' he went on, 'that is where you clever people make a mistake. You +think that because a donkey has only two vowel-sounds wherewith to +express his emotions, he has no emotions to express. But let me tell +you, sir ...' + +But here we both burst out laughing-- + +'You Golden Ass!' I said,'take a munch of these roses; perhaps they will +restore you.' + +'No,' he resumed, 'I am quite serious. I have for many years past made a +study of donkeys--high-stepping critics call it the study of Human +Nature--however, it's the same thing--and I must say that the more I +study them the more I love them. There is nothing so well worth studying +as the misunderstood, for the very reason that everybody thinks he +understands it. Now, to take another instance, most people think they +have said the last word on a goose when they have called it "a +goose"!--but let me tell you, sir ...' + +But here again we burst out laughing-- + +'Dear goose of the golden eggs,' I said, 'pray leave to discourse on +geese to-night--though lovely and pleasant would the discourse +be;--to-night I am all agog for donkeys.' + +'So be it,' said my friend,' and if that be so, I cannot do better than +tell you the story of the donkey that loved a star--keeping for another +day the no less fascinating story of the goose that loved an angel.' + +By this time I was, appropriately, all ears. + +'Well,' he once more began, 'there was once a donkey, quite an intimate +friend of mine--and I have no friend of whom I am prouder--who was +unpractically fond of looking up at the stars. He could go a whole day +without thistles, if night would only bring him stars. Of course he +suffered no little from his fellow-donkeys for this curious passion of +his. They said well that it did not become him, for indeed it was no +little laughable to see him gazing so sentimentally at the remote and +pitiless heavens. Donkeys who belonged to Shakespeare Societies recalled +the fate of Bottom, the donkey who had loved a fairy; but our donkey +paid little heed. There is perhaps only one advantage in being a +donkey--namely, a hide impervious to criticism. In our donkey's case it +was rather a dream that made him forget his hide--a dream that drew up +all the sensitiveness from every part, from hoof, and hide, and ears, so +that all the feeling in his whole body was centred in his eyes and +brain, and those, as we have said, were centred on a star. He took it +for granted that his fellows should sneer and kick-out at him--it was +ever so with genius among the donkeys, and he had very soon grown used +to these attentions of his brethren, which were powerless to withdraw +his gaze from the star he loved. For though he loved all the stars, as +every individual man loves all women, there was one star he loved more +than any other; and standing one midnight among his thistles, he prayed +a prayer, a prayer that some day it might be granted him to carry that +star upon his back--which, he recalled, had been sanctified by the holy +sign--were it but for ever so short a journey. Just to carry it a little +way, and then to die. This to him was a dream beyond the dreams of +donkeys. + +'Now, one night,' continued my friend, taking breath for himself and +me, 'our poor donkey looked up to the sky, and lo! the star was nowhere +to be seen. He had heard it said that stars sometimes fall. Evidently +his star had fallen. Fallen! but what if it had fallen upon the earth? +Being a donkey, the wildest dreams seemed possible to him. And, strange +as it may seem, there came a day when a poet came to his master and +bought our donkey to carry his little child. Now, the very first day he +had her upon his back, the donkey knew that his prayer had been +answered, and that the little swaddled babe he carried was the star he +had prayed for. And, indeed, so it was; for so long as donkeys ask no +more than to fetch and carry for their beloved, they may be sure of +beauty upon their backs. Now, so long as this little girl that was a +star remained a little girl, our donkey was happy. For many pretty years +she would kiss his ugly muzzle and feed his mouth with sugar--and thus +our donkey's thoughts sweetened day by day, till from a natural +pessimist he blossomed into a perfectly absurd optimist, and dreamed the +donkiest of dreams. But, one day, as he carried the girl who was really +a star through the spring lanes, a young man walked beside her, and +though our donkey thought very little of his talk--in fact, felt his +plain "hee-haw" to be worth all its smart chirping and twittering--yet +it evidently pleased the maiden. It included quite a number of +vowel-sounds--though, if the maiden had only known, it didn't mean half +so much as the donkey's plain monotonous declaration. + +'Well, our donkey soon began to realise that his dream was nearing its +end; and, indeed, one day his little mistress came bringing him the +sweetest of kisses, the very best sugar in the very best shops, but for +all that our donkey knew that it meant good-bye. It is the charming +manner of English girls to be at their sweetest when they say good-bye. + +'Our dreamer-donkey went into exile as servant to a woodcutter, and his +life was lenient if dull, for the woodcutter had no sticks to waste upon +his back; and next day his young mistress who was once a star took a +pony for her love, whom some time after she discarded for a talented +hunter, and, one fine day, like many of her sex, she pitched her +affections upon a man--he too being a talented hunter. To their wedding +came all the countryside. And with the countryside came the donkey. He +carried a great bundle of firewood for the servants' hall, and as he +waited outside, gazing up at his old loves the stars, while his master +drank deeper and deeper within, he revolved many thoughts. But he is +only known to have made one remark--in the nature, one may think, of a +grim jest-- + +'"After all!" he was heard to say, "she has married a donkey--after +all!" + +'No doubt it was feeble; but then our donkey was growing old and bitter, +and hope deferred had made him a cynic.' + + + + +ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES + +Like all people who live apart from it, the Founder of the Christian +religion was possessed of a profound knowledge of the world. As, +according to the proverb, the woodlander sees nothing of the wood for +its trees, so those who live in the world know nothing of it. They know +its gaudy, glittering surface, its Crystal Palace fireworks, and the +paste-diamonds with which it bedecks itself; they know its music-halls +and its night clubs, its Piccadillys and its politics, its restaurants +and its salons; but of the bad--or good?--heart of it all they know +nothing. In more meanings than one, it takes a saint to catch a sinner; +and Christ certainly knew as well as saved the sinner. + +But none of His precepts show a truer knowledge of life and its +conditions than His commandment that we should love our enemies. He +realised--can we doubt?--that, without enemies, the Church He bade His +followers build could not hope to be established. He knew that the +spiritual fire He strove to kindle would spread but little, unless the +four winds of the world blew against it. Well, indeed, may the Christian +Church love its enemies, for it is they who have made it. + +Indeed, for a man, or a cause, that wants to get on, there is nothing +like a few hearty, zealous enemies. Most of us would never be heard of +if it were not for our enemies. The unsuccessful man counts up his +friends, but the successful man numbers his enemies. A friend of mine +was lamenting, the other day, that he could not find twelve people to +disbelieve in him. He had been seeking them for years, he sighed, and +could not get beyond eleven. But, even so, with only eleven he was a +very successful man. In these kind-hearted days enemies are becoming so +rare that one has to go out of one's way to make them. The true +interpretation, therefore, of the easiest of the commandments is--make +your enemies, and your enemies will make you. + +So soon as the armed men begin to spring up in our fields, we may be +sure that we have not sown in vain. + +Properly understood, an enemy is but a negative embodiment of our +personalities or ideas. He is an involuntary witness to our vitality. +Much as he despises us, greatly as he may injure us, he is none the less +a creature of our making. It was we who put into him the breath of his +malignity, and inspired the activity of his malice. Therefore, with his +very existence so tremendous a tribute, we can afford to smile at his +self-conscious disclaimers of our significance. Though he slay us, we +_made_ him--to 'make an enemy,' is not that the phrase? + +Indeed, the fact that he is our enemy is his one _raison d'être_. That +alone should make us charitable to him. Live and let live. Without us +our enemy has no occupation, for to hate us is his profession. Think of +his wives and families! + +The friendship of the little for the great is an old-established +profession; there is but one older--namely, the hatred of the little +for the great; and, though it is perhaps less officially recognised, it +is without doubt the more lucrative. It is one of the shortest roads to +fame. Why is the name of Pontius Pilate an uneasy ghost of history? +Think what fame it would have meant to be an enemy of Socrates or +Shakespeare! _Blackwood's Magazine_ and _The Quarterly Review_ only +survive to-day because they once did their best to strangle the genius +of Keats and Tennyson. Two or three journals of our own time, by the +same unfailing method, seek that circulation from posterity which is +denied them in the present. + +This is particularly true in literature, where the literary enemy is as +organised a tradesman as the literary agent. Like the literary agent, he +naturally does his best to secure the biggest men. No doubt the time +will come when the literary cut-throat--shall we call him?--will publish +dainty little books of testimonials from authors, full of effusive +gratitude for the manner in which they have been slashed and bludgeoned +into fame. 'Butcher to Mr. Grant Allen' may then become a familiar +legend over literary shop-fronts:-- + + 'Ah! did you stab at Shelley's heart + With silly sneer and cruel lie? + And Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Keats, + To murder did you nobly try? + + You failed, 'tis true; but what of that? + The world remembers still your name-- + 'Tis fame, _for you_, to be the cur + That barks behind the heels of Fame.' + +Any one who is fortunate enough to have enemies will know that all this +is far from being fanciful. If one's enemies have any other _raison +d'être_ beyond the fact of their being our enemies--what is it? They are +neither beautiful nor clever, wise nor good, famous nor, indeed, +passably distinguished. Were they any of these, they would not have +taken to so humble a means of getting their living. Instead of being our +enemies, they could then have afforded to employ enemies on their own +account. + +Who, indeed, are our enemies? Broadly speaking, they are all those +people who lack what we possess. + +If you are rich, every poor man is necessarily your enemy. If you are +beautiful, the great democracy of the plain and ugly will mock you in +the streets. It will be the same with everything you possess. The +brainless will never forgive you for possessing brains, the weak will +hate you for your strength, and the evil for your good heart. If you can +write, all the bad writers are at once your foes. If you can paint, the +bad painters will talk you down. But more than any talent or charm you +may possess, the pearl of price for which you will be most bitterly +hated will be your success. You can be the most wonderful person that +ever existed, so long as you don't succeed, and nobody will mind. 'It is +the sunshine,' says some one, 'that brings out the adder.' So powerful, +indeed, is success that it has been known to turn a friend into a foe. +Those, then, who wish to engage a few trusty enemies out of place need +only advertise among the unsuccessful. + +_P.S._--For one service we should be particularly thankful to our +enemies--they save us so much in stimulants. Their unbelief so helps our +belief, their negatives make us so positive. + + + + +THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE + +It is a curious truth that, whereas in every other art deliberate choice +of method and careful calculation of effect are expected from the +artist, in the greatest and most difficult art of all, the art of life, +this is not so. In literature, painting, or sculpture you first evolve +your conception, and then, after long study of it, as it glows and +shimmers in your imagination, you set about the reverent selection of +that form which shall be its most truthful incarnation, in words, in +paint, in marble. Now life, as has been said many times, is an art too. +Sententious morality from time past has told us that we are each given a +part to play, evidently implying, with involuntary cynicism, that the +art of life is--the art of acting. + +As with the actor, we are each given a certain dramatic conception for +the expression of which we have precisely the same artistic +materials--namely, our own bodies, sometimes including heart and brains. +One has often heard the complaint of a certain actor that he acts +himself. On the metaphorical stage of life the complaint and the implied +demand are just the reverse. How much more interesting life would be if +only more people had the courage and skill to act themselves, instead of +abjectly understudying some one else! Of course, there are supers on the +stage of life as on the real stage. It is proper that these should dress +and speak and think alike. These one courteously excepts from the +generalisation that the composer of the play, as Marcus Aurelius calls +him, has given each of us a certain part to play--that part simply +oneself: a part, need one say, by no means as easy as it seems; a part +most difficult to study, and requiring daily rehearsal. So difficult is +it, indeed, that most people throw up the part, and join the ranks of +the supers--who, curiously enough, are paid much more handsomely than +the principals. They enter one of the learned or idle professions, join +the army or take to trade, and so speedily rid themselves of the irksome +necessity of being anything more individual than 'the learned counsel,' +'the learned judge,' 'my lord bishop,' or 'the colonel,' names +impersonal in application as the dignity of 'Pharaoh,' whereof the name +and not the man was alone important. Henceforth they are the Church, the +Law, the Army, the City, or that vaguer profession Society. Entering one +of these, they become as lost to the really living world as the monk who +voluntarily surrenders all will and character of his own at the +threshold of his monastery: bricks in a prison wall, privates in the +line, peas in a row. But, as I say, these are the parts that pay. For +playing the others, indeed, you are not paid, but expected to +pay--dearly. + +It is full time we turned to those on whom falls the burden of those +real parts. Such, when quite young, if they be conscientious artists, +will carefully consider themselves, their gifts and possibilities, study +to discover their artistic _raison d'être_ and how best to fulfil it. +He or she will say: Here am I, a creature of great gifts and exquisite +sensibilities, drawn by great dreams, and vibrating to great emotions; +yet this potent and exquisite self is as yet, I know, but unwrought +material of the perfect work of art it is intended that I should make of +it--but the marble wherefrom, with patient chisel, I must liberate the +perfect and triumphant ME! As a poet listening with trembling ear to the +voice of his inspiration, so I tremulously ask myself--what is the +divine conception that is to become embodied in me, what is the divine +meaning of ME? How best shall I express it in look, in word, in deed, +till my outer self becomes the truthful symbol of my inner self--till, +in fact, I have successfully placed the best of myself on the outside +--for others besides myself to see, and know and love? + +What is my part, and how am I to play it? + +Returning to the latter image, there are two difficulties that beset one +in playing a part on the stage of life, right at the outset. You are not +allowed to 'look' it, or 'dress' it! What would an actor think, who, +asked to play Hamlet, found that he would be expected to play it +without make-up and in nineteenth-century costume? Yet many of us are in +a like dilemma with similar parts. Actors and audience must all wear the +same drab clothes and the same immobile expression. It is in vain you +protest that you do not really belong to this absurd and vulgar +nineteenth century, that you have been spirited into it by a cruel +mistake, that you really belong to mediæval Florence, to Elizabethan, +Caroline, or at latest Queen Anne England, and that you would like to be +allowed to look and dress as like it as possible. It is no use; if you +dare to look or dress like anything but your own tradesmen--and other +critics--it is at your peril. If you are beautiful, you are expected to +disguise a fact that is an open insult to every other person you look +at; and you must, as a general rule, never look, wear, feel, or say what +everybody else is not also looking, wearing, feeling, or saying. + +Thus you get some hint of the difficulty of playing the part of yourself +on this stage of life. + +In these matters of dressing and looking your part musicians seem +granted an immunity denied to all their fellow-artists. Perhaps it is +taken for granted that the musician is a fool--the British public is so +intuitive. Yet it takes the same view of the poet, without allowing him +a like immunity. And, by the way, what a fine conception of his part had +Tennyson--of the dignity, the mystery, the picturesqueness of it! +Tennyson would have felt it an artistic crime to look like his +publisher; yet what poet is there left us to-day half so +distinguished-looking as his publisher? + +Indeed, curiously enough, among no set of men does the desire to look as +commonplace as the rest of the world seem so strong as among men of +letters. Perhaps it is out of consideration for the rest of the world; +but, whatever the reason, immobility of expression and general +mediocrity of style are more characteristic of them at present than even +the military. + +It is surely a strange paradox that we should pride ourselves on +schooling to foolish insensibility, on eliminating from them every mark +of individual character, the faces that were intended subtly and +eloquently to image our moods--to look glad when we are glad, sorry when +we are sorry, angry in anger, and lovely in love. + +The impassivity of the modern young man is indeed a weird and wonderful +thing. Is it a mark to hide from us the appalling sins he none the less +openly affects? Is it meant to conceal that once in his life he paid a +wild visit to 'The Empire'--by kind indulgence of the County Council? +that he once chucked a barmaid under the chin, that he once nearly got +drunk, that he once spoke to a young lady he did not know--and then ran +away? + +One sighs for the young men of the days of Gautier and Hugo, the young +men with red waistcoats who made asses of themselves at first nights and +on the barricades, young men with romance in their hearts and passion in +their blood, fearlessly sentimental and picturesquely everything. + +The lover then was not ashamed that you should catch radiant glimpses of +his love in his eyes--nay! if you smiled kindly on him, he would take +you by the arm and insist on your breaking a bottle with him in honour +of his mistress. Joy and sorrow then wore their appropriate colours, +according, so to say, to the natural sumptuary laws of the emotions--one +of which is that the right place for the heart is the sleeve. + +It is the duty of those who are great, or to whom great destinies of joy +or sorrow have been dealt, to wear their distinctions for the world to +see. It is good for the world, which in its crude way indicates the +rudiments of this dramatic art of life, when it decrees that the bride +shall walk radiant in orange blossom, and the mourner sadden our streets +with black--symbols ever passing before us of the moving vicissitudes of +life. + +The mourner cannot always be sad, or the bride merry; the bride indeed +sometimes weeps at the altar, and the mourner laughs a savage cynical +laugh at the grave; but for those moments in which they awhile forget +parts more important than themselves, the tailor and the dressmaker have +provided symbolical garments, just as military decorations have been +provided for heroes without the gift of looking heroic, and sacerdotal +vestments for the priest, who, like a policeman, is not always on duty. + +In playing his part the conscientious artist in life, like any other +actor, must often seem to feel more than he really feels at a given +moment, say more than he means. In this he is far from being +insincere--though he must make up his mind to be accused daily of +insincerity and affectation. On the contrary, it will be his very +sincerity that necessitates his make-believe. With his great part ever +before him in its inspiring completeness, he must be careful to allow no +merely personal accident of momentary feeling or action to jeopardise +the general effect. There are moments, for example, when a really true +lover, owing to such masterful natural facts as indigestion, a cold, or +extreme sleepiness, is unable to feel all that he knows he really feels. +To 'tell the truth,' as it is called, under such circumstances, would +simply be a most dangerous form of lying. There is no duty we owe to +truth more imperative than that of lying stoutly on occasion--for, +indeed, there is often no other way of conveying the whole truth than +by telling the part-lie. + +A watchful sincerity to our great conception of ourselves is the first +and last condition, of our creating that finest work of art--a +personality; for a personality, like a poet, is not only born but made. + + + + +THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX + +In an essay on Vauvenargues Mr. John Morley speaks with characteristic +causticity of those epigrammatists 'who persist in thinking of man and +woman as two different species,' and who make verbal capital out of the +fancied distinction in the form of smart epigrams beginning '_Les +femmes_.' It is one of Shakespeare's cardinal characteristics that _he +understood woman_. Mr. Meredith's fame as a novelist is largely due to +the fact that he too _understands women_. The one spot on the sun of +Robert Louis Stevenson's fame, so we are told, is that he could _never +draw a woman_. His capacity for drawing men counted for nothing, +apparently, beside this failure. Evidently the Sphinx has not the face +of a woman for nothing. That is why no one has read her riddle, +translated her mystic smile. Yet many people smile mysteriously, +without any profound meanings behind their smile, with no other reason +than a desire to mystify. Perhaps the Sphinx smiles to herself just for +the fun of seeing us take her smile so seriously. And surely women must +so smile as they hear their psychology so gravely discussed. Of course, +the superstition is invaluable to them, and it is only natural that they +should make the most of it. Man is supposed to be a complete ignoramus +in regard to all the specialised female 'departments'--from the supreme +mystery of the female heart to the humble domestic mysteries of a +household. Similarly, men are supposed to have no taste in women's +dress, yet for whom do women clothe themselves in the rainbow and the +sea-foam, if not to please men? And was not the high-priest of that +delicious and fascinating mystery a man--if it be proper to call the +late M. Worth a man,--as the best cooks are men, and the best waiters? + +It would seem to be assumed from all this mystification that men are +beings clear as daylight, both to themselves and to women. Poor, +simple, manageable souls, their wants are easily satisfied, their +psychology--which, it is implied, differs little from their +physiology--long since mapped out. + +It may be so, but it is the opinion of some that men's simplicity is no +less a fiction than women's mysterious complexity, and that human +character is made up of much the same qualities in men and women, +irrespective of a merely rudimentary sexual distinction, which has, of +course, its proper importance, and which the present writer would be the +last to wish away. From that quaint distinction of sex springs, of +course, all that makes life in the smallest degree worth living, from +great religions to tiny flowers. Love and beauty and poetry; +Shakespeare's plays, Burne-Jones's pictures, and Wagner's operas--all +such moving expressions of human life, as science has shown us, spring +from the all-important fact that 'male and female created He them.' + +This everybody knows, and few are fools enough to deny. Many people, +however, confuse this organic distinction of sex with its time-worn +conventional symbols; just as religion is commonly confused with its +external rites and ceremonies. The comparison naturally continues itself +further; for, as in religion, so soon as some traditional garment of the +faith has become outworn or otherwise unsuitable, and the proposal is +made to dispense with or substitute it, an outcry immediately is raised +that religion itself is in danger--so with sex, no sooner does one or +the other sex propose to discard its arbitrary conventional +characteristics, or to supplement them by others borrowed from its +fellow-sex, than an outcry immediately is raised that sex itself is in +danger. + +Sex--the most potent force in the universe--in danger because women +wear knickerbockers instead of petticoats, or military men take to +corsets and cosmetics! + +That parallel with religion may be pursued profitably one step further. +In religion, the conventional test of your faith is not how you live, +not in your kindness of heart or purity of mind, but how you believe--in +the Trinity, in the Atonement; and do you turn to the East during the +recital of the Apostles' Creed? These and such, as every one knows, are +the vital matters of religion. And it is even so with sex. You are not +asked for the realities of manliness or womanliness, but for the +shadows, the arbitrary externalities, the fashions of which change from +generation to generation. + +To be truly womanly you must never wear your hair short; to be truly +manly you must never wear it long. To be truly womanly you must dress as +daintily as possible, however uncomfortably; to be truly manly you must +wear the most hideous gear ever invented by the servility of tailors--a +strange succession of cylinders from head to heel; cylinder on head, +cylinder round your body, cylinders on arms and cylinders on legs. To be +truly womanly you must be shrinking and clinging in manner and trivial +in conversation; you must have no ideas, and rejoice that you wish for +none; you must thank Heaven that you have never ridden a bicycle or +smoked a cigarette; and you must be prepared to do a thousand other +absurd and ridiculous things. To be truly manly you must be and do the +opposite of all these things, with this exception--that with you the +possession of ideas is optional. The finest specimens of British manhood +are without ideas; but that, I say, is, generally speaking, a matter for +yourself. It is indeed the only matter in which you have any choice. +More important matters, such as the cut of your clothes and hair, the +shape of your face, the length of your moustache and the pattern of your +cane--all these are very properly regulated for you by laws of fashion, +which you could never dream of breaking. You may break every moral law +there is--or rather, was--and still remain a man. You may be a bully, a +cad, a coward and a fool, in the poor heart and brains of you; but so +long as you wear the mock regimentals of contemporary manhood, and are +above all things plain and undistinguished enough, your reputation for +manhood will be secure. There is nothing so dangerous to a reputation +for manhood as brains or beauty. + +In short, to be a true woman you have only to be pretty and an idiot, +and to be a true man you have only to be brutal and a fool. + +From these misconceptions of manliness and womanliness, these +superstitions of sex, many curious confusions have come about. They so +to say, professional differentiation between the sexes had at one time +gone so far that men were credited with the entire monopoly of a certain +set of human qualities, and women with the monopoly of a certain other +set of human qualities; yet every one of these are qualities which one +would have thought were proper to, and necessary for, all human beings +alike, male and female. + +In a dictionary of a date (1856) when everything on earth and in heaven +was settled and written in penny cyclopædias and books of deportment, I +find these delicious definitions-- + +_Manly_: becoming a man; firm; brave; undaunted; dignified; noble; +stately; not boyish or womanish. + +_Womanly_: becoming a woman; feminine; as _womanly_ behaviour. + +Under _Woman_ we find the adjectives--soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, +kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender, timorous, modest. + +Who can doubt that the dictionary maker defined and distributed his +adjectives aright for the year 1856? Since then, however, many alarming +heresies have taken root in our land, and some are heard to declare that +both these sets of adjectives apply to men and women alike, and are, in +fact, necessities of any decent human outfit. Otherwise the conclusion +is obvious, that no one desirous of the adjective 'manly' must ever +be--soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous, or modest; and no one desirous of the adjective +'womanly' be--firm, brave, undaunted, dignified, noble, or stately. + +But surely the essentials of 'manliness' and 'womanliness' belong to man +and woman alike--the externals are purely artistic considerations, and +subject to the vagaries of fashion. In art no one would think of +allowing fashion any serious artistic opinion. It is usually the art +which is out of fashion that is most truly art. Similarly, fashions in +manliness or womanliness have nothing to do with real manliness or +womanliness. Moreover, the adjectives 'manly' or 'womanly,' applied to +works of art, or the artistic surfaces of men and women, are +irrelevant--that is to say, impertinent. You have no right to ask a +poem or a picture to look manly or womanly, any more than you have any +right to ask a man or a woman to look manly or womanly. There is no such +thing as looking manly or womanly. There is looking beautiful or ugly, +distinguished or commonplace, individual or insignificant. The one law +of externals is beauty in all its various manifestations. To ask the sex +of a beautiful person is as absurd as it would be to ask the publisher +the sex of a beautiful book. Such questions are for midwives and +doctors. + +It was once the fashion for heroes to shed tears on the smallest +occasion, and it does not appear that they fought the worse for it; some +of the firmest, bravest, most undaunted, most dignified, most noble, +most stately human beings have been women; as some of the softest, +mildest, most pitiful and flexible, most kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous and modest human beings have been men. Indeed, some of +the bravest men that ever trod this planet have worn corsets, and it +needs more courage nowadays for a man to wear his hair long than to +machine-gun a whole African nation. Moreover, quite the nicest women one +knows ride bicycles--in the rational costume. + + + + +THE FALLACY OF A NATION + +It is, I am given to understand, a familiar axiom of mathematics that no +number of ciphers placed in front of significant units, or tens or +hundreds of units, adds in the smallest degree to the numerical value of +those units. The figure one becomes of no more importance however many +noughts are marshalled in front of it--though, indeed, in the +mathematics of human nature this is not so. Is not a man or woman +considered great in proportion to the number of ciphers that walk in +front of him, from a humble brace of domestics to guards of honour and +imperial armies? + +A parallel profound truth of mathematics is that a nought, however many +times it be multiplied, remains nought; but again we find the reverse +obtain in the mathematics of human nature. One might have supposed that +the result of one nobody multiplied even fifty million times would still +be nobody. However, such is far from being the case. Fifty million +nobodies make--a nation. Of course, there is no need for so many. I am +reckoning as a British subject, and speak of fifty million merely as an +illustration of the general fact that it is the multiplication of +nobodies that makes a nation. 'Increase and multiply' was, it will be +remembered, the recipe for the Jewish nation. + +Nobodies of the same colour, tongue, and prejudices have but to +congregate together in a crowd sufficiently big for other similar crowds +to recognise them, and then they are given a name of their own, and +become recognised as a nation--one of the 'Great Powers.' + +Beyond those differences in colour, tongue, and prejudices there is +really no difference between the component units--or rather ciphers--of +all these several national crowds. You have seen a procession of various +trades-unions filing toward Hyde Park, each section with its particular +banner with a strange device: 'The United Guild of Paperhangers,' 'The +Ancient Order of Plumbers,' and so on. And you may have marvelled to +notice how alike the members of the various carefully differentiated +companies were. So to say, they each and all might have been plumbers; +and you couldn't help feeling that it wouldn't have mattered much if +some of the paper-hangers had by mistake got walking amongst the +plumbers, or _vice versa_. + +So the great trades-unions of the world file past, one with the odd word +'Russia' on its banner; another boasting itself 'Germany'--this with a +particularly bumptious and self-important young man walking backward in +front of it, in the manner of a Salvation Army captain, and imperiously +waving an iron wand; still another 'nation' calling itself 'France'; and +yet another boasting the biggest brass band, and called 'England.' Other +smaller bodies of nobodies, that is, smaller nations, file past with +humbler tread--though there is really no need for their doing so. For, +as we have said, they are in every particular like to those haughtier +nations who take precedence of them. In fact, one or two of them, such +as Norway and Denmark--were a truer system of human mathematics to +obtain--are really of more importance than the so-called greater +nations, in that among their nobodies they include a larger percentage +of intellectual somebodies. + +Remembering that percentage of wise men, the formula of a nation were +perhaps more truly stated in our first mathematical image. The wise men +in a nation are as the units with the noughts in front of them. And when +I say wise men I do not, indeed, mean merely the literary men or the +artists, but all those somebodies with some real force of character, +people with brains and hearts, fighters and lovers, saints and thinkers, +and the patient, industrious workers. Such, if you consider, are really +no integral part of the nation among which they are cast. They have no +part in what are grandiloquently called national interests--war, +politics, and horse-racing to wit. A change of Government leaves them as +unmoved as an election for the board of guardians. They would as soon +think of entering Parliament or the County Council, as of yearning to +manage the gasworks, or to go about with one of those carts bearing the +legend 'Aldermen and Burgesses of the City of London' conspicuously upon +its front. Their main concern in political changes is the rise and fall +of the income-tax, and, be the Cabinet Tory or Liberal, their rate +papers come in for the same amount. It is likely that national changes +would affect them but little more. What more would a foreign invasion +mean than that we should pay our taxes to French, Russian, or German +officials, instead of to English ones? French and Italians do our +cooking, Germans manage our music, Jews control our money markets; +surely it would make little difference to us for France, Russia, or +Germany to undertake our government. The worst of being conquered by +Russia would be the necessity of learning Russian; whereas a little +rubbing up of our French would make us comfortable with France. Besides, +to be conquered by France would save us crossing the Channel to Paris, +and then we might hope for cafés in Regent Street, and an emancipated +literature. As a matter of fact, so-called national interests are merely +certain private interests on a large scale, the private interests of +financiers, ambitious politicians, soldiers, and great merchants. +Broadly speaking, there are no rival nations--there are rival markets; +and it is its Board of Trade and its Stock Exchange rather than its +Houses of Parliament that virtually govern a country. Thus one seaport +goes down and another comes up, industries forsake one country to bless +another, the military and naval strengths of nations fluctuate this way +and that; and to those whom these changes affect they are undoubtedly +important matters--the great capitalist, the soldier, and the +politician; but to the quiet man at home with his wife, his children, +his books, and his flowers, to the artist busied with brave translunary +matters, to the saint with his eyes filled with 'the white radiance of +eternity,' to the shepherd on the hillside, the milkmaid in love, or the +angler at his sport--what are these pompous commotions, these busy, +bustling mimicries of reality? England will be just as good to live in +though men some day call her France. Let the big busybodies divide her +amongst them as they like, so that they leave one alone with one's fair +share of the sky and the grass, and an occasional, not too vociferous, +nightingale. + +The reader will perhaps forgive the hackneyed references to Sir Thomas +Browne peacefully writing his _Religio Medici_ amid all the commotions +of the Civil War, and to Gautier calmly correcting the proofs of his new +poems during the siege of Paris. The milkman goes his rounds amid the +crash of empires. It is not his business to fight. His business is to +distribute his milk--as much after half-past seven as may be +inconvenient. Similarly, the business of the thinker is with his +thought, the poet with his poetry. It is the business of politicians to +make national quarrels, and the business of the soldier to fight them. +But as for the poet--let him correct his proofs, or beware the printer. + +The idea, then, of a nation is a grandiloquent fallacy in the interests +of commerce and ambition, political and military. All the great and +good, clever and charming people belong to one secret nation, for which +there is no name unless it be the Chosen People. These are the lost +tribes of love, art, and religion, lost and swamped amid alien peoples, +but ever dreaming of a time when they shall meet once more in Jerusalem. + +Yet though they are thus aliens, taking and wishing no part in the +organisation of the 'nations' among which they dwell, this does not +prevent those nations taking part and credit in them. And whenever a +brave soldier wins a battle, or an intrepid traveller discovers a new +land, his particular nation flatters itself, as though it--the million +nobodies--had done it. With a profound indifference to, indeed an active +dislike of, art and poetry, there is nothing on which a nation prides +itself so much as upon its artists and poets, whom, invariably, it +starves, neglects, and even insults, as long as it is not too silly to +do so. + +Thus the average Englishman talks of Shakespeare--as though he himself +had written the plays; of India--as though he himself had conquered it. +And thus grow up such fictions as 'national greatness' and 'public +opinion.' + +For what is 'national greatness' but the glory reflected from the +memories of a few great individuals? and what is 'public opinion' but +the blustering echoes of the opinion of a few clever young men on the +morning papers? + +For how can people in themselves little become great by merely +congregating into a crowd, however large? And surely fools do not become +wise, or worth listening to, merely by the fact of their banding +together. + +A 'public opinion' on any matter except football, prize-fighting, and +perhaps cricket, is merely ridiculous--by whatever brutal physical +powers it may be enforced--ridiculous as a town council's opinion upon +art; and a nation is merely a big fool with an army. + + + + +THE GREATNESS OF MAN + +Ignorant, as I inevitably am, dear reader, of your intellectual and +spiritual upbringing, I can hardly guess whether the title of my article +will impress you as a platitude or as a paradox. Goodness knows, some +men and women think quite enough of themselves as it is, and, from a +certain momentary point of view, there may seem little occasion indeed +to remind man of his importance. + +I refer to your intellectual and spiritual upbringing, because I venture +to wonder if it was in the least like my own. I was brought up, I +rejoice to say, in the bosom of an orthodox Puritan family. I was led +and driven to believe that man was everybody, and that God was +somebody--and that not merely the Sabbath, but the whole universe, was +made for man: that the stars were his bedtime candles, and that the sun +arose to ensure his catching the 8.37 of a morning. + +On this belief I acted for many years. Every young man believes that +there is no god but God, and that he is born to be His prophet--though +perhaps that belief is not so common nowadays. I am speaking of many +years ago. + +Science, however, has long since changed all that. Those terrible Muses, +geology, astronomy, and particularly biology, have reduced man to a +humility which, if in some degree salutary, becomes in its excess highly +dangerous. Why should one maggot in this great cheese of the world take +itself more seriously than others? Why dream mightily and do bravely if +we are but a little higher than the beasts that perish? Nature cares +nothing about us, and her giant forces laugh at our fancies. The world +has no such meaning as we thought. Poets and saints, deluded by +unhealthy imaginations, have misled us, and it is quite likely that the +wild waves are really saying nothing more important than 'Beecham's +Pills.' + +'Give us a definition of life,' I asked a certain famous scientist and +philosopher whom I am privileged to call my friend. + +'Nothing easier!' he gaily replied. 'Life is a product of solar energy, +falling upon the carbon compounds, on the outer crust of a particular +planet, in a particular corner of the solar system.' + +'And that,' I said, 'really satisfies you as a definition of life--of +all the wistful wonder of the world!' And as I spoke I thought of Moses +with mystically shining face upon the Mount of the Law, of Ezekiel rapt +in his divine fancies, of Socrates drinking his cup of hemlock, of +Christ's agony in the garden; the golden faces of the great of the world +passed as in a dream before me,--soldiers, saints, poets, and lovers. I +thought of Horatius on the bridge, of the holy and gentle soul of St. +Francis, of Chatterton in his splendid despair, and in fancy I went with +the awestruck citizens of Verona to reverently gaze at the bodies of two +young lovers who had counted the world well lost if they might only +leave it together. + +The carbon compounds! + +I took down _Romeo and Juliet_, listened to its passionate spheral +music, and the carbon compounds have never troubled me again. + +Love laughs at the carbon compounds, and a great book, a noble act, a +beautiful face, make nonsense of such cheap formula for the mystery of +human life. + +Yet this parable of the carbon compounds is a fair sample of all that +science can tell us when we come to ultimates. We go away from its +oracles with a mouthful of sounding words, which may seem very +impressive till we examine their emptiness. What, for example, is all +this rigmarole about solar energy and the carbon compounds but a more +pompous way of putting the old scriptural statement that man was made of +the dust of the ground? To say that God took a handful of dust and +breathed upon it and it became man, is no harder to realise than that +solar rays falling upon that dust should produce humanity and all the +various phantasmagoria of life. If anything, it is more explanatory. It +leaves us with an inspiring mystery for explanation. + +In saying this, I do not forget our debt to science. It has done much +in clearing our minds of cant, in popularising more systematic thinking, +and in instituting sounder methods of observation. In some directions it +has deepened our sense of wonder. It has broadened our conception of the +universe, though I fear it has been at the expense of narrowing our +conception of man. With Hamlet it contemptuously says, 'What is this +quintessence of dust!' It is so impressed by the mileage and tonnage of +the universe, so abased before the stupendous measurements of the +cosmos, the appalling infinity and eternity of its space and time, that +it forgets the marvel of the mind that can grasp all these conceptions, +forgets, too, that, big and bullying as the forces of nature may be, man +has been able in a large measure to control, indeed to domesticate, +them. Surely the original fact of lightning is little more marvellous +than the power of man to turn it into his errand-boy or his horse, to +light his rooms with it, and imprison it in pennyworths, like the genius +in the bottle, in the underground railway. Mere size seems unimpressive +when we contemplate such an extreme of littleness as say the ant, that +pin-point of a personality, that mere speck of being, yet including +within its infinitesimal proportions a clever, busy brain, a soldier, a +politician, and a merchant. That such and so many faculties should have +room to operate within that tiny body--there is a marvel before which, +it seems to me, the billions of miles that keep us from falling into the +jaws of the sun, and the tonnage of Jupiter, are comparatively +insignificant and conceivable. + +No, we must not allow ourselves to be frightened by the mere size and +weight of the universe, or be depressed because our immediate genealogy +is not considered aristocratic. Perhaps, after all, we are sons of God, +and as Mr. Meredith finely puts it, our life here may still be + + '... a little holding + To do a mighty service.' + +'Things of a day!' exclaims Pindar. 'What is a man? What is a man not?' + +It is good for our Nebuchadnezzars, the kings of the world, and +conceited, successful people generally, to measure themselves against +the great powers of the universe, to humble their pride by contemplation +of the fixed stars; but a too humble attitude toward the Infinite, a too +constant pondering upon eternity, is not good for us, unless, so to say, +we can live with them as friends, with the inspiring feeling that, +little as we may seem, there is that in us which is no less infinite, no +less cosmic, and that our passions and dreams have, as Mr. William +Watson puts it, 'a relish of eternity.' + +Readers of Amiel's 'Journal' will know what a sterilising, petrifying +influence his trance-like contemplation of the Infinite had upon his +life. Amiel was simply hypnotised by the universe, as a man may +hypnotise himself by gazing fixedly at a star. + +Mr. Pater, you will remember, has a remarkable study of a similar +temperament in his _Imaginary Portraits_. Sebastian van Storck, like +Amiel, had become hypnotised by the Infinite. It paralysed in him all +impulse or power 'to be or do any limited thing.' + +'For Sebastian, at least,' we read, 'the world and the individual alike +had been divested of all effective purpose. The most vivid of finite +objects, the dramatic episodes of Dutch history, the brilliant +personalities which had found their parts to play in them, that golden +art, surrounding one with an ideal world, beyond which the real world +was discernible indeed, but etherealised by the medium through which it +came to one; all this, for most men so powerful a link to existence, +only set him on the thought of escape--into a formless and nameless +infinite world, evenly grey.... Actually proud, at times, of his +curious, well-reasoned nihilism, he could but regard what is called the +business of life as no better than a trifling and wearisome delay.' + +This mood, once confined to a few mystics is likely to become a common +one, is already, one imagines, far from infrequent--so the increase of +suicide would lead us to suppose. Robbed of his hope of a glorious +immortality, stripped of his spiritual significance, bullied and +belittled by science on every hand, man not unnaturally begins to feel +that it is no use taking his life seriously, that, in fact, it betrays a +lack of humour to do so. While he was a supernatural being, a son of +God, it was with him a case of _noblesse oblige_; and while he is happy +and comfortable he doesn't mind giving up the riddle of the world. It is +only the unhappy that ever really think. But what is he to do when agony +and despair come upon him, when all that made his life worth living is +taken from him? How is he to sustain himself? where shall he look for +his strength or his hope? He looks up at the sky full of stars, but he +is told that God is not there, that the city of God is long since a +ruin, and that owls hoot to each other across its moss-grown fanes and +battlements; he looks down on the earth, full of graves, a vast +necropolis of once radiant dreams, with the living for its +phantoms,--and there is no comfort anywhere. Happy is he if some simple +human duty be at hand, which he may go on doing blindly and +dumbly--till, perhaps, the light come again. It is difficult to offer +comfort to such a one. Comfort is cheap, and we know nothing. When life +holds nothing for our love and delight, it is difficult to explain why +we should go on living it--except on the assumption that it matters, +that it is, in some mystical way, supremely important, how we live it, +and what we make of those joys and sorrows which, say some, are but +meant as mystical trials and tests. + +Sebastian van Storck refused 'to be or do any limited thing,' but the +answer to his mysticism is to be found in a finer mysticism, that which +says that there is no limited act or thing, but that the significance, +as well as the pathos, of eternity is in our smallest joys and sorrows, +as in our most everyday transactions, and the greatness of God incarnate +in His humblest child. + +This, the old doctrine of the microcosm, seems in certain moments, +moments one would wish to say, of divination, strangely plain and +clear--when, in Blake's words, it seems so easy to + + '... see a world in a grain of sand, + And a heaven in a wild flower; + Hold infinity in the palm of your hand + And Eternity in an hour.' + +Perhaps in the street, an effect of light, a passing face, yes, even the +plaintive grind of a street organ, some such everyday circumstance, +affects you suddenly in quite a strange way. It has become +universalised. It is no longer a detail of the Strand, but a cryptic +symbol of human life. It has been transfigured into a thing of infinite +pathos and infinite beauty, and, sad or glad, brings to you an +inexplicable sense of peace, an unshakable conviction that man is a +spirit, that his life is indeed of supreme and lovely significance, and +that his destiny is secure and blessed. + +Matthew Arnold, ever sensitive to such spiritual states, has described +these trance-like visitations in 'The Buried Life'-- + + 'Only, but this is rare-- + When a beloved hand is laid in ours, + When, jaded with the rush and glare + Of the interminable hours, + Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, + When our world-deafen'd ear + Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-- + A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, + And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again: + The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, + And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. + A man becomes aware of his life's flow, + And hears its winding murmur; and he sees + The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. + + 'And there arrives a lull in the hot race + Wherein he doth for ever chase + That flying and elusive shadow, rest. + An air of coolness plays upon his face, + And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. + And then he thinks he knows + The hills where his life rose, + And the sea where it goes.' + +'To be or do any limited thing'! What indeed, we ask in such hours, is a +limited thing, when all the humble interests of our daily life are +palpably big with eternity? Is the first kiss of a great love a limited +thing? though there is, unhappily, no denying that it comes to an end! +When a young husband and wife smile across to each other above the sleep +of their little child--is that a limited thing? When the siren voices of +the world blend together on the lips of a young poet, and with rapt eyes +and hot heart he makes a song as of the morning stars--is that a limited +thing? Are love, and genius, and duty done in the face of death--are +these limited things? I think not--and man, indeed, knows better. + +Greatness is not relative. It is absolute. It is not for man to depress +himself by measuring himself against the eternities and the immensities +external to him. What he has to do is to look inward upon himself, to +fathom the eternities and the immensities in his own heart and brain. + +And the more man sees himself forsaken by the universe, the more +opportunity to vindicate his own greatness. Is there no kind heart +beating through the scheme of things?--man's heart shall still be kind. +Will the eternal silence make mock of his dreams and his idealisms, +laugh coldly at 'the splendid purpose in his eyes'? Well, so be it. His +dreams and idealisms are none the less noble things, and if the gods do +thus make mock of mortal joy and pain--let us be grateful that we were +born mere men. + +Moreover, he has one great answer to the universe--the answer of +courage. He is still Prometheus, and there is no limit to what he can +bear. Let the vultures of pain rend his heart as they will, he can still +hiss 'coward' in the face of the Eternal. Nay, he can even laugh at his +sufferings--thanks to the spirit of humour, that most blessed of +ministering angels, without which surely the heart of humanity had long +since broken, by which man is able to look with a comical eye upon +terrors, as it were taking themselves so seriously, coming with such +Olympian thunders and lightnings to break the spirit of a mere six foot +of earth! + +But while his courage and his humour are defences of which he cannot be +disarmed, whatever be the intention of the Eternal, it is by no means +certain that nature does not mean kindly by man. Perhaps the pain of the +world is but the rough horseplay of great powers that mean but jest--and +kill us in it: as though one played at 'tick' with an elephant! + +Perhaps, after all,--who knows?--God is love, and His great purpose +kind. + +Surely, when you think of it, the existence in man of the senses of love +and pity implies the probability of their existence elsewhere in the +universe too. + + 'Into that breast which brings the rose + Shall I with shuddering fall.' + +So runs the profoundest thought in modern poetry--and need I say it is +Mr. Meredith's? + +As the fragrance and colour of the rose must in some occult way be +properties of the rude earth from which they are drawn by the sun, may +not human love also be a kindly property of matter--that mysterious +life-stuff in which is packed such marvellous potentialities? Evidently +love must be somewhere in the universe--else it had not got into the +heart of man; and perhaps pity slides down like an angel in the rays of +the solar energy, while there is the potential beating of a human heart +even in the hard crust of the carbon compounds. + +I confess that this seems to me no mere fancy, but a really comforting +speculation. Pain, we say, is inherent in the scheme of the universe; +but is not love seen to be no less inherent, too? + +There must be some soul of beauty to animate the lovely face of the +world, some soul of goodness to account for its saints. If the gods are +cruel, it is strange that man should be so kind, and that some pathetic +spirit of tenderness should seem to stir even in the bosoms of beasts +and birds. + +Meanwhile, we cannot too often insist that, whatever uncertainties there +be, man has one certainty--himself. Science has really adduced nothing +essential against his significance. That he is not as big as an Alp, as +heavy as a star, or as long-lived as an eagle, is nothing against his +proper importance. Even a nobleman is of more significance in the world +than his acres, and giants are not proverbial for their intellectual or +spiritual qualities. The ant is of more importance than the ass, and the +great eye of a beautiful woman is more significant than the whole clayey +bulk of Mars. + +After all the scientific mockery of the old religious ideal of the +importance of man, one begins to wonder if his Ptolemaic fancy that he +was the centre of the universe, and that it was all made for him, is not +nearer the If truth than the pitiless theories which hardly allow him +equality with the flea that perishes. + +Suppose if, after all, the stars were really meant as his bedtime +candles, and the sun's purpose in rising is really that he may catch the +8.37! + +For, as Sir Thomas Browne says in his solemn English, 'there is surely a +piece of Divinity in us, something that was before the elements, and +owes no homage unto the sun.' + +The long winter of materialistic science seems to be breaking up, and +the old ideals are seen trooping back with something more than their old +beauty, in the new spiritual spring that seems to be moving in the +hearts of men. + +After all its talk, science has done little more than correct the +misprints of religion. Essentially, the old spiritualistic and poetic +theories of life are seen, not merely weakly to satisfy the cravings of +man's nature, but to be mostly in harmony with certain strange and +moving facts in his constitution, which the materialists +unscientifically ignore. + +It was important, and has been helpful, to insist that man is an animal, +but it is still more important to insist that he is a spirit as well. He +is, so to say, an animal by accident, a spirit by birthright: and, +however homely his duties may occasionally seem, his life is bathed in +the light of a sacred transfiguring significance, its smallest acts +flash with divine meanings, its highest moments are rich with 'the +pathos of eternity,' and its humblest duties mighty with the +responsibilities of a god. + + + + +DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS + +_A DIALOGUE_ + +(_To the Memory of J.S. and T.C.L._) + +PERSONS: SCRIPTOR AND LECTOR. + +[This dialogue was written originally as a rejoinder to certain +criticisms on a book of mine entitled, _The Religion of a Literary +Man_--_Religio Scriptoris_--hence the names given to the two 'persons.' +It was written in March 1894, before an event in the writer's life to +which, erroneously, some have supposed it to refer.] + + +LECTOR. But do you really mean, Scriptor, that you have no desire for +the life after death? + +SCRIPTOR. I never said quite that, Lector, though perhaps I might almost +have gone so far. What I did say was that we have been accustomed to +exaggerate its importance to us here and now, that it really matters +less to us than we imagine. + +LECTOR. I see. But you must speak for yourself, Scriptor. I am sure that +it matters much to many, to most of us. It does, I know, to me. + +SCRIPTOR. Less than you think, my dear Lector. Besides, you are really +too young to know. It is true that, as years go, you are ten years my +senior, but what of that? You have that vigorous health which is the +secret of perpetual youth. You have not yet realised decay, not to speak +of death. The immortality of the soul is a question wide of you, who +have as yet practically no doubt of the immortality of the body. But +I--well, it would be melodramatic to say that I face death every day. +The metaphor applies but to desperate callings and romantic complaints. +To some Death comes like a footpad, suddenly, and presents his +pistol--and the smoke that curls upward from his empty barrel is your +soul. + +To another he comes featureless, a stealthily accumulating London fog, +that slowly, slowly chokes the life out of you, without allowing you the +consolation of a single picturesque moment, a single grand attitude. For +you, probably, Death will only come when you die. I have to live with +him as well. I shall smoulder for years, you will be carried to heaven, +like Enoch, in a beautiful lightning. + + 'A simple child + That lightly draws its breath, + And feels its life in every limb, + What can it know of Death?' + +That's you, my dear Lector, for all your forty years. + +LECTOR. All the more reason, Scriptor, that you should desire a +hereafter. You sometimes talk of the work you would do if you were a +robust Philistine such as I. Would it not be worth while to live +again, if only to make sure of that _magnum opus_--just to realise +those dreams that you say are daily escaping you? + +SCRIPTOR. Ah! so speaks the energetic man, eager to take the world on +his shoulders. I know the images of death that please you, +Lector--such as that great one of Arnold's, about 'the sounding +labour-house vast of being.' + +But, Lector, you who love work so well--have you never heard tell of +a thing called Rest? Have you never known what it is to be tired, my +Lector?--not tired at the end of a busy day, but tired in the morning, +tired in the Memnonian sunlight, when larks and barrel-organs start on +their blithe insistent rounds. No, the man who is tired of a morning +sings not music-hall songs in his bedroom as he dashes about in his +morning bath. But will you never want to go to bed, Lector? Will you +be always like the children who hate to be sent to bed, and think that +when they are grown up they will never go to bed at all? Yet in a few +years' time how glad they are of the stray chance of bed at ten. May +it not be so with sleep's twin-brother? In our young vigour, driven by +a hundred buoyant activities, enticed by dream on dream, time seems so +short for all we think we have to do; but surely when the blood begins +to thin, and the heart to wax less extravagantly buoyant, when comfort +croons a kettle-song whose simple spell no sirens of ambition or +romance can overcome--don't you think that then 'bedtime' will come to +seem the best hour of the day, and 'Death as welcome as a friend would +fall'? + +LECTOR. But you are no fair judge, Scriptor. You say my health, my +youth, as you waggishly call it, puts me out of court. Yet surely your +ill-health and low spirits just as surely vitiate your judgment? + +SCRIPTOR. Admitted, so far as my views are the outcome of my +particular condition. But you forget that the condition I have been +supposing is not merely particular, but, on the contrary, the most +general among men. Was it not old age?--which, like youth, is +independent of years. You may be young beyond your years, I may be old +in advance of them; but old age does come some time, and with it the +desire of rest. + +LECTOR. But does not old age spend most of its thought in dwelling +fondly on its lost youth, hanging like a remote sunrise in its +imagination? Is it not its one yearning desire just to live certain +hours of its youth over again?--and would the old man not give all he +possesses for the certainty of being born young again into eternity? + +SCRIPTOR. He would give everything--but the certainty of rest. After +seventy years of ardent life one needs a long sleep to refresh us +in. Besides, age may not be so sure of the advantages of youth. All is +not youth that laughs and glitters. Youth has its hopes, which are +uncertain; but age has its memories, which are sure; youth has its +passions, but age has its comforts. + +LECTOR. Your answers come gay and pat, Scriptor, but your voice +betrays you. In spite of you, it saddens all your words. Tell me, have +you ever known what it is actually to lose any one who is dear to you? +Have you looked on death face to face? + +SCRIPTOR. Yes, Lector, I have--but once. It is now about five years +ago, but the impression of it haunts me to this hour. Perhaps the +memory is all the keener because it was my one experience. In a world +where custom stales all things, save Cleopatra, it is all the better +perhaps not to see even too much of Death, lest we grow familiar with +him. For instance, doctors and soldiers, who look on him daily, seem +to lose the sense of his terror--nay, worse, of his tragedy. Maybe it +is something in his favour, and Death, like others, may only need to +be known to be loved. + +LECTOR. But tell me, Scriptor, of this sad experience, which even now +it moves you to name; or is the memory too sad to recall? + +SCRIPTOR. Sad enough, Lector, but beautiful for all that, beautiful as +winter. It was winter when she of whom I am thinking died--a winter +that seemed to make death itself whiter and colder on her marble +forehead. It is but one sad little story of all the heaped-up sorrow +of the world; but in it, as in a shell, I seem to hear the murmur of +all the tides of tears that have surged about the lot of man from the +beginning. + +There were two dear friends of mine whom I used to call the happiest +lovers in the world. They had loved truly from girlhood and boyhood, +and after some struggle--for they were not born into that class which +is denied the luxury of struggle--at length saw a little home bright +in front of them. And then Jenny, who had been ever bright and strong, +suddenly and unaccountably fell ill. Like the stroke of a sword, like +the stride of a giant, Death, to whom they had never given a thought, +was upon them. It was consumption, and love could only watch and +pray. Suddenly my friend sent for me, and I saw with my own eyes what +at a distance it had seemed impossible to believe. As I entered the +house, with the fresh air still upon me, I spoke confidently, with +babbling ignorant tongue. 'Wait till you see her face!' was all my +poor stricken friend could say. + +Ah! her face! How can I describe it? It was much sweeter afterwards, +but now it was so dark and witchlike, so uncanny, almost wicked, so +thin and full of inky shadows. She sat up in her bed, a wizened little +goblin, and laughed a queer, dry, knowing laugh to herself, a laugh +like the scraping of reeds in a solitary place. A strange black +weariness seemed to be crushing down her brows, like the 'unwilling +sleep' of a strong narcotic. She would begin a sentence and let it +wither away unfinished, and point sadly and almost humorously to her +straight black hair, clammy as the feathers of a dead bird lying in +the rain. Her hearing was strangely keen. And yet she did not know, +was not to know. How was one to talk to her--talk of being well again, +and books and country walks, when she had so plainly done with all +these things? How bear up when she, with a half-sad, half-amused +smile, showed her thin wrists?--how say that they would soon be strong +and round again? Ugh! she was already beginning to be different from +us, already putting off our body-sweet mortality, and putting on the +fearful garments of death, changing before our eyes from ruddy +familiar humanity into a being of another element, an element we dread +as the fish dreads the air. Soon we should not be able to talk to +her. Soon she would have unlearnt all the sweet grammar of earth. She +was no longer Jenny, but a fearful symbol of mysteries at which the +flesh crept. She was going to die. + +Have you never looked ahead towards some trial, some physical trial, +maybe an operation?--for perhaps the pains of the body are the +keenest, after all--those of the spirit are at least in some part +metaphor. You look forward with dread, yet it is at last over. It is +behind you. And have you never thought that so it will be with death +some day? Poor little Jenny was to face the great operation. + +Next time I saw her she was dead. In our hateful English fashion, they +had shut her up in a dark room, and we had to take candles to see +her. I shall never forget the moment when my eyes first rested on that +awful snow-white sheet, so faintly indented by the fragile form +beneath, lines very fragile, but oh! so hard and cold, like the +indentations upon frozen snow; never forget my strange unaccountable +terror when he on one side and I on the other turned down the icy +sheet from her face. But terror changed to awe and reverence, as her +face came upon us with its sweet sphinx-like smile. Lying there, with +a little gold chain round her neck and a chrysanthemum in the bosom of +her night-gown, there was a curious regality about her, a look as +though she wore a crown our eyes were unable to see. And while I gazed +upon her, the sobs of my friend came across the bed, and as he called +to her I seemed to hear the eternal Orpheus calling for his lost +Eurydice. Poor lad!--poor maid! Here, naked and terrible, was all the +tragedy of the world compressed into an hour, the Medusa-face of life +that turns the bravest to stone. Surely, I felt, God owed more than He +could ever repay to these two lovers, whom it had been so easy to +leave to their simple joys. And from that night to this I can never +look upon my white bed without seeing afar off the moment when it, +too, will bear the little figure of her I love best in the world, +bound for her voyage to the Minotaur Death; just as I never put off my +clothes at night, and stretch my limbs down among the cool sheets, +without thinking of the night when I shall put off my clothes for the +last time and close my eyes for ever. + +LECTOR. But, my friend, this is to feel too much; it is morbid. + +SCRIPTOR. Morbid! How can one really _feel_ and not be morbid? If one +be morbid, one can still be brave. + +LECTOR. But surely, true-lover as you are, it would be a joy to you to +think that this terrible parting of death will not be final. We cannot +love so well without hoping that we may meet our loved ones somewhere +after death. + +SCRIPTOR. Hopes! wishes! desires! What of them? We hope, we _desire_ +all things. Who has not cried for the moon in his time? But what is +the use of talking of what we desire? Does life give us all we wish, +however passionately we wish it, and is Death any more likely to +listen to the cry of our desires? Of course we _wish it_, wish it with +a pathetic urgency which is too poignant to bear, and which the wise +man bravely stifles. It would all be different if we _knew_. + +LECTOR. But does not science even, of late, hold out the promise of +its probability?--and the greatest poets and thinkers have always been +convinced of its truth. + +SCRIPTOR. The promise of a probability! O my Lector, what a poor +substitute is that for a certainty! And as for the great men you speak +of, what does their 'instinctive' assurance amount to but a strong +sense of their own existence at the moment of writing or speaking? +Does one of them anywhere assert immortality as a _fact_--a fact of +which he has his own personal proof and knowledge--a scientific, not +an imaginative, theological fact? Arguments on the subject are +naught. It is waste of time to read them; unsupported by fact, they +are one and all cowardly dreams, a horrible hypocritical clutching at +that which their writers have not the courage to forgo. + +LECTOR. Yet may not a dream be of service to reality, my friend? Is it +not certain that people are all the better and all the happier for +this dream, as you call it?--for what seems to me this sustaining +faith? + +SCRIPTOR. Happier? Some people, perhaps, in a lazy, unworthy +fashion. But 'better'? Well, so long as we believed in 'eternal +punishment' no doubt people were sometimes terrified into 'goodness' +by the picture of that dread vista of torment, as no doubt they were +bribed into it by the companion picture of a green unbounded Paradise; +but, O my friend, what an unworthy kind of goodness, the mere mask of +virtue! And now that the Inferno has practically disappeared from our +theology, the belief in eternal life simply means unlimited cakes and +ale, for good and evil alike, for all eternity. How such a belief can +be moralising I fail to understand. To my mind, indeed, far from being +moralising, this belief in immortality is responsible for no +inconsiderable portion of the wrong and misery of the world. It is the +baneful narcotic which has soothed the selfish and the slothful from +the beginning. It is that unlimited credit which makes the bankrupt. +It simply gives us all eternity to procrastinate in. Instead of +manfully eating our peck of dirt here and now, we leave it and all +such disagreeables to the hereafter. + + 'He said, "I believe in Eternal Life," + As he threw his life away-- + What need to hoard? + He could well afford + To squander his mortal day. + With Eternity his, what need to care?-- + A sort of immortal millionaire.' + +LECTOR. I am glad to be reminded, Scriptor, that you are a poet, for the +line of your argument had almost made me forget it. One expects other +views from a poet. + +SCRIPTOR. When, my dear Lector, shall we get rid of the silly idea that +the poet should give us only the ornamental view of life, and rock us to +sleep, like babies, with pretty lullabies? Is it not possible to make +_facts_ sing as well as fancies? With all this beautiful world to sing +of--for beautiful it is, however it be marred; with this wonderful +life--and wonderful and sweet it is though it is shot through with such +bitter pain; with such _certainties_ for his theme, we yet beg him to +sing to us of shadows! + +And you talk of 'faith.' 'Faith' truly is what we want, but it is faith +in the life here, not in the life hereafter. Faith in the life here! Let +our poets sing us that. And such as would deny it--I would hang them as +enemies of society. + +LECTOR. But, at all events, to keep to our point--you at least _hope_ +for immortality. If Edison, say, were suddenly to discover it for us as +a scientific certainty, you would welcome the news? + +SCRIPTOR. Well, yes and no! Have you seen the 'penny' phonographs in the +Strand? You should go and have a pennyworth of the mysteries of time and +space! How long will Edison's latest magic toy survive this +popularisation, I wonder? For a little moment it awakens the sense of +wonder in the idly curious, who set the demon tube to their ears; but if +they make any remarks at all, it is of the cleverness of Mr. Edison, +the probable profits of the invention--and not a word of the wonder of +the world! So it would be with the undiscovered country. I was blamed +the other day as being cheaply smart because I said that if 'one +traveller returned,' his resurrection would soon be as commonplace as +the telephone, and that enterprising firms would be interviewing him as +to the prospects of opening branch establishments in Hades. Yet it is a +perfectly serious, and, I think, true remark; for who that knows the +modern man, with his small knowingness, and his utter incapacity for +reverence, would doubt that were Mr. Edison actually to be the Columbus +of the Unseen, it would soon be as overrun with gaping tourists as +Switzerland, and that within a year railway companies would be +advertising 'Bank-holidays in Eternity'? + +No! let us keep the Unseen--or, if it must be discovered, let the key +thereof be given only to true-lovers and poets. + + + + +A SEAPORT IN THE MOON + + +No one is so hopelessly wrong about the stars as the astronomer, and I +trust that you never pay any attention to his remarks on the moon. He +knows as much about the moon as a coiffeur knows of the dreams of the +fair lady whose beautiful neck he makes still more beautiful. There is +but one opinion upon the moon--namely, our own. And if you think that +science is thus wronged, reflect a moment upon what science makes of +things near at hand. Love, it says, is merely a play of pistil and +stamen, our most fascinating poetry and art is 'degeneration,' and human +life, generally speaking, is sufficiently explained by the 'carbon +compounds'--God-a-mercy! If science makes such grotesque blunders about +radiant matters right under its nose, how can one think of taking its +opinion upon matters so remote as the stars--or even the moon, which is +comparatively near at hand? + +Science says that the moon is a dead world, a cosmic ship littered with +the skeletons of its crew, and from which every rat of vitality has long +since escaped. It is the ghost that rises from its tomb every night, to +haunt its faithless lover, the world. It is a country of ancient +silver-mines, unworked for centuries. You may see the gaping mouths of +the dark old shafts through your telescopes. You may even see the +rusting pit tackle, the ruinous engine-houses, and the idle pick and +shovel. Or you may say that it is counterfeit silver, coined to take in +the young fools who love to gaze upon it. It is, so to speak, a bad +half-crown. + +As you will! but I am of Endymion's belief--and no one was ever more +intimate with the moon. For me the moon is a country of great seaports, +whither all the ships of our dreams come home. From all quarters of the +world, every day of the week, there are ships sailing to the moon. They +are the ships that sail just when and where you please. You take your +passage on that condition. And it is ridiculous to think for what a +trifle the captain will take you on so long a journey. If you want to +come back, just to take an excursion and no more, just to take a lighted +look at those coasts of rose and pearl, he will ask no more than a glass +or two of bright wine--indeed, when the captain is very kind, a flower +will take you there and back in no time; if you want to stay whole days +there, but still come back dreamy and strange, you may take a little +dark root and smoke it in a silver pipe, or you may drink a little phial +of poppy-juice, and thus you shall find the Land of Heart's Desire; but +if you are wise and would stay in that land for ever, the terms are even +easier--a little powder shaken into a phial of water, a little piece of +lead no bigger than a pea, and a farthing's-worth of explosive fire, and +thus also you are in the Land of Heart's Desire for ever. + +I dreamed last night that I stood on the blustering windy wharf, and the +dark ship was there. It was impatient, like all of us, to leave the +world. Its funnels belched black smoke, its engines throbbed against +the quay like arms that were eager to strike and be done, and a bell +was beating impatient summons to be gone. The dark captain stood ready +on the bridge, and he looked into each of our faces as we passed on +board. 'Is it for the long voyage?' he said. 'Yes! the long voyage,' I +said--and his stern eyes seemed to soften as I answered. + +At last we were all aboard, and in the twinkling of an eye were out of +sight of land. Yet, once afloat, it seemed as though we should never +reach our port in the moon--so it seemed to me as I lay awake in my +little cabin, listening to the patient thud and throb of the great +screws, beating in the ship's side like a human heart. + +Talking with my fellow-voyagers, I was surprised to find that we were +not all volunteers. Some, in fact, complained pitifully. They had, they +said, been going about their business a day or two before, and suddenly +a mysterious captain had laid hold of them, and pressed them to sail +this unknown sea. Thus, without a word of warning, they had been +compelled to leave behind them all they held dear. This, one felt, was a +little hard of the captain; but those of us whose position was exactly +the reverse, who had friends on the other side, all whose hopes indeed +were invested there, were too selfishly expectant of port to be severe +on the captain who was taking us thither. + +There were three friends I had especially set out to see: two young +lovers who had emigrated to those colonies in the moon just after their +marriage, and there was another. What a surprise it would be to all +three, for I had written no letter to say I was coming. Indeed, it was +just a sudden impulse, the pistol-flash of a long desire. + +I tried to imagine what the town would be like in which they were now +living. I asked the captain, and he answered with a sad smile that it +would be just exactly as I cared to dream it. + +'Oh, well then,' I thought, 'I know what it will be like. There shall be +a great restless, tossing estuary, with Atlantic winds for ever ruffling +the sails of busy ships, ships coming home with laughter, ships leaving +home with sad sea-gull cries of farewell. And the shaggy tossing water +shall be bounded on either bank with high granite walls, and on one +bank shall be a fretted spire soaring with a jangle of bells, from amid +a tangle of masts, and underneath the bells and the masts shall go +streets rising up from the strand, streets full of faces, and sweet with +the smell of tar and the sea. O captain! will it be morning or night +when we come to my city? In the morning my city is like a sea-blown +rose, in the night it is bright as a sailor's star. + +'If it be early morning, what shall I do? I shall run to the house in +which my friends lie in happy sleep, never to be parted again, and kiss +my hand to their shrouded window; and then I shall run on and on till +the city is behind and the sweetness of country lanes is about me, and I +shall gather flowers as I run, from sheer wantonness of joy; and then at +last, flushed and breathless, I shall stand beneath her window. I shall +stand and listen, and I shall hear her breathing right through the heavy +curtains, and the hushed garden and the sleeping house will bid me keep +silence, but I shall cry a great cry up to the morning star, and say, +"No, I will not keep silence. Mine is the voice she listens for in her +sleep. She will wake again for no voice but mine. Dear one, awake, the +morning of all mornings has come!"' + +As I write, the moon looks down at me like a Madonna from the great +canvas of the sky. She seems beautiful with the beauty of all the eyes +that have looked up at her, sad with all the tears of all those eyes; +like a silver bowl brimming with the tears of dead lovers she seems. +Yes, there are seaports in the moon; there are ships to take us there. + + + + +THE END + + + + +Most of the foregoing essays have made a first appearance either in +_The Yellow Book_, _The Nineteenth Century_, _The Cosmopolitan_, _The +Westminster Gazette_, or _The Realm_, to the editors of which the writer +is indebted for kind permission to reprint. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prose Fancies (Second Series) +by Richard Le Gallienne + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSE FANCIES (SECOND SERIES) *** + +***** This file should be named 14103-8.txt or 14103-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/1/0/14103/ + +Produced by Brendan Lane, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/14103-8.zip b/old/14103-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ee50a24 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14103-8.zip diff --git a/old/14103-h.zip b/old/14103-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..aba585c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14103-h.zip diff --git a/old/14103-h/14103-h.htm b/old/14103-h/14103-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d4658f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14103-h/14103-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4192 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<title>Prose Fancies (Second Series) by Richard Le Gallienne</title> +<style type="text/css"> + /*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ + <!-- + P { text-align: justify; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + } + h3 { margin-top: 3em; } + HR { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .poem {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.indent1 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.indent3 {margin-left: 3em;} + + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Prose Fancies (Second Series), by Richard Le Gallienne + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Prose Fancies (Second Series) + +Author: Richard Le Gallienne + +Release Date: November 20, 2004 [EBook #14103] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSE FANCIES (SECOND SERIES) *** + + + + +Produced by Brendan Lane, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>PROSE FANCIES<br> +(SECOND SERIES)</h1> + +<h2>BY<br> +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE</h2> + + +<h3>LONDON: JOHN LANE<br> +CHICAGO: H.S. STONE AND CO.<br> +1896</h3> + +<h3>TO<br> +MAGGIE LE GALLIENNE<br> +WITH LOVE</h3> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Poor are the gifts of the poet—</p> + <p>Nothing but words!</p> + <p>The gifts of kings are gold,</p> + <p>Silver, and flocks and herds,</p> + <p>Garments of strange soft silk,</p> + <p>Feathers of wonderful birds,</p> + <p>Jewels and precious stones,</p> + <p>And horses white as the milk—</p> + <p>These are the gifts of kings:</p> + <p>But the gifts that the poet brings</p> + <p>Are nothing but words.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Forty thousand words!</p> + <p>Take them—a gift of flies!</p> + <p>Words that should have been birds,</p> + <p>Words that should have been flowers,</p> + <p>Words that should have been stars</p> + <p>In the eternal skies.</p> + <p>Forty thousand words!</p> + <p>Forty thousand tears—</p> + <p>All out of two sad eyes.</p> + </div> +</div> + + +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + +<div class="contents"> +<a href="#essay01">A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN</a><br> +<a href="#essay02">SPRING BY PARCEL POST</a><br> +<a href="#essay03">THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND</a><br> +<a href="#essay04">THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET</a><br> +<a href="#essay05">VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT</a><br> +<a href="#essay06">THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE</a><br> +<a href="#essay07">ABOUT THE SECURITIES</a><br> +<a href="#essay08">THE BOOM IN YELLOW</a><br> +<a href="#essay09">LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN</a><br> +<a href="#essay10">A POET IN THE CITY</a><br> +<a href="#essay11">BROWN ROSES</a><br> +<a href="#essay12">THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR</a><br> +<a href="#essay13">ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES</a><br> +<a href="#essay14">THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE</a><br> +<a href="#essay15">THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX</a><br> +<a href="#essay16">THE FALLACY OF A NATION</a><br> +<a href="#essay17">THE GREATNESS OF MAN</a><br> +<a href="#essay18">DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS</a><br> +<a href="#essay19">A SEAPORT IN THE MOON</a></div> + + + + +<!--Page 001--> +<h3><a name="essay01">A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN</a></h3> + + +<p>At one end of the city that I love there is a tall, dingy pile of +offices that has evidently seen more prosperous fortunes. It is not the +aristocratic end. It is remote from the lordly street of the fine shops +of the fair women, where in the summer afternoons the gay bank clerks +parade arm-in-arm in the wake of the tempestuous petticoat. It lies +aside from the great exchange which looks like a scene from <em>Romeo and +Juliet</em> in the moonlight, from the town-hall from whose clocked and +gilded cupola ring sweet chimes at midnight, and whence, throned above +the city, a golden Britannia, in the sight of all men, is seen visibly +ruling the waves—while in the square below the death of Nelson is +played all day in stone, with a frieze of his noble words about the +pedestal. England expects! What an influence that stirring<!--Page 002--> challenge +has yet upon the hearts of men may be seen by any one who will study the +faces of the busy, imaginative cotton-brokers, who, in the thronged and +humming mornings, sell what they have never seen to a customer they will +never see.</p> + +<p>In fact, the end I mean is just the very opposite end to that. It is the +end where the cotton that everybody sells and nobody buys <em>is</em> seen, +piled in great white stacks, or swinging in the air from the necks of +mighty cranes, cranes that could nip up an elephant with as little ado, +and set him down on the wharf, with a box on his ugly ears for his +cowardly trumpeting. It is the end that smells of tar, the domain of the +harbourmasters, where the sailor finds a 'home,'—not too sweet, and +where the wild sea is tamed in a maze of granite squares and basins; the +end where the riggings and buildings rise side by side, and a clerk +might swing himself out upon the yards from his top-floor desk. Here is +the Custom House, and the conversation that shines is full of freightage +and dock dues; here are the shops that sell nothing but<!--Page 003--> oilskins, +sextants, and parrots, and here the taverns do a mighty trade in rum.</p> + +<p>It was in this quarter, for a brief sweet time, that Love and Beauty +made their strange home, as though a pair of halcyons should choose to +nest in the masthead of<!--Page 004--> a cattleship. Love and Beauty chose this +quarter, as, alas! Love and Beauty must choose so many things—for its +cheapness. Love and Beauty were poor, and office rents in this quarter +were exceptionally low. But what should Love and Beauty do with an +office? Love was a poor poet in need of a room for his bed and his +rhymes, and Beauty was a little blue-eyed girl who loved him.</p> + +<p>It was a shabby, forbidding place, gloomy and comfortless as a warehouse +on the banks of Styx. No one but Love and Beauty would have dared to +choose it for their home. But Love and Beauty have a great confidence in +themselves—a confidence curiously supported by history,—and they never +had a moment's doubt that this place was as good as another for an +earthly Paradise. So Love signed an agreement for one great room at the +very top, the very masthead of the building, and Beauty made it pretty +with muslin curtains, flowers, and dainty makeshifts of furniture, but +chiefly with the light of her own heavenly face. A stroke of luck coming +one day to the poet, the lovers, with that extravagance which the poor +alone have the courage to enjoy, procured a piano on the kind-hearted +hire-purchase system, a system specially conceived for lovers. Then, +indeed, for many a wonderful night that room was not only on the seventh +floor, but in the seventh heaven; and as Beauty would sit at the piano, +with her long hair flying loose, and her soul like a whirl of starlight +about her brows, a stranger peering in across the soft lamplight, seeing +her face, hearing her voice, would deem that the long climb, flight +after flight of dreary stair, had been appropriately rewarded by a +glimpse of heaven.</p> + +<p>Certainly it must have seemed a strange contrast from the life about and +below it. The foot of that infernal stair plunged in the warm +rum-and-thick-twist atmosphere of a sailor's tavern—and 'The Jolly +Shipmates' was a house of entertainment by no means to be despised. +Often have I sat there with<!--Page 005--> the poet, drinking the whisky from which +Scotland takes its name, among wondering sea-boots and sou'-westers, who +could make nothing of that wild hair and that still wilder talk.</p> + +<p>From the kingdom of rum and tar you mounted into a zone of commission +agents fund shipbrokers, a chill, unoccupied region, in which every +small office bore the names of half a dozen different firms, and yet +somehow could not contrive to look busy. Finally came an airy echoing +landing, a region of empty rooms, which the landlords in vain +recommended as studios to a city that loved not art. Here dwelt the +keeper and his kind-hearted little wife, and no one besides save Love +and Beauty. There was thus a feeling of rarefaction in the atmosphere, +as though at this height it was only the Alpine flora of humanity that +could find root and breathing. But once along the bare passage and +through a certain door, and what a sudden translation it was into a +gracious world of books and flowers and the peace they always bring.</p> + +<p>Once upon a time, in that enchanted past<!--Page 006--> where dwell all the dreams we +love best, precisely, with loving punctuality, at five in the afternoon, +a pretty, girlish figure, like Persephone escaping from the shades, +stole through the rough sailors at the foot of that sordid Jacob's +ladder and made her way to the little heaven at the top.</p> + +<p>I shall not describe her, for the good reason that I cannot. Leonardo, +ever curious of the beauty that was most strangely exquisite, once in an +inspired hour painted such a face, a face wrought of the porcelain of +earth with the art of heaven. But, whoever should paint it, God +certainly made it—must have been the comment of any one who caught a +glimpse of that little figure vanishing heavenwards up that stair, like +an Assumption of Fra Angelico's—that is, any one interested in art and +angels.</p> + +<p>She had not long to wait outside the door she sought, for the poet, who +had listened all day for the sound, had ears for the whisper of her +skirts as she came down the corridor, and before she had time to knock +had already folded her in his arms. The two babes in that thieves' wood +of commission agents and<!--Page 007--> shipbrokers stood silent together for a +moment, in the deep security of a kiss such as the richest millionaire +could never buy—and then they fell to comparing notes of their day's +work. The poet had had one of his rare good days. He had made no money, +his post had been even more disappointing than usual,—but he had +written a poem, the best he had ever written, he said, as he always said +of his last new thing. He had been burning to read it to somebody all +afternoon—had with difficulty refrained from reading it to the +loquacious little keeper's wife as she brought him some coals—so it was +not to be expected that he should wait a minute before reading it to her +whom indeed it strove to celebrate. With arms round each other's necks, +they bent over the table littered with the new-born poem, all blots and +dashes like the first draft of a composer's score, and the poet, deftly +picking his way among the erasures and interlineations, read aloud the +beautiful words—with a full sense of their beauty!—to ears that deemed +them more beautiful even than they were. The owners of this now valuable +copyright allow<!--Page 008--> me to irradiate my prose with three of the verses.</p> + +<p>'Ah! what,' half-chanted, half-crooned the poet—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'Ah! what a garden is your hair!—</p> + <p class="indent1">Such treasure as the kings of old,</p> + <p class="indent1">In coffers of the beaten gold,</p> + <p>Laid up on earth—and left it there.'</p> +</div> + +<p>So tender a reference to hair whose beauty others beside the poet had +loved must needs make a tender interruption—the only kind of +interruption the poet could have forgiven—and 'Who,' he continued—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'Who was the artist of your mouth?</p> + <p class="indent1">What master out of old Japan</p> + <p class="indent1">Wrought it so dangerous to man ...'</p> +</div> + +<p>And here it was but natural that laughter and kisses should once more +interrupt—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'Those strange blue jewels of your eyes,</p> + <p class="indent1">Painting the lily of your face,</p> + <p class="indent1">What goldsmith set them in their place—</p> + <p>Forget-me-nots of Paradise?</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'And that blest river of your voice,</p> + <p class="indent1">Whose merry silver stirs the rest</p> + <p class="indent1">Of water-lilies in your breast ...'</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>At last, in spite of more interruptions, the poem came to an +end—whereupon, of course, the poet immediately read it through once<!--Page 009--> +more from the beginning, its personal and emotional elements, he felt, +having been done more justice on a first reading than its artistic +excellences.</p> + +<p>'Why, darling, it is splendid,' was his little sweetheart's comment; +'you know how happy it makes me to think it was written for me, don't +you?' And she took his hands and looked up at him with eyes like the +morning sky.</p> + +<p>Romance in poetry is almost exclusively associated with very refined +ethereal matters, stars and flowers and such like—happily, in actual +life it is often associated with much humbler objects. Lovers, like +children, can make their paradises out of the quaintest materials. +Indeed, our paradises, if we only knew, are always cheap enough; it is +our hells that are so expensive. Now these lovers—like, if I mistake +not, many other true lovers before and since—when they were +particularly happy, when some special piece of good luck had befallen +them, could think of no better paradise than a little dinner together in +their seventh-story heaven. 'Ah! wilderness were Paradise enow!'<!--Page 010--></p> + +<p>To-night was obviously such an occasion. But, alas! where was the money +to come from? They didn't need much—for it is wonderful how happy you +can be on five shillings, if you only know how. At the same time it is +difficult to be happy on ninepence—which was the entire fortune of the +lovers at the moment. Beauty laughingly suggested that her celebrated +hair might prove worth the price of their dinner. The poet thought a +pawnbroker might surely be found to advance ten shillings on his +poem—the original MS. too,—else had they nothing to pawn, save a few +gold and silver dreams which they couldn't spare. What was to be done? +Sell some books, of course! It made them shudder to think how many poets +they had eaten in this fashion. It was sheer cannibalism—but what was +to be done? Their slender stock of books had been reduced entirely to +poetry. If there had only been a philosopher or a modern novelist, the +sacrifice wouldn't have seemed so unnatural. And then Beauty's eyes fell +upon a very fat informing-looking volume on the poet's desk.<!--Page 011--></p> + +<p>'Wouldn't this do?' she said.</p> + +<p>'Why, of course!' he exclaimed; 'the very thing. A new history of +socialism just sent me for review. Hang the review; we want our dinner, +don't we, little one? And then I've read the preface, and looked through +the index—quite enough to make a column of, with a plentiful supply of +general principles thrown in! Why, of course, there's our dinner for +certain, dull and indigestible as it looks. It's worth fifty minor poets +at old Moser's. Come along....'</p> + +<p>So off went the happy pair—ah! how much happier was Beauty than ever so +many fine ladies one knows who have only, so to say, to rub their +wedding-rings for a banquet to rise out of the ground, with the most +distinguished guests around the table, champagne of the best, and +conversation of the worst.</p> + +<p>Old Moser found histories of socialism profitable, more profitable +perhaps than socialism, and he actually gave five-and-sixpence for the +volume. With the ninepence already in their pockets, you will see that +they were now possessors of quite a small<!--Page 012--> fortune. Six-and-threepence! +It wouldn't pay for one's lunch nowadays. Ah! but that is because the +poor alone know the art of dining.</p> + +<p>You needn't wish to be happier and merrier than those two lovers, as +they gaily hastened to that bright and cosy corner of the town where +those lovely ham-and-beef shops make glad the faces of the passers-by. O +those hams with their honest shining faces, polished like mahogany—and +the man inside so happy all day slicing them with those wonderful long +knives (which, of course, the superior class of reader has never seen) +worn away to a veritable thread, a mere wire, but keen as Excalibur. +Beauty used to calculate in her quaint way how much steel was worn away +with each pound of ham, and how much therefore went to the sandwich. And +what an artist was the carver! What a true eye! what a firm, flexible +wrist! never a shaving of fat too much—he was too great an artist for +that. Then there were those dear little cream cheeses, and those little +brown jugs of yellow cream come all the way from Devonshire<!--Page 013-->—you could +hear the cows lowing across the rich pasture, and hear the milkmaids +singing and the milk whizzing into the pail, as you looked at them.</p> + +<p>And then those perfectly lovely sausages—I beg the reader's pardon! I +forgot that the very mention of the word smacks of vulgarity. Yet, all +the same, I venture to think that a secret taste for sausages among the +upper classes is more widespread than we have any idea of. I confess +that Beauty and her poet were at first ashamed of admitting their vulgar +frailty to each other. They needed to know each other very well first. +Yet there is nothing, when once confessed, that brings two people so +close as—a taste for sausages.</p> + +<p>'You darling!' exclaimed Beauty, with something like tears in her voice, +when her poet first admitted this touch of nature—and then next moment +they were in fits of laughter that a common taste for a very 'low' food +should bring tears to their eyes! But such are the vagaries of love—as +you will know, if you know anything about it—'vulgar,' no doubt, though +only the vulgar<!--Page 014--> would so describe them—for it is only vulgarity that +is always 'refined.'</p> + +<p>Then there was the florist's to visit. What beautiful trades some people +ply! To sell flowers is surely like dealing in fairies. Beautiful must +grow the hands that wire them, and sweet the flower-girl's every +thought!</p> + +<p>There remained but the wine merchant's, or, had we not better say at +once, the grocer's, for our lovers could afford no rarer vintages than +Tintara or the golden burgundy of Australia; and it is wonderful to +think what a sense of festivity one of those portly colonial flagons +lent to their little dining-table. Sometimes, I may confide, when they +wanted to feel very dissipated, and were <em>very</em> rich, they would allow +themselves a small bottle of Benedictine—and you should have seen +Beauty's eyes as she luxuriously sipped at her green little liqueur +glass; for, like most innocent people, she enjoyed to the full the +delight of feeling occasionally wicked. However, these were rare +occasions, and this night was not one of them.</p> + +<p>Half a pound of black grapes completed<!--Page 015--> their shopping, and then, with +their arms full of their purchases, they made their way home again, the +two happiest people in what is, after all, a not unhappy world.</p> + +<p>Then came the cooking and the laying of the table. For all her Leonardo +face, Beauty was a great cook—like all good women, she was as earthly +in some respects as she was heavenly in others, which I hold to be a +wise combination—and, indeed, both were excellent cooks; and the poet +was unrivalled at 'washing up,' which, I may say, is the only skeleton +at these Bohemian feasts.</p> + +<p>You should have seen the gusto with which Beauty pricked those +sausages—I had better explain to the un-Bohemian reader that to attempt +to cook a sausage without first pricking it vigorously with a fork, to +allow for the expansion of its juicy gases, is like trying to smoke a +cigar without first cutting off the end—and oh! to hear again their +merry song as they writhed in torment in the hissing pan, like Christian +martyrs raising hymns of praise from the very core of Smithfield fires.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the poet would be surpassing<!--Page 016--> himself in the setting-out of +the little table, cutting up the bread reverently as though it were for +an altar—as indeed it was,—studying the effect of the dish of +tomatoes, now at this corner, now at that, arranging the flowers with +much more care than he arranged the adjectives in his sonnets, and +making ever so sumptuous an effect with that half a pound of grapes.</p> + +<p>And then at last the little feast would begin, with a long grace of eyes +meeting and hands clasping: true eyes that said, 'How good it is to +behold you, to be awake together in this dream of life!' true hands that +said, 'I will hold you fast for ever—not death even shall pluck you +from my hand, shall loose this bond of you and me'; true eyes, true +hands, that had immortal meanings far beyond the speech of mortal words.</p> + +<p>And it had all come out of that dull history of socialism, and had cost +little more than a crown! What lovely things can be made out of money! +Strange to think that a little silver coin of no possible use or beauty +in itself can be exchanged for<!--Page 017--> so much tangible, beautiful pleasure. A +piece of money is like a piece of opium, for in it lie locked up the +most wonderful dreams—if you have only the brains and hearts to dream +them.</p> + +<p>When at last the little feast grew near its end, Love and Beauty would +smoke their cigarettes together; and it was a favourite trick of theirs +to lower the lamp a moment, so that they might see the stars rush down +upon them through the skylight which hung above their table. It gave +them a sense of great sentinels, far away out in the lonely universe, +standing guard over them, seemed to say that their love was safe in the +tender keeping of great forces. They were poor, but then they had the +stars and the flowers and the great poets for their servants and +friends; and, best of all, they had each other. Do you call that being +poor?</p> + +<p>And then, in the corner, stood that magical box with the ivory keys, +whose strings waited ready night and day—strange media through which +the myriad voices, the inner-sweet thoughts, of the great world-soul +found speech, messengers of the<!--Page 018--> stars to the heart, and of the heart to +the stars.</p> + +<p>Beauty's songs were very simple. She got little practice, for her poet +only cared to have her sing over and over again the same sweet songs; +and perhaps if you had heard her sing 'Ask nothing more of me, sweet,' +or 'Darby and Joan,' you would have understood his indifference to +variety.</p> + +<p>At last the little feast is quite, quite finished. Beauty has gone home; +her lover still carries her face in his heart as she waved and waved and +waved to him from the rattling lighted tramcar; long he sits and sits +thinking of her, gazing up at those lonely ancient stars; the air is +still bright with her presence, sweet with her thoughts, warm with her +kisses, and as he turns to the shut piano, he can still see her white +hands on the keys and her girlish face raised in an ecstasy—Beata +Beatrix—above the music.</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'O love, my love! if I no more should see</p> + <p>Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee,</p> + <p class="indent1">Nor image of thine eyes in any spring—</p> + <p>How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope</p> + <p>The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope,</p> + <p class="indent1">The wind of Death's imperishable wing!'</p> +</div><!--Page 019--> + +<p>And then ... he would throw himself upon his bed, and burst into tears.</p> + +<hr> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'And they are gone: aye, ages long ago</p> + <p>These lovers fled away into the storm.'</p> +</div> + +<p>That seventh-story heaven once more leads a dull life as the office of a +ship-chandler, and harsh voices grate the air where Beauty sang. The +books and the flowers and the lovers' faces are gone for ever. I suppose +the stars are the same, and perhaps they sometimes look down through +that roof-window, and wonder what has become of those two lovers who +used to look up at them so fearlessly long ago.</p> + +<p>But friends of mine who believe in God say that He has given His angels +charge concerning that dingy old seventh-floor heaven, and that, for +those who have eyes to see, there is no place where a great dream has +been dreamed that is not thus watched over by the guardian angels of +memory.</p> + +<p><em>For M. Le G., 25 September 1895.</em></p> + + + + +<!--Page 020--> +<h3><a name="essay02">SPRING BY PARCEL POST</a></h3> + + +<div class="poem"> + <p>They've taken all the spring from the country to the town—</p> + <p>Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow....</p> +</div> + +<p>So began to jig and jingle my thoughts as in my letters and newspapers +this morning I read, buried alive among the solitary fastnesses of the +Surrey hills, the last news from town. The news I envied most was that +spring had already reached London. 'Now,' ran a pretty article on spring +fashions, 'the sunshine makes bright the streets, and the +flower-baskets, like huge bouquets, announce the gay arrival of spring.' +I looked up and out through my hillside window. The black ridge on the +other side of the valley stood a grim wall of burnt heather against the +sky—which sky, like the bullets in the nursery rhyme, was made +unmistakably of lead; a<!--Page 021--> close rain was falling methodically, and, +generally speaking, the world looked like a soaked mackintosh. It wasn't +much like the gay arrival of spring, and grimly I mused on the +advantages of life in town.</p> + +<p>Certainly, it did seem hard, I reflected, that town should be ahead of +us even in such a country matter as spring. Flower-baskets indeed! Why, +we haven't as much as a daisy for miles around. It is true that on the +terrace there the crocuses blaze like a street on fire, that the +primroses thicken into clumps, lying among their green leaves like +pounds of country butter; it is true that the blue cones of the little +grape hyacinth are there, quaintly formal as a child's toy-flowers; yes! +and the big Dutch hyacinths are already shamelessly <em>enceinte</em> with +their buxom waxen blooms, so fat and fragrant—(one is already delivered +of a fine blossom. Well, that is a fine baby, to be sure! say the other +hyacinths, with babes no less bonny under their own green aprons—all +waiting for the doctor sun). Then among the blue-green blades of the +narcissus, here and there you see a stem topped with a creamish<!--Page 022--> +chrysalis-like envelope, from which will soon emerge a beautiful eye, +rayed round with white wings, looking as though it were meant to fly, +but remaining rooted—a butterfly on a stalk; while all the beds are +crowded with indeterminate beak and blade, pushing and elbowing each +other for a look at the sun, which, however, sulkily declines to look at +them. It is true there is spring on the terrace, but even so it is +spring imported from the town—spring bought in Holborn, spring +delivered free by parcel post; for where would the terrace have been but +for the city seedsman—that magician who sends you strangely spotted +beans and mysterious bulbs in shrivelled cerements, weird little +flower-mummies that suggest centuries of forgotten silence in painted +Egyptian tombs. This strange and shrivelled thing can surely never live +again, we say, as we hold it in our hands, seeing not the glowing +circles of colour, tiny rings of Saturn, packed so carefully inside this +flower-egg, the folds of green and silver silk wound round and round the +precious life within.</p> + +<p>But, of course, this is all the seedsman's<!--Page 023--> cunning, and no credit to +Nature; and I repeat, that were it not for railways and the parcel +post—goodness knows whether we should ever get any spring at all in the +country! Think of the days when it had to travel down by stage-coach. +For, left to herself, what is the best Nature can do for you with March +well on the way? Personally, I find the face of the country practically +unchanged. It is, to all intents and purposes, the same as it has been +for the last three or four months—as grim, as unadorned, as bleak, as +draughty, and generally as comfortless as ever. There isn't a flower to +be seen, hardly a bird worth listening to, not a tree that is not +winter-naked, and not a chair to sit down upon. If you want flowers on +your walks you must bring them with you; songs, you must take a poet +under your arm; and if you want to rest, lean laboriously on your +stick—or take your chance of rheumatism.</p> + +<p>Of course your specialists, your botanists, your nature-detectives, will +tell you otherwise. They have surprised a violet in the act of +blossoming; after long and excited<!--Page 024--> chase have discovered a clump of +primroses in their wild state; seen one butterfly, heard one cuckoo. But +as one swallow does not make a summer, it takes more than one cuckoo to +make a spring. I confess that only yesterday I saw three sulphur +butterflies, with my own eyes; I admit the catkins, and the +silver-notched palm; and I am told on good colour-authority that there +is a lovely purplish bloom, almost like plum-bloom, over certain copses +in the valley; by taking thought, I have observed the long horizontal +arms of the beech growing spurred with little forked branches of +spear-shaped buds, and I see little green nipples pushing out through +the wolf-coloured rind of the dwarf fir-trees. Spring is arming in +secret to attack the winter—that is sure enough, but spring in secret +is no spring for me. I want to see her marching gaily with green +pennons, and flashing sun-blades, and a good band.</p> + +<p>I want butterflies as they have them at the Lyceum—'butterflies all +white,' 'butterflies all blue,' 'butterflies of gold,' and I should +particularly fancy 'butterflies all<!--Page 025--> black.' But there, again, you +see,—you must go to town, within hearing of Mrs. Patrick Campbell's +<em>voix d'or</em>. I want the meadows thickly inlaid with buttercups and +daisies; I want the trees thick with green leaves, the sky all larks and +sunshine; I want hawthorn and wild roses—both at once; I want some go, +some colour, some warmth in the world. Oh, where are the pipes of Pan?</p> + +<p>The pipes of Pan are in town, playing at street corners and in the +centres of crowded circuses, piled high with flower-baskets blazing with +refulgent flowery masses of white and gold. Here are the flowers you can +only buy in town; simple flowers enough, but only to be had in town. +Here are fragrant banks of violets every few yards, conflagrations of +daffodils at every crossing, and narcissus in scented starry garlands +for your hair.</p> + +<p>You wander through the Strand, or along Regent Street, as through the +meadows of Enna—sweet scents, sweet sounds, sweet shapes, are all about +you; the town-butterflies, white, blue, and gold, 'wheel and shine'<!--Page 026--> and +flutter from shop to shop, suddenly resurgent from their winter +wardrobes as from a chrysalis; bright eyes flash and flirt along the +merry, jostling street, while the sun pours out his golden wine +overhead, splashing it about from gilded domes and bright-faced +windows—and ever are the voices at the corners and the crossings +calling out the sweet flower-names of the spring!</p> + +<hr> + +<p>But here in the country it is still all rain and iron. I am tired of +waiting for this slow-moving provincial spring. Let us to the town to +meet the spring—for:</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>They've taken all the spring from the country to the town—</p> + <p class="indent1">Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow;</p> + <p class="indent1">And if you want a primrose, you write to London now,</p> + <p>And if you need a nightingale, well,—Whiteley sends it down.</p> +</div> + + + + +<!--Page 027--> +<h3><a name="essay03">THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND</a></h3> + + +<p>In an age curious of new pleasures, the merry-go-round seems still to +maintain its ancient popularity. I was the other day the delighted, +indeed the fascinated, spectator of one in full swing in an old +Thames-side town. It was a very superior example, with a central musical +engine of extraordinary splendour, and horses that actually curveted, as +they swirled maddeningly round to the strains of 'The Man that Broke the +Bank at Monte Carlo.' How I longed to join the wild riders! But though I +am a brave man, I confess that to ride a merry-go-round in front of a +laughter-loving Cockney public is more than I can dare. I had to content +myself with watching the faces of the riders. I noticed particularly one +bright-eyed little girl, whose whole passionate young<!--Page 028--> soul seemed to be +on fire with ecstasy, and for whom it was not difficult to prophesy +trouble when time should bring her within reach of more dangerous +excitements. Then there was a stolid little boy, dull and unmoved in +expression, as though he were in church. Life, one felt sure, would be +safe enough, and stupid enough, for him; the world would have no music +to stir or draw him. The fifes would go down the street with a sweet +sound of marching feet, and the eyes of other men would brighten and +their blood be all glancing spears and streaming banners, but he would +remain behind his counter; from the strange hill beyond the town the +dear, unholy music, so lovely in the ears of other men and maids, would +call to him in vain, and morning and evening the stars would sing above +his draper's shop, but he never hear a word.</p> + +<p>What particularly struck me was the number of quite grown-up, even +elderly, people who came and had their pennyworth of horse-exercise. Now +it was a grave young workman quietly smoking his pipe as he revolved; +now it was a stout middle-<!--Page 029-->aged woman returning from marketing, on whom +the Zulu music and the whirling horses laid their irresistible spells. +Unless ye become as little children!</p> + +<p>Is the Kingdom of Heaven really at hand? For, indeed, men and women, and +perhaps particularly literary men and women, are once more becoming as +little children in their pleasures.</p> + +<p>Seriously, one of the most curious and significant of recent literary +phenomena is the sudden return of the literary man to physical, and +so-called 'Philistine,' pleasures and modes of recreation. Perhaps +Stevenson set the fashion with his canoe and his donkey. But at the +moment that he was valiantly daring any one to tell him whether there +was anything better worth doing 'than fooling among boats,' Edward +Fitzgerald, all unconscious and careless of literary fashions, was +giving still more practical expression to the physical faith that was in +him, by going shares in a Lowestoft herring-lugger, and throwing his +heart as well as his money into the fortunes of its noble skipper +'Posh.' A literary man <em>par excellence</em>, Mr. Lang re<!--Page 030-->proaches his sires +for his present way of life—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'Why lay your gipsy freedom down</p> + <p>And doom your child to pen and ink?'</p> +</div> + +<p>and by steady and persistent golfing, and writing about angling and +cricket, comes as near to the noble savage as is possible to so +incorrigibly civilised a man. Mr. Henley—that Berserker of the +pen—sings the sword with a vigour that makes one curious to see him +using it, and we all know Mr. Kipling's views on the matter. Then Mr. +Bernard Shaw rides a bicycle!</p> + +<p>Those men of letters whose inclinations or opportunities do not lead +them to these out-of-door, and more or less ferocious, pleasures seek to +forget themselves at the music-hall, the Aquarium, or the numerous +Earl's Court exhibitions. They become amateurs of foreign dancing, +connoisseurs of the trapeze, or they leave their great minds at home and +go up the Great Wheel. Earl's Court, particularly, is becoming quite a +modern Vauxhall—Tan-ta-ra-ra! Earl's Court! Earl's Court!—and Mr. Imre +Kiralfy, with his con<!--Page 031-->ceptions and designs, is to our generation what +Albert Smith was to the age of Dickens and Edmund Yates.</p> + +<p>It takes some experience of life to realise how right this is; to +realise that, after all our fine philosophies and cocksure sciences, +there is no better answer to the riddle of things than a good game of +cricket or an exciting spin on one's 'bike.' The real inner significance +of Earl's Court—Mr. Kiralfy will no doubt be prepared to hear—is the +failure of science as an answer to life. We give up the riddle, and +enjoy ourselves with our wiser children. Simple pleasures, no doubt, for +the profound! But what is simple, and what is profound?</p> + +<p>The simple joy we get from 'fooling among boats' on a summer day, the +thrill of a well-hit ball, the rapture of a skilful dive, are no more +easy to explain than the more complicated pleasures of literature, or +art, or religion. And why is it—to come closer to our theme—that the +round or the whirling have such attraction for us? What is the secret of +the fascination of the circle? Why is it that the turning of anything, +be it<!--Page 032--> but a barrel-organ or a phrase, holds one as with an hypnotic +power? I confess that I can never genuinely pity a knife-grinder, +however needy. Think of the pleasure of driving that wheel all day, the +merry chirp of the knife on the stone, and the crisp, bright spray of +the flying sparks! Why, he does 'what some men dream of all their +lives'! Wheels of all kinds have the same strange charm; mill-wheels, +colliery-wheels, spinning-wheels, water-wheels, and wheeling waters: +there may—who knows?—have been a certain pleasure in being broken on +the wheel, and, at all events, that hideous punishment is another +curious example of the fascination of the circle. It would take a whole +volume to illustrate the prevalence of the circle in external nature, in +history, and, even more significant, in language. We all know, or think +we know, that the world is round—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'This orb—this round</p> + <p>Of sight and sound,'</p> +</div> + +<p>as Mr. Quiller Couch sings—though I remember a porter at school who was +sure<!--Page 033--> that it was flat, and who used to say that Hamlet's</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'How weary, stale, <em>flat</em>, and unprofitable</p> + <p>Seem to me all the uses of this <em>world</em>!'</p> +</div> + +<p>was a cryptic reference to Shakespeare's secret belief in his theory. +Many of the things we love most are round. Is not money, according to +the proverb, made round that it may go round, and are not the men most +in demand described as 'all-round men'? Nor are all-round women without +their admirers. Events, we know, move in a circle, as time moves in +cycles—though, alas! not on them. The ballet and the bicycle are +popular forms of the circle, and it is the charm of the essay to be +'roundabout.'</p> + +<p>Again, how is it that that which on a small scale does not impress us at +all, when on a large scale impresses us so much? What is the secret of +the impressiveness of size, bulk, height, depth, speed, and mileage? +Philosophically, a mountain is no more wonderful than a molehill, yet no +man is knighted for climbing a molehill. One little drop of water and +one little grain of sand are essentially as wonderful as 'the mighty<!--Page 034--> +ocean' or 'the beauteous land' to which they contribute. A balloon is +no more wonderful than an air-bubble, and were you to build an Atlantic +liner as big as the Isle of Wight it would really be no more remarkable +than an average steam-launch. Nobody marvels at the speed of a snail, +yet, given a snail's pace to start with, an express train follows as a +matter of course. Movement, not the rate of movement, is the mystery. +Precisely the same materials, the same forces, the same methods, are +employed in the little as in the big of these examples. Why should mere +accumulation, reiteration, and magnification make the difference? We may +ask why? But it does, for all that. If we answer that these mammoth +multiplications impress us because they are so much bigger, taller, +fatter, faster, etc., than we are, the question arises—How many times +bigger than a man must a mountain be before it impresses us? Perhaps the +problem has already been tackled by the schoolman who pondered how many +angels could dance on the point of a needle.</p> + +<p>However, these and similar first principles,<!--Page 035--> it will readily be seen, +are far from being irrelevant for the visitor at the Earl's Court +Exhibition. No doubt they are continually discussed by the thousands who +daily and nightly throng that very charming dream-world which Mr. +Kiralfy has built 'midmost the beating' of our 'steely sea.'</p> + +<p>To an age that is over-read and over-fed Mr. Kiralfy brings the message: +'Leave your great minds at home, and go up the Great Wheel!' and I heard +his voice and obeyed. The sensation is, I should say, something between +going up in a balloon and being upon shipboard—a sensation compounded, +maybe, of the creaking of the circular rigging, the pleasure of rising +in the air, the freshening of the air as you ascend, the strange feeling +of the earth receding and spreading out beneath you, the curious +diminution of the people below—to their proper size. You will hear +original minds all about you comparing them to ants, and it is curious +to notice the involuntary feeling of contempt that possesses you as you +watch them. I believe one has a half-defined illusion that we are +growing greater as they<!--Page 036--> are growing smaller. Ants and flies! ants and +flies! with here and there a fiery centipede in the shape of a District +train dashing in and out amongst them. We lose the power of +understanding their motions, and their throngs and movements do indeed +seem as purposeless at this height as the hurry-scurrying about an +anthill. At this height, indeed, one seems to understand how small a +matter a bank smash may seem to the Almighty; though, as a lady said to +me—as we clung tightly together in terror 'a-top of the topmost +bough'—it must be gratifying to see so many churches.</p> + +<p>Those who would keep their illusions about the beauty of London had +better stay below, at least in the daytime, for it makes one's heart +sink to look on those miles and miles of sordid grey roofs huddled in +meaningless rows and crescents, just for all the world like a huge +child's box of wooden bricks waiting to be arranged into some +intelligible pattern. Of course, this is not London proper. Were the +Great Wheel set up in Trafalgar Square, one is fain to hope that the +view from it would be less dis<!--Page 037-->heartening—though it might be better not +to try.</p> + +<p>By night, except for the bright oases of the Indian Exhibition, the view +is little more than a black blank, a great inky plain with faint sparks +and rows of light here and there, as though the world had been made of +saltpetre paper, and had lately been set fire to. Were you a traveller +from Mars you would say that the world was very badly lighted. But, for +all that, night is the time for the Great Wheel, for the conflagration +of pleasure at our feet makes us forget the void dark beyond. Then the +Wheel seems like a great revolving spider's web, with fireflies +entangled in it at every turn, and the little engine-house at the +centre, with its two electric lights, seems like the great lord spider, +with monstrous pearls for his eyes. And, as in the daytime the height +robs the depth of its significance, strips poor humanity of any +semblance of impressive or attractive meaning, at night the effect is +just the reverse. What a fairy-world is this opening out beneath our +feet, with its golden glowing squares and circles and palaces, with<!--Page 038--> its +lamplit gardens and pagodas! and who are these gay and beautiful beings +flitting hither and thither, and passing from one bright garden to +another on the stream of pleasure? If this many-coloured, passionate +dream be really human life, let us hasten to be down amongst it once +more! And, after all, is not this flattering night aspect of the world +more true than that disheartening countenance of it in the daylight? +Those golden squares and glowing gardens and flashing waters are, of +course, an illusion of the magician Kiralfy's, yet what power could the +illusion have upon us without the realities of beauty and love and +pleasure it attracts there?</p> + + + + +<!--Page 039--> +<h3><a name="essay04">THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET</a></h3> + + +<p>One morning of all mornings the citizens of Verona were startled by +strange news. Tragic forces, to which they had been accustomed to pay +little heed, had been at work in their city during the dark hours, and +young Romeo of the Montagues, handsome, devil-may-care lad as they had +known him, and little Juliet of the Capulets, that madcap, merry, gentle +young mistress, lay dead, side by side in the church of Santa Maria.</p> + +<p>Death! surely they were used to death! and Love, flower of the clove! +they were used to <em>love</em>. But here were love and death, that somehow +they could not understand. So they hurried in wondering groups to Santa +Maria, that they might gaze at the dead lovers, and thus perhaps come to +understand.</p><!--Page 040--> + +<p>Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came. And their +presence-chamber was bright with candles and flowers, and sweet with +the sweet smell of death. The air that had drunk in their wild words +and their last long looks of heavenly love still hung about the dark +corners, as the air where a rose has been holds a little while the +memory of its breath. Yes! that morning, in that dank but shining +tomb, you might draw into you the very breath of love. The air you +breathed had passed through the sweet lungs of Juliet, it had been +etherealised with her holy passion, and washed clean with her lovely +words. And now, for a little while yet, it feasted on the fair peace +of their glad young faces. To-morrow, or the next day, or the next +week, they would belong to the unvisited treasure-house of the past, +but now this morning of all mornings, this day that could never come +again, they still belonged to the real and radiant present.</p> + +<p>Flowers there are that bloom but once in a hundred years, but here in +this tomb had<!--Page 41--> blossomed one of those marvellous flowers that bloom but +once throughout eternity. Poets and kings in after-times, O men of +Verona, will yearn to have seen what you look upon to-day. For you, you +thick and greasy citizens, are chosen out of all time to behold this +beauty. There were once in the world thousands of men and women who had +heard the very words of Christ as they fell from His lips, words that we +may only read. There have been men, actual living, foolish men, who have +looked on at the valour of Horatius, men who from the crowded banks of +the Nile have watched the living body of Cleopatra step into her gilded +barge, men who, standing idle in the streets of Florence, have seen the +love-light start in the great Dante's eyes, seen his hand move to his +laden heart, as the little Beatrice passed him by among her maidens. +Base men of the past, by the indulgent accident of time, have been +granted to behold these wonders, and now for you, O men of Verona, a +like wonder has been born.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their<!--Page 042--> guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came.</p> + +<p>It had been an innocent little desire, yet had all the world come +against it. It had been a simple little desire, yet too strong for all +the world to break.</p> + +<p>Strange this enmity of the world to love, as though men should take arms +against the song of a bird, or plot against the opening of a flower.</p> + +<p>But now, what was this strange homage to a love that a few hours ago had +no friend in all the daylight, a fearful bliss beneath the secret moon? +But yesterday a stupid old nurse, a herb-gathering friar, a rascally +apothecary, had been their only friends, and now was all the world come +here to do their bidding.</p> + +<p>No need to steal again beneath the shade of orchard walls, no need again +to heed if lark or nightingale sang in the reddening east. For the world +had grown all warm to love, warm and kind as June to the rose.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>Three days lay Romeo and Juliet receiving their guests in the vault of +the Capulets,<!--Page 043--> with that strange smile of welcome for all who came. +Three days the world worshipped the love it could not understand, but +still came dense and denser throngs to worship. For the news of the +wonderful flower that had blossomed in Verona had gone far and wide, and +travellers from distant cities kept pouring in to look at those strange +young lovers, who had deemed the world well lost so that they might +leave it together.</p> + +<p>Then the governor of the city decreed, as the time drew near when the +two lovers must be left to their peace, and it was ill that any should +lose the sight of this marvel, that on the fourth day they should be +carried through the streets in the eyes of all the people, and then be +buried together in the vault of the Capulets—for by this burial in the +same tomb, says the old chronicler who was first honoured with the +telling of their sweet story, the governor hoped to bring about a peace +between the Montagues and Capulets, at least for a little while.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, though Verona was a city of many trades and professions, and +love and<!--Page 044--> death were idle things, yet was there little said of business +all these days, and little else done but talk of the two lovers, of +whom, indeed, it was true, as it has seldom been true out of Holy Writ, +that death was swallowed up in victory. During these days also there +stole a strange sweetness over the city, as though the very spirit of +love had nested there, and was filling the air with its soft +breathing—as when in the first days of spring the birds sing so sweetly +that broken hearts must hide away, and hard hearts grow a little kind. +Men once more spoke kindly to their wives, and even coarse faces wore a +gentle light,—just as sometimes at evening the setting sun will turn to +tenderness even black rocks and frowning towers.</p> + +<p>There were many wild stories afloat about the end of the lovers. Some +said one way and some another. By some the story went that Romeo was +already dead before Juliet had awakened from her swoon, but others +declared that the poison had not worked upon him until Juliet's +awakening had made him awhile forget that he was to die. There were +those who professed to know the very<!--Page 045--> words of their wild farewell, and +in fact there had been several witnesses of Juliet's agony over the body +of her lord. These had told how first she had raved and clung to him, +and called him 'Romeo,' 'Sweet Sir Romeo,' 'Husband,' and many +flower-like names, and had petted him and wooed him to come back. Then +on a sudden she had cried, God-a-mercy—how cold thou art!' and looked +at him long and strangely. Then had she grown stern, and anon soft. +'Canst thou not come back, my love? Then must I follow thee. Not so far +art thou on the way of death, but that I shall overtake thee, and +together shall we go to Pluto's realm, and seek a kinder world.'</p> + +<p>Thereat she had plunged Romeo's dagger into her side, though some said +she had stopped her heart's beating by the strong will of her great +love. Yea—such were the distracted rumours—some averred that at the +last she had curst Christ and His saints, and called upon Venus, who, it +was rumoured in awestruck whispers, was being worshipped once more in +secret corners of the world.</p><!--Page 046--> + +<p>It was strong noon when, on the fourth day, Romeo and Juliet were +carried through the bright and solemn streets, that the world might be +saved; saved as ever by the spectacle and the worship of a mysterious +nobility, [comma added by transcriber] an uncomprehended greatness, a +beauty which haunts not its daily dreams, lifted up by the humble gaze +of devout eyes into the empyrean of greater souls, stirred to an +unfamiliar passion, and fired with glimpses of a strange unworldly +truth.</p> + +<p>In the light of the sun the faces of the two lovers, as they lay amid +their flowers, seemed to have grown a little weary, but they still wore +their sweet and royal smile, and their laurelled brows were very white +and proud.</p> + +<p>And in the faces that looked upon them, as they moved slowly by, with +sweet death music, and the hushed marching of feet, and the wafted odour +of lilies, there was to be seen strangely blent a great pity for their +tragedy and a heavenly tenderness for their love. It was like a dream +passing down the streets of a dream, so deep and tender was the silence, +for only the hearts of men were<!--Page 047--> speaking; though here and there a girl +sobbed, or a young man buried his face in his sleeve, and the sternest +eyes were dashed with the holy water of tears. And with the pity and +tenderness, who shall say but that in all that silent heart-speech there +was no little envy of the two who had loved so truly and died in the +springtide of their love, before the ways of love had grown dusty with +its summer, or dreary with its autumn, before its dreams had petrified +into duties, and its passion deadened into use?</p> + +<p>'Would it were thou and I,' said many wedded eyes one to the other, +delusively warm and soft for a moment, but all cold and hard again on +the morrow.</p> + +<p>And maybe some poet would say in his heart—</p> + +<p>'If you loved her living, my Romeo, what were your love could you but +see her dead!' for indeed life has no beauty so wonderful as the beauty +of death.</p> + +<p>And, as in all places and times, there was a base remnant that gaped and +worshipped not, and in their hearts resented all this distinction paid +to a nobility they could not<!--Page 048--> recognise, as the like had grumbled when +Cimabue's Madonna had been carried through the streets in glory. But of +these there is no need that we should take account, any more than of the +beasts that moved head down amid the pastures outside the town, knowing +not of the wonder that was passing within. For the ass will munch his +thistles though the Son of Man be his rider, nor will the sheep look +aside from his grazing though Apollo be the herdsman.</p> + +<hr> + +<p>At length the sacred pageant was ended, gone like the passing of an +aerial music, and the people went to their homes silent, with haunted +eyes; while the Earth, which had given this beauty, took it back to +herself, and one more Persephone of human loveliness was shut within the +gates of the forgetful grave.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 049--> +<h3><a name="essay05">VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT</a></h3> + + +<p>A very Pre-Raphaelite friend of mine came to me one day and said <em>à +propos</em> of his having designed a very Early English chair: 'After all, +if one has anything to say one might as well put it into a chair!'</p> + +<p>I thought the remark rather delicious, as also his other remark when one +day in a curiosity-shop we were looking at another chair, which the +dealer declared to be Norman. My friend seated himself in it very +gravely, and after softly moving about from side to side, testing it, it +would appear, by the sensation it imparted to the sitting portion of his +limbs, he solemnly decided: 'I don't think the <em>flavour</em> of this chair +is Norman!'</p> + +<p>I thought of this Pre-Raphaelite brother as the Sphinx and I were seated +a few even<!--Page 050-->ings ago at our usual little dinner, in our usual little +sheltered corner, on the Lover's Gallery of one of the great London +restaurants. The Sphinx says that there is only one place in Europe +where one can really dine, but as it is impossible to be always within +reasonable train service of that Montsalvat of cookery, she consents to +eat with me—she cannot call it dine—at the restaurant of which I +speak. I being very simple-minded, untravelled, and unlanguaged, think +it, in my Cockney heart, a very fine place indeed, with its white marble +pillars surrounding the spacious peristyle, and flashing with a thousand +brilliant lights and colours; with its stately cooks, clothed in white +samite, mystic, wonderful, ranged behind a great altar loaded with big +silver dishes, and the sacred musicians of the temple ranged behind +them—while in and out go the waiters, clothed in white and black, +waiters so good and kind that I am compelled to think of Elijah being +waited on by angels.</p> + +<p>They have such an eye for a romance, too, and really take it personally +to heart if it should befall that our little table is usurped<!--Page 051--> by others +that know not love. I like them, too, because they really seem to have +an eye for the strange beauty and charm of the Sphinx, quite an +unexpected taste for Botticelli. They ill conceal their envy of my lot, +and sometimes, in the meditative pauses between the courses, I see them +romantically reckoning how it might be possible by desperately saving +up, by prodigious windfalls of tips, from unexampled despatch and +sweetness in their ministrations, how it might be possible in ten years' +time, perhaps even in five—the lady would wait five years! and her +present lover could be artistically poisoned meanwhile!—how it might be +possible to come and sue for her beautiful hand. Then a harsh British +cry for 'waiter' comes like a rattle and scares away that beautiful +dream-bird, though, as the poor dreamer speeds on the quest of roast +beef for four, you can see it still circling with its wonderful blue +feathers around his pomatumed head.</p> + +<p>Ah, yes, the waiters know that the Sphinx is no ordinary woman. She +cannot conceal even from them the mystical star of her face, they too +catch far echoes of the strange<!--Page 052--> music of her brain, they too grow +dreamy with dropped hints of fragrance from the rose of her wonderful +heart.</p> + +<p>How reverently do they help her doff her little cloak of silk and lace! +with what a worshipful inclination of the head, as in the presence of a +deity, do they await her verdict of choice between rival soups—shall it +be 'clear or thick'? And when she decides on 'thick,' how relieved they +seem to be, as if—well, some few matters remain undecided in the +universe, but never mind, this is settled for ever—no more doubts +possible on one portentous issue, at any rate—Madame will take her soup +'thick.'</p> + +<p>'On such a night' our talk fell upon whitebait.</p> + +<p>As the Sphinx's silver fork rustled among the withered silver upon her +plate, she turned to me and said:</p> + +<p>'Have you ever thought what beautiful little things these whitebait +are?'</p> + +<p>'Oh, yes,' I replied, 'they are the daisies of the deep sea, the +threepenny-pieces of the ocean.'</p> + +<p>'You dear!' said the Sphinx, who is alone<!--Page 053--> in the world in thinking me +awfully clever. 'Go on, say something else, something pretty about +whitebait—there's a subject for you!'</p> + +<p>Then it was that, fortunately, I remembered my Pre-Raphaelite friend, +and I sententiously remarked: 'Of course, if one has anything to say one +cannot do better than say it about whitebait.... Well, whitebait....'</p> + +<p>But here, providentially, the band of the beef—that is, the band behind +the beef; that is, the band that nightly hymns the beef (the phrase is +to be had in three qualities)—struck up the overture from <em>Tannhäuser</em>, +which is not the only music that makes the Sphinx forget my existence; +and thus, forgetting me, she momentarily forgot the whitebait. But I +remembered, remembered hard—worked at pretty things, as metal-workers +punch out their flowers of brass and copper. The music swirled about us +like golden waves, in which swam myriad whitebait, like showers of tiny +stars, like falling snow. To me it was one grand processional of +whitebait, silver ripples upon streams of gold.</p><!--Page 054--> + +<p>The music stopped. The Sphinx turned to me with the soul of Wagner in +her eyes, and then she turned to the waiter: 'Would it be possible,' she +said, 'to persuade the bandmaster to play that wonderful thing over +again?'</p> + +<p>The waiter seemed a little doubtful, even for the Sphinx, but he went +off to the bandmaster with the air of a man who has at last an +opportunity to show that he can dare all for love. Personally, I have a +suspicion that he poured his month's savings at the bandmaster's feet, +and begged him to do this thing for the most wonderful lady in the +world; or perhaps the bandmaster was really a musician, and his +musician's heart was touched—lonely there amid the beef—to think that +there was really some one, invisible though she were to him, some +shrouded silver presence, up there among the beefeaters, who really +loved to hear great music. Perhaps it was thus made a night he has never +forgotten; perhaps it changed the whole course of his life—who knows? +The sweet reassuring request may have come to him at a moment when, sick +at<!--Page 055--> heart, he was deciding to abandon real music for ever, and settle +down amid the beef and the beef-music of Old England.</p> + +<p>Well, however it was, the waiter came back radiant with a 'Yes' on every +shining part of him, and if the <em>Tannhäuser</em> had been played well at +first, certainly the orchestra surpassed themselves this second time.</p> + +<p>When the great jinnee of music had once more swept out of the hall, the +Sphinx turned with shining eyes to the waiter:</p> + +<p>'Take,' she said, 'take these tears to the bandmaster. He has indeed +earned them.'</p> + +<p>'Tears, little one!' I said. 'See how they swim like whitebait in the +fishpools of your eyes!'</p> + +<p>'Oh, yes, the whitebait,' rejoined the Sphinx, glad of a subject to hide +her emotion. 'Now tell me something nice about them, though the poor +little things have long since disappeared. Tell me, for instance, how +they get their beautiful little silver waterproofs?'</p> + +<p>'Electric Light of the World,' I said, 'it is like this. While they are +still quite young<!--Page 056--> and full of dreams, their mother takes them out in +picnic parties of a billion or so at a time to where the spring moon is +shining, scattering silver from its purse of pearl far over the wide +waters,—silver, silver, for every little whitebait that cares to swim +and pick it up. The mother, who has a contract with some such big +restaurateur as ours, chooses a convenient area of moonlight, and then +at a given sign they all turn over on their sides, and bask and bask in +the rays, little fin pressed lovingly against little fin—for this is +the happiest time in the young whitebait's life: it is at these +silvering parties that matches are made and future consignments of +whitebait arranged for. Well, night after night, they thus lie in the +moonlight, first on one side, then on the other, till by degrees, tiny +scale by scale, they have become completely lunar-plated. Ah! how sad +they are when the end of that happy time has come!'</p> + +<p>'And what happens to them after that?' asked the Sphinx.</p> + +<p>'One night when the moon is hidden their mother comes to them with +treacherous wile, and suggests that they should go off on a<!--Page 057--> holiday +again to seek the moon—the moon that for a moment seems captured by the +pearl-fishers of the sky. And so off they go merrily, but, alas! no moon +appears; and presently they are aware of unwieldy bumping presences upon +the surface of the sea, presences as of huge dolphins; and rough voices +call across the water, till, scared, the little whitebaits turn home in +flight—to find themselves somehow meshed in an invisible prison, a net +as fine and strong as air, into which, O agony! they are presently +hauled, lovely banks of silver, shining like opened coffers beneath the +coarse and ragged flares of yellow torches. The rest is silence.'</p> + +<p>'What sad little lives! and what a cruel world it is!' said the +Sphinx—as she crunched with her knife through the body of a lark, that +but yesterday had been singing in the blue sky. Its spirit sang just +above our heads as she ate, and the air was thick with the grey ghosts +of all the whitebait she had eaten that night.</p> + +<p>But there were no longer any tears in her eyes.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 058--> +<h3><a name="essay06">THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE</a></h3> + + +<p>The Sphinx and I sat in our little box at <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>. It was the +first time she had seen that fairy-tale of passion upon the stage. I had +seen it played once before—in Paradise. Therefore, I rather trembled to +see it again in an earthly play-house, and as much as possible kept my +eyes from the stage. All I knew of the performance—but how much was +that!—was two lovely voices making love like angels; and when there +were no words, the music told me what was going on. Love speaks so many +languages.</p> + +<p>One might as well look. It was as clear as moonlight to the tragic eye +within the heart. The Sphinx was gazing on it all with those eyes that +will never grow old, neither for years nor tears; but though I seemed to +be seeing nothing but an advertisement of Paderewski pianos on the +pro<!--Page 059-->gramme, I saw it—oh, didn't I see it?—all. The house had grown +dark, and the music low and passionate, and for a moment no one was +speaking. Only, deep in the thickets of my heart there sang a tragic +nightingale that, happily, only I could hear; and I said to myself, 'Now +the young fool is climbing the orchard wall! Yes, there go Benvolio and +Mercutio calling him; and now,—"he jests at scars who never felt a +wound"—the other young fool is coming out on to the balcony. God help +them both! They have no eyes—no eyes—or surely they would see the +shadow that sings "Love! Love! Love!" like a fountain in the moonlight, +and then shrinks away to chuckle "Death! Death! Death!" in the +darkness!'</p> + +<p>But, soft, what light from yonder window breaks!</p> + +<p>The Sphinx turned to me for sympathy—this time it was the soul of +Shakespeare in her eyes.</p> + +<p>'Yes!' I whispered, 'it is the Opening of the Eternal Rose, sung by the +Eternal Nightingale!'</p> + +<p>She pressed my hand approvingly; and<!--Page 060--> while the lovely voices made their +heavenly love, I slipped out my silver-bound pocket-book of ivory and +pressed within it the rose which had just fallen from my lips.</p> + +<p>The worst of a great play is that one is so dull between the acts. Wit +is sacrilege, and sentiment is bathos. Not another rose fell from my +lips during the performance, though that I minded little, as I was the +more able to count the pearls that fell from the Sphinx's eyes.</p> + +<p>It took quite half a bottle of champagne to pull us up to our usual +spirits, as we sat at supper at a window where we could see London +spread out beneath us like a huge black velvet flower, dotted with fiery +embroideries, sudden flaring stamens, and rows of ant-like fireflies +moving in slow zig-zag processions along and across its petals.</p> + +<p>'How strange it seems,' said the Sphinx, 'to think that for every two of +those moving double-lights, which we know to be the eyes of hansoms, but +which seem up here nothing but gold dots in a very barbaric pattern of +black and gold, there are two human beings, no doubt at this time of +night two lovers,<!--Page 061--> throbbing with the joy of life, and dreaming, heaven +knows what dreams!'</p> + +<p>'Yes,' I rejoined;' and to them I'm afraid we are even more impersonal. +From their little Piccadilly coracles our watch-tower in the skies is +merely a radiant facade of glowing windows, and no one of all who glide +by realises that the spirited illumination is every bit due to your +eyes. You have but to close them, and every one will be asking what has +gone wrong with the electric light.'</p> + +<p>A little nonsense is a great healer of the heart, and by means of such +nonsense as this we grew merry again. And anon we grew sentimental and +poetic, but—thank heaven! we were no longer tragic.</p> + +<p>Presently I had news for the Sphinx. 'The rose-tree that grows in the +garden of my mind,' I said, 'desires to blossom.'</p> + +<p>'May it blossom indeed,' she replied; 'for it has been flowerless all +this long evening; and bring me a rose fresh with all the dews of +inspiration—no florist's flower, wired and artificially scented, no +bloom of yesterday's hard-driven brains.'</p><!--Page 062--> + +<p>'I was only thinking,' I said, '<em>à propos</em> of nightingales and roses, +that though all the world has heard the song of the nightingale to the +rose, only the nightingale has heard the answer of the rose. You know +what I mean?'</p> + +<p>'Know what you mean! Of course, that's always easy enough,' retorted the +Sphinx, who knows well how to be hard on me.</p> + +<p>'I'm so glad,' I ventured to thrust back; 'for lucidity is the first +success of expression: to make others see clearly what we ourselves are +struggling to see, believe with all their hearts what we are just daring +to hope, is—well, the religion of a literary man!'</p> + +<p>'Yes! it's a pretty idea,' said the Sphinx, once more pressing the rose +of my thought to her brain; 'and indeed it's more than pretty ...'</p> + +<p>'Thank you!' I said humbly.</p> + +<p>'Yes, it's <em>true</em>—and many a humble little rose will thank you for it. +For, your nightingale is a self-advertising bird. He never sings a song<!--Page 063--> +without an eye on the critics, sitting up there in their stalls among +the stars. He never, or seldom, sings a song for pure love, just +because he must sing it or die. Indeed, he has a great fear of death, +unless—you will guarantee him immortality. But the rose, the trusting +little earth-born rose, that must stay all her life rooted in one spot +till some nightingale comes to choose her—some nightingale whose song +maybe has been inspired and perfected by a hundred other roses, which +are at the moment pot-pourri—ah, the shy bosom-song of the rose ...'</p> + +<p>Here the Sphinx paused, and added abruptly—</p> + +<p>'Well—there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!'</p> + +<p>'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!'</p> + +<p>'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of +course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but +half-born—humourists always prefer to deliver themselves—so I shook my +head.</p> + +<p>'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of +her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey'<!--Page 064--> and +'Stupid,'—which I recognised and meekly bore.</p> + +<p>'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But +don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no +nightin<!--Page 065-->gales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is +always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the +nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.'</p> + +<p>'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx.</p> + +<p>'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses—but ... +but....'</p> + +<p>'But what?'</p> + +<p>'But—well, I much prefer roses. Indeed I do.'</p> + +<p>'Rose of the World,' I continued with sentiment, 'draw in your thorns. I +cannot bear them.'</p> + +<p>'Ah!' she answered eagerly, 'that is just it. The nightingale that is +worthy of the rose will not only bear, but positively love, her thorns. +It is for that reason she wears them. The thorns of the rose properly +understood are but the tests of the nightingale. The nightingale that +is frightened of the thorns is not worthy of the rose—of that you may +be sure....'</p> + +<p>'I am not frightened of the thorns,' I managed to interject.</p> + +<p>'Sing then once more,' she cried, 'the Song of the Nightingale.'</p> + +<p>And it was thus I sang:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>O Rose of the World, a nightingale,</p> + <p class="indent1">A Bird of the World, am I,</p> + <p>I have loved all the world and sung all the world,</p> + <p class="indent1">But I come to your side to die.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Tired of the world, as the world of me,</p> + <p class="indent1">I plead for your quiet breast,</p> + <p>I have loved all the world and sung all the world—</p> + <p class="indent1">But—where is the nightingale's nest?</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>In a hundred gardens I sung the rose,</p> + <p class="indent1">Rose of the World, I confess—</p> + <p>But for every rose I have sung before</p> + <p class="indent1">I love you the more, not less.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Perfect it grew by each rose that died,</p> + <p class="indent1">Each rose that has died for you,</p> + <p>The song that I sing—yea, 'tis no new song,</p> + <p class="indent1">It is tried—and so it is true.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Petal or thorn, yea! I have no care,</p> + <p class="indent1">So that I here abide;</p> + <p>Pierce me, my love, or kiss me, my love,</p> + <p class="indent1">But keep me close to your side.</p> + </div><!--Page 066--> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>I know not your kiss from your scorn, my love,</p> + <p class="indent1">Your breast from your thorn, my rose,</p> + <p>And if you must kill me, well, kill me, my love!</p> + <p class="indent1">But—say 'twas the death I chose.</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>'Is it true?' asked the Rose.</p> + +<p>'As I am a nightingale,' I replied; and as we bade each other +good-night, I whispered:</p> + +<p>'When may I expect the Answer of the Rose?'</p> + + + + +<!--Page 067--> +<h3><a name="essay07">ABOUT THE SECURITIES</a></h3> + + +<p>When I say that my friend Matthew lay dying, I want you so far as +possible to dissociate the statement from any conventional, and +certainly from any pictorial, conceptions of death which you may have +acquired. Death sometimes shows himself one of those impersonal artists +who conceal their art, and, unless you had been told, you could hardly +have guessed that Matthew was dying, dying indeed sixty miles an hour, +dying of consumption, dying because some one else had died four years +before, dying too of debt.</p> + +<p>Connoisseurs, of course, would have understood; at a glance would have +named the sculptor who was silently chiselling those noble hollows in +the finely modelled face,—that Pygmalion who turns all flesh to +stone,—at a glance would have named the painter who was cunningly +weighting the brows with<!--Page 068--> darkness that the eyes might shine the more +with an unaccustomed light. Matthew and I had long been students of the +strange wandering artist, had begun by hating his art (it is ever so +with an art unfamiliar to us), and had ended by loving it.</p> + +<p>'Let us see what the artist has added to the picture since yesterday,' +said Matthew, signing to me to hand him the mirror.</p> + +<p>'H'm,' he murmured, 'he's had one of his lazy days, I'm afraid. He's +hardly added a touch—just a little heightened the chiaroscuro, +sharpened the nose a trifle, deepened some little the shadows round the +eyes....</p> + +<p>'O why,' he presently sighed, 'does he not work a little overtime and +get it done? He's been paid handsomely enough....</p> + +<p>'Paid,' he continued, 'by a life that is so much undeveloped gold-mine, +paid by all my uncashed hopes and dreams....'</p> + +<p>'He works fast enough for me, old fellow,' I interrupted; 'there was a +time, was there not, when he worked too fast for you and me?'</p> + +<p>There are moments, for certain people,<!--Page 069--> when such fantastic unreality as +this is the truest realism. Matthew and I talked like this with our +brains, because we hadn't the courage to allow our hearts to break in +upon the conversation. Had I dared to say some real emotional thing, +what effect would it have had but to set poor tired Matthew a-coughing? +and it was our aim that he should die with as little to-do as +practicable. The emotional in such situations is merely the obvious. +There was no need for either of us to state the elementary feelings of +our love. I knew that Matthew was going to die, and he knew that—I was +going to live, and we pitied each other accordingly; though I confess my +feeling for him was rather one of envy,—when it was not congratulation.</p> + +<p>Thus, to tell the truth, we never mentioned 'the hereafter.' I don't +believe it even occurred to us. Indeed, we spent the few hours that +remained of our friendship in retailing the latest gathered of those +good stories with which we had been accustomed to salt our intercourse.</p> + +<p>One of Matthew's anecdotes was, no doubt, somewhat suggested by the +occasion,<!--Page 070--> and I should add that he had always somewhat of an +ecclesiastical bias—would, I believe, have ended some day as a +Monsignor, a notable 'Bishop Blougram.'</p> + +<p>His story was of an evangelistic preacher who desired to impress his +congregation with the unmistakable reality of hell-fire. 'You know the +Black Country, my friends,' he had declaimed,' you have seen it, at +night, flaring with a thousand furnaces, in the lurid incandescence of +which myriads of unhappy beings, our fellow-creatures (God forbid!), +snatch a precarious existence—you have seen them silhouetted against +the yellow glare, running hither and thither, as it seemed from afar, in +the very jaws of the awful fire. Have you realised that the burdens with +which they thus run hither and thither are molten iron, iron to which +such a stupendous heat has been applied that it has melted, melted as +though it had been sugar in the sun?—well! returning to hell-fire, let +me tell you this, that in hell they eat this fiery molten metal for +ice-cream!—yes! and are glad to get anything so cool.'</p> + +<p>It was thus we talked while Matthew lay<!--Page 071--> dying, for why should we not +talk as we had lived? We both laughed long and heartily over this story; +perhaps it would have amused us less had Matthew not been dying; and +then his kind old nurse brought in our lunch. We had both excellent +appetites, and were far from indifferent to the dainty little meal which +was to be our last but one together. I brought my table as close to +Matthew's pillow as was possible, and he stroked my hand with tenderness +in which there was a touch of gratitude.</p> + +<p>'You are not frightened of the bacteria!' he laughed sadly; and then he +told me, with huge amusement, how a friend (and a true, dear friend for +all that) had come to see him a day or two before, and had hung over the +end of the bed to say farewell, daring to approach no nearer, mopping +his fear-perspiring brows with a handkerchief soaked in 'Eucalyptus'!</p> + +<p>'He had brought an anticipatory elegy too,' said my friend, 'written +against my burial. I wish you'd read it for me,' and he fidgeted for it +in the nervous manner of the dying. Finding it among his pillows, he +handed it<!--Page 072--> to me saying, 'You needn't be frightened of it. It is well +dosed with Eucalyptus.'</p> + +<p>We laughed even more over this poem than over our stories, and then we +discussed the terms of three cremation societies to which, at the +express request of my friend, I had written a day or two before.</p> + +<p>Then having smoked a cigar and drunk a glass of port together (for the +assured dying are allowed to 'live well'), Matthew grew sleepy, and, +tucking him beneath the counterpane, I left him, for, after all, he was +not to die that day.</p> + +<p>Circumstances prevented my seeing him again for a week. When I did so, +entering the room poignantly redolent of the strange sweet odour of +antiseptics, I saw that the great artist had been busy in my absence. +Indeed, his work was nearly at an end. Yet to one unfamiliar with his +methods there was still little to alarm in Matthew's face. In fact, with +the exception of his brain, and his ice-cold feet, he was alive as ever. +And even to his brain had come a certain unnatural activity, a life as +of the grave, a sort of vampire vitality, which would assuredly<!--Page 073--> have +deceived any who had not known him. He still told his stories, laughed +and talked with the same unconquerable humour, was in every way alert +and practical, with this difference, that he had forgotten he was going +to die, that the world in which he exercised his various faculties was +another world to that in which, in spite of his delirium, we ate our +last boiled fowl, drank our last wine, smoked our last cigar together. +His talk was so convincingly rational, dealt with such unreal matters in +so every-day a fashion, that you were ready to think that surely it was +you and not he whose mind was wandering.</p> + +<p>'You might reach that pocket-book, and ring for Mrs. Davies,' he would +say in so casual a way that of course you would ring. On Mrs. Davies's +appearance he would be fumbling about among the papers in his +pocket-book, and presently he would say, with a look of frustration that +went to one's heart—'I've got a ten-pound note somewhere here for you, +Mrs. Davies, to pay you up till Saturday, but somehow I seem to have +lost it. Yet it must be somewhere about. Perhaps you'll find it as you +make the bed in the<!--Page 074--> morning. I'm so sorry to have troubled you....'</p> + +<p>And then he would grow tired and doze a little on his pillow.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he would be alert again, and with a startling vividness tell me +strange stories from the dreamland into which he was now passing.</p> + +<p>I had promised to see him on Monday, but had been prevented, and had +wired to him accordingly. This was Tuesday.</p> + +<p>'You needn't have troubled to wire,' he said. 'Didn't you know I was in +London from Saturday to Monday?'</p> + +<p>'The doctor and Mrs. Davies didn't know,' he continued with the creepy +cunning of the dying: 'I managed to slip away to look at a house I think +of taking—in fact I've taken it. It's in—in—now, where is it? Now +isn't that silly? I can see it as plain as anything—yet I cannot, for +the life of me, remember where it is, or the number.... It was somewhere +St. John's Wood way ... never mind, you must come and see me there, when +we get in....'</p> + +<p>I said he was dying in debt, and thus the<!--Page 075--> heaven that lay about his +deathbed was one of fantastic Eldorados, sudden colossal legacies, and +miraculous windfalls.</p> + +<p>'I haven't told you,' he said presently, 'of the piece of good luck that +has befallen me. You are not the only person in luck. I can hardly +expect you to believe me, it sounds so like the Arabian Nights. However, +it's true for all that. Well, one of the little sisters was playing in +the garden a few afternoons ago, making mud-pies or something of that +sort, and she suddenly scraped up a sovereign. Presently she found two +or three more, and our curiosity becoming aroused, a turn or two with +the spade revealed quite a bed of gold; and the end of it was, that on +further excavating, the whole garden proved to be one mass of +sovereigns. Sixty thousand pounds we counted ... and then, what do you +think?—it suddenly melted away....'</p> + +<p>He paused for a moment, and continued, more in amusement than regret—</p> + +<p>'Yes—the Government got wind of it, and claimed the whole lot as +treasure-trove!</p> + +<p>'But not,' he added slyly, 'before I'd paid<!--Page 076--> off two or three of my +biggest bills. Yes—and—you'll keep it quiet, of course,—there's +another lot been discovered in the garden, but we shall take good care +the Government doesn't get hold of it this time, you bet.'</p> + +<p>He told this wild story with such an air of simple conviction that, odd +as it may seem, one believed every word of it. But the tale of his +sudden good-fortune was not ended.</p> + +<p>'You've heard of old Lord Osterley,' he presently began again. 'Well, +congratulate me, old man: he has just died and left everything to me. +You know what a splendid library he had—to think that that will all be +mine—and that grand old park through which we've so often wandered, you +and I! Well, we shall need fear no gamekeeper now, and of course, dear +old fellow, you'll come and live with me—like a prince—and just write +your own books and say farewell to journalism for ever. Of course I can +hardly believe it's true yet. It seems too much of a dream, and yet +there's no doubt about it. I had a letter from my solicitors this +morning, saying that they were engaged in going<!--Page 077--> through the securities, +and—and—but the letter's somewhere over there; you might read it. No? +can't you find it? It's there somewhere about, I know. Never mind, you +can see it again....' he finished wearily.</p> + +<p>'Yes!' he presently said, half to himself, 'it will be a wonderful +change! a wonderful change!'</p> + +<hr> + +<p>At length the time came to say good-bye, a good-bye I knew must be the +last, for my affairs were taking me so far away from him that I could +not hope to see him for some days.</p> + +<p>'I'm afraid, old man,' I said, 'that I mayn't be able to see you for +another week.'</p> + +<p>'O never mind, old fellow, don't worry about me. I'm much better +now—and by the time you come again we shall know all about the +securities.'</p> + +<p>The securities! My heart had seemed like a stone, incapable of feeling, +all those last unreal hours together; but the pathos of that sad phrase, +so curiously symbolic, suddenly smote it with overwhelming pity, and the +tears sprang to my eyes for the first time.<!--Page 078--> As I bent over him to kiss +his poor damp forehead, and press his hand for the last farewell, I +murmured—</p> + +<p>'Yes—dear, dear old friend. We shall know all about the securities....'</p> + + + + +<!--Page 079--> +<h3><a name="essay08">THE BOOM IN YELLOW</a></h3> + + +<p>Green must always have a large following among artists and art lovers; +for, as has been pointed out, an appreciation of it is a sure sign of a +subtle artistic temperament. There is something not quite good, +something almost sinister, about it—at least, in its more complex +forms, though in its simple form, as we find it in outdoor nature, it is +innocent enough; and, indeed, is it not used in colloquial metaphor as +an adjective for innocence itself? Innocence has but two colours, white +or green. But Becky Sharp's eyes also were green, and the green of the +aesthete does not suggest innocence. There will always be wearers of the +green carnation; but the popular vogue which green has enjoyed for the +last ten or fifteen years is probably passing. Even the æsthete himself +would seem to be growing a little weary of<!--Page 080--> its indefinitely divided +tones, and to be anxious for a colour sensation somewhat more positive +than those to be gained from almost imperceptible <em>nuances</em>, of green. +Jaded with over-refinements and super-subtleties, we seem in many +directions to be harking back to the primary colours of life. Blue, +crude and unsoftened, and a form of magenta, have recently had a short +innings; and now the triumph of yellow is imminent. Of course, a love +for green implies some regard for yellow, and in our so-called aesthetic +renaissance the sunflower went before the green carnation—which is, +indeed, the badge of but a small schism of aesthetes, and not worn by +the great body of the more catholic lovers of beauty.</p> + +<p>Yellow is becoming more and more dominant in decoration—in wall-papers, +and flowers cultivated with decorative intention, such as +chrysanthemums. And one can easily understand why: seeing that, after +white, yellow reflects more light than any other colour, and thus +ministers to the growing preference for light and joyous rooms. A few +yellow chrysanthemums will make a<!--Page 081--> small room look twice its size, and +when the sun comes out upon a yellow wall-paper the whole room seems +suddenly to expand, to open like a flower. When it falls upon the pot of +yellow chrysanthemums, and sets them ablaze, it seems as though one had +an angel in the room. Bill-posters are beginning to discover the +attractive qualities of the colour. Who can ever forget meeting for the +first time upon a hoarding Mr. Dudley Hardy's wonderful Yellow Girl, the +pretty advance-guard of <em>To-Day</em>? But I suppose the honour of the +discovery of the colour for advertising purposes rests with Mr. Colman; +though its recent boom comes from the publishers, and particularly from +the Bodley Head. <em>The Yellow Book</em> with any other colour would hardly +have sold as well—the first private edition of Mr. Arthur Benson's +poems, by the way, came caparisoned in yellow, and with the identical +name, <em>Le Cahier Jaune</em>; and no doubt it was largely its title that made +the success of <em>The Yellow Aster</em>. In literature, indeed, yellow has +long been the colour of romance. The word 'yellow-back' witnesses its +close association<!--Page 082--> with fiction; and in France, as we know, it is the +all but universal custom to bind books in yellow paper. Mr. Heinemann +and Mr. Unwin have endeavoured to naturalise the custom here; but, +though in cloth yellow has emphatically 'caught on,' in paper it still +hangs fire. The ABC Railway Guide is probably the only exception, and +that, it is to be hoped, is not fiction. Mr. Lang has recently followed +the fashion with his <em>Yellow Fairy Book</em>; and, indeed, one of the best +known figures in fairydom is yellow—namely, the Yellow Dwarf. Yellow, +always a prominent Oriental colour, was but lately of peculiar +significance in the Far East; for were not the sorrows of a certain high +Chinese official intimately connected with the fatal colour? The Yellow +Book, the Yellow Aster, the Yellow Jacket!—and the Yellow Fever, like +'Orion' Home's sunshine, is always with us' somewhere in the world.' The +same applies also, I suppose, to the Yellow Sea.</p> + +<p>Till one comes to think of it, one hardly realises how many important +and pleasant things in life are yellow. Blue and green,<!--Page 083--> no doubt, +contract for the colouring of vast departments of the physical world. +'Blue!' sings Keats, in a fine but too little known sonnet—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'... 'Tis the life of heaven—the domain</p> + <p class="indent1">Of Cynthia—the wide palace of the sun—</p> + <p>The tent of Hesperus, and all his train—</p> + <p>The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey, and dun.</p> + <p>Blue! 'Tis the life of waters ...</p> + <p>Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest green,</p> + <p class="indent1">Married to green in all the sweetest flowers.'</p> +</div> + +<p>Yellow might retort by quoting Mr. Grant Allen, in his book on <em>The +Colour Sense</em>, to the effect that the blueness of sea and sky is mainly +poetical illusion or inaccuracy, and that sea and sky are found blue +only in one experiment out of fourteen. At morning and evening they are +usually in great part stained golden. Blue certainly has one advantage +over yellow, in that it has the privilege of colouring some of the +prettiest eyes in the world. Yellow has a chance only in cases of +jaundice and liver complaint, and his colour scheme in such cases is +seldom appreciated. Again, green has the contract for the greater bulk +of the vegetable life of the globe; but his is a<!--Page 084--> monotonous business, +like the painting of miles and miles of palings: grass, grass, grass, +trees, trees, trees, <em>ad infinitum</em>; whereas yellow leads a roving, +versatile life, and is seldom called upon for such monotonous labour. +The sands of Sahara are probably the only conspicuous instance of yellow +thus working by the piece. It is in the quality, in the diversity of the +things it colours, rather than in their mileage or tonnage, that yellow +is distinguished; though, for that matter, we suppose, the sun is as big +and heavy as most things, and that is yellow. Of course, when we say +yellow we include golden, and all varieties of the colour—saffron, +orange, flaxen, tawny, blonde, topaz, citron, etc.</p> + +<p>If the sun may reasonably be described as the most important object in +the world, surely money is the next. That, as we know, is, in its most +potent metallic form, yellow also. The 'yellow gold' is a favourite +phrase in certain forms of poetry; and 'yellow-boys' is a term of +natural affection among sailors. Following the example of their lord the +sun, most fires and lights are yellow<!--Page 085--> or golden, and it is only in +times of danger or superstition that they burn red or blue. And, if +yellow be denied entrance to beautiful eyes, it enjoys a privilege +which—except in the case of certain indigo-staining African tribes, who +cannot be said to count—blue has never claimed: that of colouring +perhaps the loveliest thing in the world, the hair of woman. Hair is +naturally golden—unnaturally also. When Browning sings pathetically of +'dear dead women—with such hair too!' he continues:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'What's become of all the <em>gold</em></p> + <p>Used to hang and brush their bosoms'—</p> +</div> + +<p>not 'all the blue' or 'all the brown,' though some of us, it is true, +are condemned to wear our hair brown or blue-black. But such are only +unhappy exceptions. Yellow or gold is the rule. The bravest men and the +fairest women have had golden hair, and, we may add, in reference to +another distinction of the colour we are celebrating, golden hearts. +Hair at the present time is doing its best to conform to its normal +conditions of colour. Numerous instances might be adduced of its +changing from black to gold, in obedience to<!--Page 086--> chemical law. 'Peroxide of +hydrogen!' says the cynic. 'Beauty!' says the lover of art.</p> + +<p>And it might be argued, in a world of inevitable compromise, that the +damage done to the physical health and texture of the hair thus playing +the chameleon may well be overbalanced by the happiness, and consequent +increased effectiveness, of the person thus dyeing for the sake of +beauty. Thaumaturgists lay much stress on the mystic influence of +colours; and who knows but that, if we were only allowed to dye our hair +what colour we chose, we might be different men and women? Strange +things are told of women who have dyed their hair the colour of blood or +of wine, and we know from Christina Rossetti that golden hair is +negotiable in fairyland—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'"You have much gold upon your head,"</p> + <p>They answered all together:</p> + <p class="indent1">"Buy from us with a golden curl."'</p> +</div> + +<p>Whether Laura could have done business with the goblin merchantmen with +an oxidised curl is a difficult point, for fairies have sharp eyes; and, +though it be impossible for a mortal to tell the real gold from the +false<!--Page 087--> gold hair, the fairies may be able to do so, and might reject the +curl as counterfeit.</p> + +<p>Again, if in the vegetable world green almost universally colours the +leaves, yellow has more to do with the flowers. The flowers we love best +are yellow: the cowslip, the daffodil, the crocus, the buttercup, half +the daisy, the honeysuckle, and the loveliest rose. Yellow, too, has its +turn even with the leaves; and what an artist he shows himself when, in +autumn, he 'lays his fiery finger' upon them, lighting up the forlorn +woodland with splashes—pure palette-colour of audacious gold! He hangs +the mulberry with heart-shaped yellow shields—which reminds one of the +heraldic importance of 'or,'—and he lines the banks of the Seine with +phantasmal yellow poplars. And other leaves still dearer to the heart +are yellow likewise; leaves of those sweet old poets whose thoughts seem +to have turned the pages gold. Let us dream of this: a maid with yellow +hair, clad in a yellow gown, seated in a yellow room, at the window a +yellow sunset, in the grate a yellow fire, at her side a yellow +lamplight, on her knee a Yellow Book. And the letters<!--Page 088--> we love best to +read—when we dare—are they not yellow too? No doubt some disagreeable +things are reported of yellow. We have had the yellow-fever, and we have +had pea-soup. The eyes of lions are said to be yellow, and the ugliest +cats—the cats that infest one's garden—are always yellow. Some +medicines are yellow, and no doubt there are many other yellow +disagreeables; but we prefer to dwell upon the yellow blessings. I had +almost forgotten that the gayest wines are yellow. Nor has religion +forgotten yellow. It is to be hoped yellow will not forget religion. The +sacred robe of the second greatest religion of the world is yellow, 'the +yellow robe' of the Buddhist friar; and when the sacred harlots of +Hindustan walk in lovely procession through the streets, they too, like +the friars, are clad in yellow. Amber is yellow; so is the orange; and +so were stage-coaches and many dashing things of the old time; and pink +is yellow by lamplight. But gold-mines, it has been proved, are not so +yellow as is popularly supposed. Hymen's robe is Miltonically 'saffron,' +and the dearest petti<!--Page 089-->coat in all literature—not forgetting the +'tempestuous' garment of Herrick's Julia—was 'yaller.' Yes!—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>''Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,</p> + <p>An' er name was Supi-yaw-lat, jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen.'</p> +</div> + +<p>Is it possible to say anything prettier for yellow than that?</p> + + + + +<!--Page 090--> +<h3><a name="essay09">LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN</a></h3> + + +<p>My Dear Sir,—I agree with every word you say. You have my entire +sympathy. The world is indeed hard, hard to the sad—particularly hard +to the unsuccessful. A sure five hundred a year covers a multitude of +sorrows. It is ever an ill wind for the shorn lamb. If it be true that +nothing succeeds like success, it is no less sadly true that nothing +fails like failure. And when one thinks of it, it is only natural, for +every failure is an obstruction in the stream of life. Metaphorical +writers are fond of saying that the successful ride to success on the +back of the failures. It is true that many rise on stepping-stones of +their dead relations—but that is because their relations have been +financial successes.<!--Page 091--> In truth, instead of the failure making the +fortune of the successful, it is just the reverse. A very successful man +would be the more successful were it not for the failures—on whom he +has either to spend his money to support, or his time to advise. The +strong are said to be impatient towards the weak—and is it to be +wondered at, in a world where even the strongest need all their +strength, in a sea where the best swimmer needs all his wind and muscle +and skill to keep afloat? If success is sometimes 'unfeeling' towards +failure, failure is often unfair to success. Of course, 'it is He that +hath made us and not we ourselves,' but that is a text that cuts both +ways; and when all is said and done, the failure detracts from the force +in the universe; he is the clog on the wheel of fortune. To say that the +successful man benefits by the failure of others is as true as it would +be to say that the ratepayer benefits by the poor-rates. You use the +word 'charlatan' somewhat profusely of several successful writers, and +no doubt you are right. But you must remember that it<!--Page 092--> is a favourite +charge against the gifted and the fortunate. Because we have failed by +fair means, we are sure the other fellows have succeeded by foul. And, +moreover, one is apt to forget how much talent is needed to be a +charlatan. Never look down upon a charlatan. Courage, skill, personal +force or charm, great knowledge of human nature, dramatic instinct, and +industry—few charlatans succeed (and no one is called a charlatan till +he <em>does</em> succeed, be his success as low or high as you please) without +possessing a majority of these qualities; how many of which—it would be +interesting to know—do you possess?</p> + +<p>Indeed, it would seem to need more gifts to be a rogue than an honest +man, and there is a sense in which every great man may be described as a +charlatan—<em>plus</em> greatness; greatness being an almost indefinable +quality, a quality, at any rate, on which there is a bewildering +diversity of opinion.</p> + +<p>You seem a little cross with publishers and editors. They have not +proved the distinguished, brilliant, and sympathetic beings you imagined +them in your boyish<!--Page 093--> dreams. No doubt, publishers and editors enter +hardly into the kingdom of heaven. But then, you see, they don't care so +much about that; they are much more interested in the next election at +certain fashionable clubs. It is really a little hard on them that they +should suffer from the ignorant misconception of the literary amateur. +It is only those who have had no dealings with them who would be unfair +enough to expect publishers or editors to be literary men. They are +business men—business men <em>par excellence</em>—and a good thing, too, for +their papers and their authors. You lament their mercenary view of life; +but, judging by your letter, even you are not disposed to regard money +as the root of all evil.</p> + +<p>You cannot understand why you have failed where others have succeeded. +You have far more Greek than Keats, more history than Scott, and you +know nineteen languages—ten of them to speak. With so many +accomplishments, it must indeed be hard to fail—though you do not seem +to have found it difficult. You have travelled<!--Page 094--> too—have been twice +round the world, and have a thorough knowledge of the worst hotels. +Certainly, it is singular. Nevertheless, I must confess that the dullest +men I have ever met have been professors of history; the worst poets +have not only known Greek, but French as well; and, generally speaking +the most tiresome of my acquaintances have more degrees than I have +Latin to name them in. Alas! it is not experience, or travel, or +language, but the use we make of them, that makes literary success, +which, one may add, is particularly dependent—perhaps not +unnaturally—on the use we make of language. A book may be a book, +although there is neither Latin nor Greek, nor travel, nor +experience—in fact 'nothing' in it; and though, like myself, you may +pay an Oxford professor a thousand a year to correct your proofs, you +may still miss immortality.</p> + +<p>To these intellectual and general equipments you add goodness of heart, +sincerity of conviction, and martyrdom for your opinions; you are, it +would seem, like many others of us, the best fellow and<!--Page 095--> greatest man of +your acquaintance. Permit me to remind you that we are not talking of +goodness of heart, of strength or beauty of character, but of success, +which is a thing apart, a fine art in itself.</p> + +<p>You confess that you are somewhat unpractical: you expect +others—hard-worked journalists who never met you—to tell you what to +read, how to form your style, and how 'to get into the magazines.' You +are, you say, with something of pride, but a poor business man. That is +a pity, for nearly every successful literary man of the day, and +particularly the novelists, are excellent business men. Indeed, the +history of literature all round has proved that the men who have been +masters of words have also been masters of things—masters of the facts +of life for which those words stand. Many writers have mismanaged their +affairs from idleness and indifference, but few from incapacity. Leigh +Hunt boasted that he could never master the multiplication-table. +Perhaps that accounts for his comparative failure as a writer. +Incompetence in one art is far from being a guarantee of competency in +another, and a<!--Page 096--> man is all the more likely to make a name if he is able +to make a living—though, judging from Coleridge, it seems a good plan +to let another hard-worked man support one's wife and children. On the +other hand, though business faculty is a great deal, it is not +everything: for a man may be as punctual and methodical as Southey, and +yet miss the prize of his high calling, or as generally 'impossible' as +Blake, and yet win his place among the immortals.</p> + +<p>In fact, after all, success in literature has something to do with +writing. In temporary success, industry and business faculty, and an +unworked field—be it Scotland, Ireland, or the Isle of Man (any place +but plain England!)—are the chief factors. For that more lasting +success which we call fame other qualities are needed, such qualities as +imagination, fancy, and magic and force in the use of words. Can you +honestly say, O beloved, though tiresome, correspondent, that these +great gifts are yours? Judging from your letter—but Heaven forbid that +I should be unkind! For, need I say I love you with a fellow-feeling? Do +you think that you<!--Page 097--> are the only unappreciated genius on the planet—not +to speak of all the other unappreciated geniuses on all the other +planets? Thank goodness, the postal arrangements with the latter are as +yet defective! Others there are with hearts as warm, minds as profound, +and style at least as attractive, who languish in unmerited +neglect—Miltons inglorious indeed, though far from mute.</p> + +<p>Believe me, you are not alone. In fact, there are so many like you that +it would be quite easy for you to find society without worrying me. And, +for all of us, there is the consolation that, though we fail as writers, +we may still succeed as citizens, as husbands and fathers and friends. +As Whitman would say—because you are not Editor of <em>The Times</em>, do you +give in that you are less than a man? There are poets that have never +entered into the Bodley Head, and great prose-writers who have never sat +in an editorial chair. Be satisfied with your heavenly crowns, O you +whining unsuccessful, and leave to your inferiors the earthly +five-shilling pieces.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 098--> +<h3><a name="essay10">A POET IN THE CITY</a></h3> + + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'In the midway of this our mortal life,</p> + <p>I found me in a gloomy wood, astray.'</p> +</div> + +<p>I (and when I say I, I must be understood to be speaking dramatically) +only venture into the City once a year, for the very pleasant purpose of +drawing that twelve-pound-ten by which the English nation, ever so +generously sensitive to the necessities, not to say luxuries, of the +artist, endeavours to express its pride and delight in me. It would be a +very graceful exercise of gratitude for me here to stop and parenthesise +the reader on the subject of all that twelve-pound-ten has been to me, +how it has quite changed the course of my life, given me that +long-desired opportunity of doing my best work in peace, for which so +often I vainly sighed in Fleet Street, and even allowed me an indulgence +in minor luxuries which I<!--Page 099--> could not have dreamed of enjoying before the +days of that twelve-pound-ten. Now not only peace and plenty, but +leisure and luxury are mine. There is nothing goes so far as—Government +money.</p> + +<p>Usually on these literally State occasions, I drive up in state, that is +in a hansom. There is only one other day in the year on which I am so +splendid, but that is another beautiful story. It, too, is a day and an +hour too joyous to be approached otherwise than on winged wheels, too +stately to be approached in merely pedestrian fashion. To go on foot to +draw one's pension seems a sort of slight on the great nation that does +one honour, as though a Lord Mayor should make his appearance in the +procession in his office coat.</p> + +<p>So I say it is my custom to go gaily, and withal stately, to meet my +twelve-pound-ten in a hansom. For many reasons the occasion always seems +something of an adventure, and I confess I always feel a little excited +about it—indeed, to tell the truth, a little nervous. As I glide along +in my state barge (which seems a much more<!--Page 100--> proper and impressive image +for a hansom than 'gondola,' with its reminiscences of Earl's Court) I +feel like some fragile country flower torn from its roots, and +bewilderingly hurried along upon the turbid, swollen stream of London +life.</p> + +<p>The stream glides sweetly with a pleasant trotting tinkle of bells by +the green parkside of Piccadilly, and sweet is it to hear the sirens +singing, and to see them combing their gilded locks, on the yellow sands +of Piccadilly Circus—so called, no doubt, from the number of horses and +the skill of their drivers. Here are the whirling pools of pleasure, +merry wheels of laughing waters, where your hansom glides along with a +golden ease—it is only when you enter the First Cataract of the Strand +that you become aware of the far-distant terrible roar of the Falls! +They are yet nearly two miles away, but already, like Niagara, thou +hearest the sound thereof—the fateful sound of that human Niagara, +where all the great rivers of London converge: the dark, strong floods +surging out from the gloomy fastnesses of the East End, the +quick-running streams from the palaces<!--Page 101--> of the West, the East with its +wagons, the West with its hansoms, the four winds with their omnibuses, +the horses and carriages under the earth jetting up their companies of +grimy passengers, the very air busy with a million errands.</p> + +<p>You are in the rapids—metaphorically speaking—as you crawl down +Cheapside; and here where the Bank of England and the Mansion House rise +sheer and awful from, shall we say, this boiling caldron, this 'hell' of +angry meeting waters—Threadneedle Street and Cornhill, Queen Victoria +Street and Cheapside, each 'running,' again metaphorically, 'like a +mill-race'—here in this wild maelstrom of human life and human +conveyances, here is the true 'Niagara in London,' here are the most +wonderful falls in the world—the London Falls.</p> + +<p>'Yes!' I said softly to myself, and I could see the sly sad smile on the +face of the dead poet, at the thought of whose serene wisdom a silence +like snow seemed momentarily to cover up the turmoil—'Yes!' I said +softly, 'there is still the same old crush at the corner of Fenchurch +Street!'</p><!--Page 102--> + +<p>By this time I had disbursed one of my two annual cab-fares, and was +standing a little forlorn at that very corner. It was a March afternoon, +bitter and gloomy; lamps were already popping alight in a desolate way, +and the east wind whistled mournfully through the ribs of the +passers-by. A very unflowerlike man was dejectedly calling out +'daffadowndillies' close by. The sound of the pretty old word, thus +quaintly spoken, brightened the air better than the electric lights +which suddenly shot rows of wintry moonlight along the streets. I bought +a bunch of the poor pinched flowers, and asked the man how he came to +call them 'daffadowndillies.'</p> + +<p>'D'vunshur,' he said, in anything but a Devonshire accent, and then the +east wind took him and he was gone—doubtless to a neighbouring tavern; +and no wonder, poor soul! Flowers certainly fall into strange hands here +in London.</p> + +<p>Well, it was nearing four, and if I wanted a grateful country's +twelve-pound-ten, I must make haste; so presently I found myself in a +great hall, of which I have no clearer<!--Page 103--> impression than that there were +soft little lights all about me, and a soft chime of falling gold, like +the rippling of Pactolus. I have a sort of idea, too, of a great number +of young men with most beautiful moustaches, playing with golden +shovels; and as I thus stood among the soft lights and listened to the +most beautiful sound in the world, I thought that thus must Danæ have +felt as she stood amid the falling shower. But I took care to see that +my twelve sovereigns and a half were right number and weight for all +that.</p> + +<p>Once more in the street, I lingered a while to take a last look at the +Falls. What a masterful alien life it all seemed to me! No single +personality could hope to stand alone amid all that stress of ponderous, +bullying forces. Only public companies, and such great impersonalities, +could hope to hold their own, to swim in such a whirlpool—and even +they, I had heard it whispered, far away in my quiet starlit garret, +sometimes went down. 'How,' I cried, 'would—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'... my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your deeps and heights ...</p> + <p>Rush of suns, and roll of systems, and your fiery clash of meteorites,'</p> +</div><!--Page 104--> + +<p>again quoting poetry. I always quote poetry in the City, as a +protest—moreover, it clears the air.</p> + +<p>The more people buffeted against me the more I felt the crushing sense +of almost cosmic forces. Everybody was so plainly an atom in a public +company, a drop of water in a tyrannous stream of human +energy—companies that cared nothing for their individual atoms, streams +that cared nothing for their component drops; such atoms and drops, for +the most part, to be had for thirty shillings a week. These people about +me seemed no more like individual men and women than individual puffs in +a mighty rushing wind, or the notes in a great scheme of music, are men +and women—to the banker so many pens with ears whereon to perch them, +to the capitalist so many 'hands,' and to the City man generally so many +'helpless pieces of the game he plays' up there in spidery nooks and +corners of the City.</p> + +<p>As I listened to the throbbing of the great human engines in the +buildings about me, a rising and a falling there seemed as of those<!--Page 105--> +great steel-limbed monsters, weird contortionists of metal, that jet up +and down, and writhe and wrestle this way and that, behind the long +glass windows of great water-towers, or toil like Vulcan in the bowels +of mighty ships. An expression of frenzy seems to come up even from the +dumb tossing steel; sometimes it seems to be shaking great knuckled +fists at one and brandishing threatening arms, as it strains and sweats +beneath the lash of the compulsive steam. As one watches it, there seems +something of human agony about its panic-stricken labours, and something +like a sense of pity surprises one—a sense of pity that anything in the +world should have to work like that, even steel, even, as we say, +senseless steel. What, then, of these great human engine-houses! Will +the engines always consent to rise and fall, night and day, like that? +or will there some day be a mighty convulsion, and this blind Samson of +labour pull down the whole engine-house upon his oppressors? Who knows? +These are questions for great politicians and thinkers to decide, not +for a poet, who is too much terrified by such<!--Page 106--> forces to be able calmly +to estimate and prophesy concerning them.</p> + +<p>Yes! if you want to realise Tennyson's picture of 'one poor poet's +scroll' ruling the world, take your poet's scroll down to Fenchurch +Street and try it there. Ah, what a powerless little 'private interest' +seems poetry there, poetry 'whose action is no stronger than a flower.' +In days of peace it ventures even into the morning papers; but, let only +a rumour of war be heard, and it vanishes like a dream on doomsday +morning. A County Council election passeth over it and it is gone.</p> + +<p>Yet it was near this very spot that Keats dug up the buried beauty of +Greece, lying hidden beneath Finsbury Pavement! and in the deserted City +churches great dramatists lie about us. Maybe I have wronged the +City—and at this thought I remembered a little bookshop but a few yards +away, blossoming like a rose right in the heart of the wilderness.</p> + +<p>Here, after all, in spite of all my whirlpools and engine-houses, was +for me the greatest danger in the City. Need I say,<!--Page 107--> therefore, that I +promptly sought it, hovered about it a moment—and entered? How much of +that grateful governmental twelve-pound-ten came out alive, I dare not +tell my dearest friend.</p> + +<p>At all events I came out somehow reassured, more rich in faith. There +was a might of poesy after all. There were words in the little +yellow-leaved garland, nestling like a bird in my hand, that would +outlast the bank yonder, and outlive us all. I held it up. How tiny it +seemed, how frail amid all this stone and iron! A mere flower—a flower +from the seventeenth century—long-lived for a flower! Yes, an +<em>immortelle</em>.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 108--> +<h3><a name="essay11">BROWN ROSES</a></h3> + +<p>'Well, I never thought to see this day, sir,' said Gibbs, with something +like tears in his voice, as he reluctantly plied his scissors upon +Hyacinth Rondel's distinguished curls.</p> + +<p>'Nor I, Gibbs—nor I!' said Rondel sadly, relapsing into silence again, +with his head meekly bent over the white sheet spread to catch his shorn +beauty.</p> + +<p>'To think of the times, sir, that I have dressed your head,' continued +Gibbs, whose grief bore so marked an emphasis, 'and to think that after +to-day ...'</p> + +<p>'But you forget, my dear Gibbs, that I shall now be a more constant +customer than ever!'</p> + +<p>'Ah, sir, but that will be different. It will be mere machine-cutting, +lawn-mowing, steam-reaping, if you understand me; there'll<!--Page 109--> be no +pleasure in it, no artistic pleasure, I mean.'</p> + +<p>'Yes, Gibbs, and you are an artist—I have often told you that.'</p> + +<p>'Ah, sir, but I am coming to the conclusion that it is better not to be +an artist, better to be born just like every one else. In these days one +suffers too much. Why, sir, I haven't in the whole of my business six +heads like yours, and I go on cutting all the rest week in and week out, +just for the pleasure of dressing those six—and now there'll only be +five.'</p> + +<hr> + +<p>'It looks like a winding-sheet,' mused Rondel presently, after a long +silence, broken only by the soft crunch and click of the fatal scissors, +as they feasted on the beautiful brown silk.</p> + +<p>'It do indeed, sir,' said Gibbs, with a shudder, as another little globe +of golden brown rolled down into Rondel's lap.</p> + +<p>'Poor brown roses!' sighed the poet, after another silence; 'they are +just like brown roses, aren't they, Gibbs?'</p> + +<p>'They are indeed, sir!'</p><!--Page 110--> + +<p>'Brown roses scattered over the winding-sheet of one's youth—eh, +Gibbs?'</p> + +<p>'They are indeed, sir.'</p> + +<p>'That's rather a pretty image, don't you think, Gibbs?'</p> + +<p>'Indeed I do, sir!'</p> + +<p>'Well, well, they have bloomed their last; and when Juliet's white hands +come seeking with their silver fingers, white maidens lost in the brown +enchanted forest, there will not be a rose left for her to gather.'</p> + +<p>'Believe me, sir, I would more gladly have cut off your head than your +hair—that is, figuratively speaking,' sobbed the artist-in-hair-oils.</p> + +<p>'Yes, my head would hardly be missed—you are quite right, Gibbs; but my +hair! What will they do without it at first nights and private views? It +was worth five shillings a week to many a poor paragraph-writer. Well, I +must try and make up for it by my beard!'</p> + +<p>'Your beard, sir?' exclaimed Gibbs in horror.</p> + +<p>'Yes, Gibbs; for some years I have been a Nazarene—that is, a Nazarite, +with the top<!--Page 111--> half of my head; now I am going to change about and be a +Nazarite with the lower. The razor has kissed my cheeks and my chin and +the fluted column of my throat for the last time.'</p> + +<p>'You cannot mean it, sir!' said Gibbs, suspending his murderous task a +moment.</p> + +<p>'It's quite true, Gibbs.'</p> + +<p>'Does she wish that too, sir?'</p> + +<p>'Yes, that too.'</p> + +<p>'Well, sir, I have heard of men making sacrifices for their wives, but +of all the cruel....'</p> + +<p>'Please don't, Gibbs. It does no good. And Mrs. Rondel's motive is a +good one.'</p> + +<p>'Of course, sir, I cannot presume—and yet, if it wouldn't be presuming, +I should like to know why you are making this great, I may say this +noble, sacrifice?'</p> + +<p>'Well, Gibbs, we're old friends, and I'll tell you some day, but I +hardly feel up to it to-day.'</p> + +<p>'Of course not, sir, of course not—it's only natural,' said Gibbs +tenderly, while the scissors once more took up the conversation.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 112--> +<h3><a name="essay12">THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR</a></h3> + + +<p>'That is how the donkey tells his love!' I said one day, with intent to +be funny, as the prolonged love-whoop of a distant donkey was heard in +the land.</p> + +<p>'Don't be too ready to laugh at donkeys,' said my friend. 'For,' he +continued, 'even donkeys have their dreams. Perhaps, indeed, the most +beautiful dreams are dreamed by donkeys.'</p> + +<p>'Indeed,' I said, 'and now that I think of it, I remember to have said +that most dreamers are donkeys, though I never expected so scientific a +corroboration of a fleeting jest.'</p> + +<p>Now, my friend is an eminent scientist and poet in one, a serious +combination; and he took my remarks with seriousness at once scientific +and poetic.</p><!--Page 113--> + +<p>'Yes,' he went on, 'that is where you clever people make a mistake. You +think that because a donkey has only two vowel-sounds wherewith to +express his emotions, he has no emotions to express. But let me tell +you, sir ...'</p> + +<p>But here we both burst out laughing—</p> + +<p>'You Golden Ass!' I said,'take a munch of these roses; perhaps they will +restore you.'</p> + +<p>'No,' he resumed, 'I am quite serious. I have for many years past made a +study of donkeys—high-stepping critics call it the study of Human +Nature—however, it's the same thing—and I must say that the more I +study them the more I love them. There is nothing so well worth studying +as the misunderstood, for the very reason that everybody thinks he +understands it. Now, to take another instance, most people think they +have said the last word on a goose when they have called it "a +goose"!—but let me tell you, sir ...'</p> + +<p>But here again we burst out laughing—</p> + +<p>'Dear goose of the golden eggs,' I said, 'pray leave to discourse on +geese to-night<!--Page 114-->—though lovely and pleasant would the discourse +be;—to-night I am all agog for donkeys.'</p> + +<p>'So be it,' said my friend,' and if that be so, I cannot do better than +tell you the story of the donkey that loved a star—keeping for another +day the no less fascinating story of the goose that loved an angel.'</p> + +<p>By this time I was, appropriately, all ears.</p> + +<p>'Well,' he once more began, 'there was once a donkey, quite an intimate +friend of mine—and I have no friend of whom I am prouder—who was +unpractically fond of looking up at the stars. He could go a whole day +without thistles, if night would only bring him stars. Of course he +suffered no little from his fellow-donkeys for this curious passion of +his. They said well that it did not become him, for indeed it was no +little laughable to see him gazing so sentimentally at the remote and +pitiless heavens. Donkeys who belonged to Shakespeare Societies recalled +the fate of Bottom, the donkey who had loved a fairy; but our donkey +paid little heed. There is perhaps only one advantage<!--Page 115--> in being a +donkey—namely, a hide impervious to criticism. In our donkey's case it +was rather a dream that made him forget his hide—a dream that drew up +all the sensitiveness from every part, from hoof, and hide, and ears, so +that all the feeling in his whole body was centred in his eyes and +brain, and those, as we have said, were centred on a star. He took it +for granted that his fellows should sneer and kick-out at him—it was +ever so with genius among the donkeys, and he had very soon grown used +to these attentions of his brethren, which were powerless to withdraw +his gaze from the star he loved. For though he loved all the stars, as +every individual man loves all women, there was one star he loved more +than any other; and standing one midnight among his thistles, he prayed +a prayer, a prayer that some day it might be granted him to carry that +star upon his back—which, he recalled, had been sanctified by the holy +sign—were it but for ever so short a journey. Just to carry it a little +way, and then to die. This to him was a dream beyond the dreams of +donkeys.</p> + +<p>'Now, one night,' continued my friend,<!--Page 116--> taking breath for himself and +me, 'our poor donkey looked up to the sky, and lo! the star was nowhere +to be seen. He had heard it said that stars sometimes fall. Evidently +his star had fallen. Fallen! but what if it had fallen upon the earth? +Being a donkey, the wildest dreams seemed possible to him. And, strange +as it may seem, there came a day when a poet came to his master and +bought our donkey to carry his little child. Now, the very first day he +had her upon his back, the donkey knew that his prayer had been +answered, and that the little swaddled babe he carried was the star he +had prayed for. And, indeed, so it was; for so long as donkeys ask no +more than to fetch and carry for their beloved, they may be sure of +beauty upon their backs. Now, so long as this little girl that was a +star remained a little girl, our donkey was happy. For many pretty years +she would kiss his ugly muzzle and feed his mouth with sugar—and thus +our donkey's thoughts sweetened day by day, till from a natural +pessimist he blossomed into a perfectly absurd optimist, and dreamed the +donkiest of dreams. But, one<!--Page 117--> day, as he carried the girl who was really +a star through the spring lanes, a young man walked beside her, and +though our donkey thought very little of his talk—in fact, felt his +plain "hee-haw" to be worth all its smart chirping and twittering—yet +it evidently pleased the maiden. It included quite a number of +vowel-sounds—though, if the maiden had only known, it didn't mean half +so much as the donkey's plain monotonous declaration.</p> + +<p>'Well, our donkey soon began to realise that his dream was nearing its +end; and, indeed, one day his little mistress came bringing him the +sweetest of kisses, the very best sugar in the very best shops, but for +all that our donkey knew that it meant good-bye. It is the charming +manner of English girls to be at their sweetest when they say good-bye.</p> + +<p>'Our dreamer-donkey went into exile as servant to a woodcutter, and his +life was lenient if dull, for the woodcutter had no sticks to waste upon +his back; and next day his young mistress who was once a star took a +pony for her love, whom some time<!--Page 118--> after she discarded for a talented +hunter, and, one fine day, like many of her sex, she pitched her +affections upon a man—he too being a talented hunter. To their wedding +came all the countryside. And with the countryside came the donkey. He +carried a great bundle of firewood for the servants' hall, and as he +waited outside, gazing up at his old loves the stars, while his master +drank deeper and deeper within, he revolved many thoughts. But he is +only known to have made one remark—in the nature, one may think, of a +grim jest—</p> + +<p>'"After all!" he was heard to say, "she has married a donkey—after +all!"</p> + +<p>'No doubt it was feeble; but then our donkey was growing old and bitter, +and hope deferred had made him a cynic.'</p> + + + + +<!--Page 119--> +<h3><a name="essay13">ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES</a></h3> + +<p>Like all people who live apart from it, the Founder of the Christian +religion was possessed of a profound knowledge of the world. As, +according to the proverb, the woodlander sees nothing of the wood for +its trees, so those who live in the world know nothing of it. They know +its gaudy, glittering surface, its Crystal Palace fireworks, and the +paste-diamonds with which it bedecks itself; they know its music-halls +and its night clubs, its Piccadillys and its politics, its restaurants +and its salons; but of the bad—or good?—heart of it all they know +nothing. In more meanings than one, it takes a saint to catch a sinner; +and Christ certainly knew as well as saved the sinner.</p> + +<p>But none of His precepts show a truer knowledge of life and its +conditions than<!--Page 120--> His commandment that we should love our enemies. He +realised—can we doubt?—that, without enemies, the Church He bade His +followers build could not hope to be established. He knew that the +spiritual fire He strove to kindle would spread but little, unless the +four winds of the world blew against it. Well, indeed, may the Christian +Church love its enemies, for it is they who have made it.</p> + +<p>Indeed, for a man, or a cause, that wants to get on, there is nothing +like a few hearty, zealous enemies. Most of us would never be heard of +if it were not for our enemies. The unsuccessful man counts up his +friends, but the successful man numbers his enemies. A friend of mine +was lamenting, the other day, that he could not find twelve people to +disbelieve in him. He had been seeking them for years, he sighed, and +could not get beyond eleven. But, even so, with only eleven he was a +very successful man. In these kind-hearted days enemies are becoming so +rare that one has to go out of one's way to make them. The true +interpretation, therefore, of the easiest of the commandments is<!--Page 121-->—make +your enemies, and your enemies will make you.</p> + +<p>So soon as the armed men begin to spring up in our fields, we may be +sure that we have not sown in vain.</p> + +<p>Properly understood, an enemy is but a negative embodiment of our +personalities or ideas. He is an involuntary witness to our vitality. +Much as he despises us, greatly as he may injure us, he is none the less +a creature of our making. It was we who put into him the breath of his +malignity, and inspired the activity of his malice. Therefore, with his +very existence so tremendous a tribute, we can afford to smile at his +self-conscious disclaimers of our significance. Though he slay us, we +<em>made</em> him—to 'make an enemy,' is not that the phrase?</p> + +<p>Indeed, the fact that he is our enemy is his one <em>raison d'être</em>. That +alone should make us charitable to him. Live and let live. Without us +our enemy has no occupation, for to hate us is his profession. Think of +his wives and families!</p> + +<p>The friendship of the little for the great is an old-established +profession; there is but<!--Page 122--> one older—namely, the hatred of the little +for the great; and, though it is perhaps less officially recognised, it +is without doubt the more lucrative. It is one of the shortest roads to +fame. Why is the name of Pontius Pilate an uneasy ghost of history? +Think what fame it would have meant to be an enemy of Socrates or +Shakespeare! <em>Blackwood's Magazine</em> and <em>The Quarterly Review</em> only +survive to-day because they once did their best to strangle the genius +of Keats and Tennyson. Two or three journals of our own time, by the +same unfailing method, seek that circulation from posterity which is +denied them in the present.</p> + +<p>This is particularly true in literature, where the literary enemy is as +organised a tradesman as the literary agent. Like the literary agent, he +naturally does his best to secure the biggest men. No doubt the time +will come when the literary cut-throat—shall we call him?—will publish +dainty little books of testimonials from authors, full of effusive +gratitude for the manner in which they have been slashed and bludgeoned +into fame. 'Butcher to Mr. Grant Allen' may then be<!--Page 123-->come a familiar +legend over literary shop-fronts:—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'Ah! did you stab at Shelley's heart</p> + <p class="indent1">With silly sneer and cruel lie?</p> + <p>And Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Keats,</p> + <p class="indent1">To murder did you nobly try?</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>You failed, 'tis true; but what of that?</p> + <p class="indent1">The world remembers still your name—</p> + <p>'Tis fame, <em>for you</em>, to be the cur</p> + <p class="indent1">That barks behind the heels of Fame.'</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>Any one who is fortunate enough to have enemies will know that all this +is far from being fanciful. If one's enemies have any other <em>raison +d'être</em> beyond the fact of their being our enemies—what is it? They are +neither beautiful nor clever, wise nor good, famous nor, indeed, +passably distinguished. Were they any of these, they would not have +taken to so humble a means of getting their living. Instead of being our +enemies, they could then have afforded to employ enemies on their own +account.</p> + +<p>Who, indeed, are our enemies? Broadly speaking, they are all those +people who lack what we possess.</p> + +<p>If you are rich, every poor man is necessarily your enemy. If you are +beautiful, the<!--Page 124--> great democracy of the plain and ugly will mock you in +the streets. It will be the same with everything you possess. The +brainless will never forgive you for possessing brains, the weak will +hate you for your strength, and the evil for your good heart. If you can +write, all the bad writers are at once your foes. If you can paint, the +bad painters will talk you down. But more than any talent or charm you +may possess, the pearl of price for which you will be most bitterly +hated will be your success. You can be the most wonderful person that +ever existed, so long as you don't succeed, and nobody will mind. 'It is +the sunshine,' says some one, 'that brings out the adder.' So powerful, +indeed, is success that it has been known to turn a friend into a foe. +Those, then, who wish to engage a few trusty enemies out of place need +only advertise among the unsuccessful.</p> + +<p><em>P.S.</em>—For one service we should be particularly thankful to our +enemies—they save us so much in stimulants. Their unbelief so helps our +belief, their negatives make us so positive.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 125--> +<h3><a name="essay14">THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE</a></h3> + +<p>It is a curious truth that, whereas in every other art deliberate choice +of method and careful calculation of effect are expected from the +artist, in the greatest and most difficult art of all, the art of life, +this is not so. In literature, painting, or sculpture you first evolve +your conception, and then, after long study of it, as it glows and +shimmers in your imagination, you set about the reverent selection of +that form which shall be its most truthful incarnation, in words, in +paint, in marble. Now life, as has been said many times, is an art too. +Sententious morality from time past has told us that we are each given a +part to play, evidently implying, with involuntary cynicism, that the +art of life is—the art of acting.</p> + +<p>As with the actor, we are each given a<!--Page 126--> certain dramatic conception for +the expression of which we have precisely the same artistic +materials—namely, our own bodies, sometimes including heart and brains. +One has often heard the complaint of a certain actor that he acts +himself. On the metaphorical stage of life the complaint and the implied +demand are just the reverse. How much more interesting life would be if +only more people had the courage and skill to act themselves, instead of +abjectly understudying some one else! Of course, there are supers on the +stage of life as on the real stage. It is proper that these should dress +and speak and think alike. These one courteously excepts from the +generalisation that the composer of the play, as Marcus Aurelius calls +him, has given each of us a certain part to play—that part simply +oneself: a part, need one say, by no means as easy as it seems; a part +most difficult to study, and requiring daily rehearsal. So difficult is +it, indeed, that most people throw up the part, and join the ranks of +the supers—who, curiously enough, are paid much more handsomely than +the principals. They enter one<!--Page 127--> of the learned or idle professions, join +the army or take to trade, and so speedily rid themselves of the irksome +necessity of being anything more individual than 'the learned counsel,' +'the learned judge,' 'my lord bishop,' or 'the colonel,' names +impersonal in application as the dignity of 'Pharaoh,' whereof the name +and not the man was alone important. Henceforth they are the Church, the +Law, the Army, the City, or that vaguer profession Society. Entering one +of these, they become as lost to the really living world as the monk who +voluntarily surrenders all will and character of his own at the +threshold of his monastery: bricks in a prison wall, privates in the +line, peas in a row. But, as I say, these are the parts that pay. For +playing the others, indeed, you are not paid, but expected to +pay—dearly.</p> + +<p>It is full time we turned to those on whom falls the burden of those +real parts. Such, when quite young, if they be conscientious artists, +will carefully consider themselves, their gifts and possibilities, study +to discover their artistic <em>raison d'être</em> and how best to<!--Page 128--> fulfil it. +He or she will say: Here am I, a creature of great gifts and exquisite +sensibilities, drawn by great dreams, and vibrating to great emotions; +yet this potent and exquisite self is as yet, I know, but unwrought +material of the perfect work of art it is intended that I should make of +it—but the marble wherefrom, with patient chisel, I must liberate the +perfect and triumphant ME! As a poet listening with trembling ear to the +voice of his inspiration, so I tremulously ask myself—what is the +divine conception that is to become embodied in me, what is the divine +meaning of ME? How best shall I express it in look, in word, in deed, +till my outer self becomes the truthful symbol of my inner self—till, +in fact, I have successfully placed the best of myself on the outside +—for others besides myself to see, and know and love?</p> + +<p>What is my part, and how am I to play it?</p> + +<p>Returning to the latter image, there are two difficulties that beset one +in playing a part on the stage of life, right at the outset. You are not +allowed to 'look' it, or 'dress' it! What would an actor think, who, +asked to<!--Page 129--> play Hamlet, found that he would be expected to play it +without make-up and in nineteenth-century costume? Yet many of us are in +a like dilemma with similar parts. Actors and audience must all wear the +same drab clothes and the same immobile expression. It is in vain you +protest that you do not really belong to this absurd and vulgar +nineteenth century, that you have been spirited into it by a cruel +mistake, that you really belong to mediæval Florence, to Elizabethan, +Caroline, or at latest Queen Anne England, and that you would like to be +allowed to look and dress as like it as possible. It is no use; if you +dare to look or dress like anything but your own tradesmen—and other +critics—it is at your peril. If you are beautiful, you are expected to +disguise a fact that is an open insult to every other person you look +at; and you must, as a general rule, never look, wear, feel, or say what +everybody else is not also looking, wearing, feeling, or saying.</p> + +<p>Thus you get some hint of the difficulty of playing the part of yourself +on this stage of life.</p><!--Page 130--> + +<p>In these matters of dressing and looking your part musicians seem +granted an immunity denied to all their fellow-artists. Perhaps it is +taken for granted that the musician is a fool—the British public is so +intuitive. Yet it takes the same view of the poet, without allowing him +a like immunity. And, by the way, what a fine conception of his part had +Tennyson—of the dignity, the mystery, the picturesqueness of it! +Tennyson would have felt it an artistic crime to look like his +publisher; yet what poet is there left us to-day half so +distinguished-looking as his publisher?</p> + +<p>Indeed, curiously enough, among no set of men does the desire to look as +commonplace as the rest of the world seem so strong as among men of +letters. Perhaps it is out of consideration for the rest of the world; +but, whatever the reason, immobility of expression and general +mediocrity of style are more characteristic of them at present than even +the military.</p> + +<p>It is surely a strange paradox that we should pride ourselves on +schooling to foolish insensibility, on eliminating from them every<!--Page 131--> mark +of individual character, the faces that were intended subtly and +eloquently to image our moods—to look glad when we are glad, sorry when +we are sorry, angry in anger, and lovely in love.</p> + +<p>The impassivity of the modern young man is indeed a weird and wonderful +thing. Is it a mark to hide from us the appalling sins he none the less +openly affects? Is it meant to conceal that once in his life he paid a +wild visit to 'The Empire'—by kind indulgence of the County Council? +that he once chucked a barmaid under the chin, that he once nearly got +drunk, that he once spoke to a young lady he did not know—and then ran +away?</p> + +<p>One sighs for the young men of the days of Gautier and Hugo, the young +men with red waistcoats who made asses of themselves at first nights and +on the barricades, young men with romance in their hearts and passion in +their blood, fearlessly sentimental and picturesquely everything.</p> + +<p>The lover then was not ashamed that you should catch radiant glimpses of +his love in his eyes—nay! if you smiled kindly on him,<!--Page 132--> he would take +you by the arm and insist on your breaking a bottle with him in honour +of his mistress. Joy and sorrow then wore their appropriate colours, +according, so to say, to the natural sumptuary laws of the emotions—one +of which is that the right place for the heart is the sleeve.</p> + +<p>It is the duty of those who are great, or to whom great destinies of joy +or sorrow have been dealt, to wear their distinctions for the world to +see. It is good for the world, which in its crude way indicates the +rudiments of this dramatic art of life, when it decrees that the bride +shall walk radiant in orange blossom, and the mourner sadden our streets +with black—symbols ever passing before us of the moving vicissitudes of +life.</p> + +<p>The mourner cannot always be sad, or the bride merry; the bride indeed +sometimes weeps at the altar, and the mourner laughs a savage cynical +laugh at the grave; but for those moments in which they awhile forget +parts more important than themselves, the tailor and the dressmaker have +provided symbolical garments, just as military decorations have been +provided for heroes<!--Page 133--> without the gift of looking heroic, and sacerdotal +vestments for the priest, who, like a policeman, is not always on duty.</p> + +<p>In playing his part the conscientious artist in life, like any other +actor, must often seem to feel more than he really feels at a given +moment, say more than he means. In this he is far from being +insincere—though he must make up his mind to be accused daily of +insincerity and affectation. On the contrary, it will be his very +sincerity that necessitates his make-believe. With his great part ever +before him in its inspiring completeness, he must be careful to allow no +merely personal accident of momentary feeling or action to jeopardise +the general effect. There are moments, for example, when a really true +lover, owing to such masterful natural facts as indigestion, a cold, or +extreme sleepiness, is unable to feel all that he knows he really feels. +To 'tell the truth,' as it is called, under such circumstances, would +simply be a most dangerous form of lying. There is no duty we owe to +truth more imperative than that of lying stoutly on occasion—for, +indeed, there is often no other way of con<!--Page 134-->veying the whole truth than +by telling the part-lie.</p> + +<p>A watchful sincerity to our great conception of ourselves is the first +and last condition, of our creating that finest work of art—a +personality; for a personality, like a poet, is not only born but made.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 135--> +<h3><a name="essay15">THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX</a></h3> + +<p>In an essay on Vauvenargues Mr. John Morley speaks with characteristic +causticity of those epigrammatists 'who persist in thinking of man and +woman as two different species,' and who make verbal capital out of the +fancied distinction in the form of smart epigrams beginning '<em>Les +femmes</em>.' It is one of Shakespeare's cardinal characteristics that <em>he +understood woman</em>. Mr. Meredith's fame as a novelist is largely due to +the fact that he too <em>understands women</em>. The one spot on the sun of +Robert Louis Stevenson's fame, so we are told, is that he could <em>never +draw a woman</em>. His capacity for drawing men counted for nothing, +apparently, beside this failure. Evidently the Sphinx has not the face +of a woman for nothing. That is why no one has read her riddle, +translated<!--Page 136--> her mystic smile. Yet many people smile mysteriously, +without any profound meanings behind their smile, with no other reason +than a desire to mystify. Perhaps the Sphinx smiles to herself just for +the fun of seeing us take her smile so seriously. And surely women must +so smile as they hear their psychology so gravely discussed. Of course, +the superstition is invaluable to them, and it is only natural that they +should make the most of it. Man is supposed to be a complete ignoramus +in regard to all the specialised female 'departments'—from the supreme +mystery of the female heart to the humble domestic mysteries of a +household. Similarly, men are supposed to have no taste in women's +dress, yet for whom do women clothe themselves in the rainbow and the +sea-foam, if not to please men? And was not the high-priest of that +delicious and fascinating mystery a man—if it be proper to call the +late M. Worth a man,—as the best cooks are men, and the best waiters?</p> + +<p>It would seem to be assumed from all this mystification that men are +beings clear as daylight, both to themselves and to women.<!--Page 1137--> Poor, +simple, manageable souls, their wants are easily satisfied, their +psychology—which, it is implied, differs little from their +physiology—long since mapped out.</p> + +<p>It may be so, but it is the opinion of some that men's simplicity is no +less a fiction than women's mysterious complexity, and that human +character is made up of much the same qualities in men and women, +irrespective of a merely rudimentary sexual distinction, which has, of +course, its proper importance, and which the present writer would be the +last to wish away. From that quaint distinction of sex springs, of +course, all that makes life in the smallest degree worth living, from +great religions to tiny flowers. Love and beauty and poetry; +Shakespeare's plays, Burne-Jones's pictures, and Wagner's operas—all +such moving expressions of human life, as science has shown us, spring +from the all-important fact that 'male and female created He them.'</p> + +<p>This everybody knows, and few are fools enough to deny. Many people, +however, confuse this organic distinction of sex with its time-worn +conventional symbols; just<!--Page 138--> as religion is commonly confused with its +external rites and ceremonies. The comparison naturally continues itself +further; for, as in religion, so soon as some traditional garment of the +faith has become outworn or otherwise unsuitable, and the proposal is +made to dispense with or substitute it, an outcry immediately is raised +that religion itself is in danger—so with sex, no sooner does one or +the other sex propose to discard its arbitrary conventional +characteristics, or to supplement them by others borrowed from its +fellow-sex, than an outcry immediately is raised that sex itself is in +danger.</p> + +<p>Sex—the most potent force in the universe—in danger because women +wear knickerbockers instead of petticoats, or military men take to +corsets and cosmetics!</p> + +<p>That parallel with religion may be pursued profitably one step further. +In religion, the conventional test of your faith is not how you live, +not in your kindness of heart or purity of mind, but how you believe—in +the Trinity, in the Atonement; and do you turn to the East during the +recital of the Apostles' Creed? These and such, as every<!--Page 139--> one knows, are +the vital matters of religion. And it is even so with sex. You are not +asked for the realities of manliness or womanliness, but for the +shadows, the arbitrary externalities, the fashions of which change from +generation to generation.</p> + +<p>To be truly womanly you must never wear your hair short; to be truly +manly you must never wear it long. To be truly womanly you must dress as +daintily as possible, however uncomfortably; to be truly manly you must +wear the most hideous gear ever invented by the servility of tailors—a +strange succession of cylinders from head to heel; cylinder on head, +cylinder round your body, cylinders on arms and cylinders on legs. To be +truly womanly you must be shrinking and clinging in manner and trivial +in conversation; you must have no ideas, and rejoice that you wish for +none; you must thank Heaven that you have never ridden a bicycle or +smoked a cigarette; and you must be prepared to do a thousand other +absurd and ridiculous things. To be truly manly you must be and do the +opposite of all these things, with this exception—that with you<!--Page 140--> the +possession of ideas is optional. The finest specimens of British manhood +are without ideas; but that, I say, is, generally speaking, a matter for +yourself. It is indeed the only matter in which you have any choice. +More important matters, such as the cut of your clothes and hair, the +shape of your face, the length of your moustache and the pattern of your +cane—all these are very properly regulated for you by laws of fashion, +which you could never dream of breaking. You may break every moral law +there is—or rather, was—and still remain a man. You may be a bully, a +cad, a coward and a fool, in the poor heart and brains of you; but so +long as you wear the mock regimentals of contemporary manhood, and are +above all things plain and undistinguished enough, your reputation for +manhood will be secure. There is nothing so dangerous to a reputation +for manhood as brains or beauty.</p> + +<p>In short, to be a true woman you have only to be pretty and an idiot, +and to be a true man you have only to be brutal and a fool.</p> + +<p>From these misconceptions of manliness<!--Page 141--> and womanliness, these +superstitions of sex, many curious confusions have come about. They so +to say, professional differentiation between the sexes had at one time +gone so far that men were credited with the entire monopoly of a certain +set of human qualities, and women with the monopoly of a certain other +set of human qualities; yet every one of these are qualities which one +would have thought were proper to, and necessary for, all human beings +alike, male and female.</p> + +<p>In a dictionary of a date (1856) when everything on earth and in heaven +was settled and written in penny cyclopædias and books of deportment, I +find these delicious definitions—</p> + +<p><em>Manly</em>: becoming a man; firm; brave; undaunted; dignified; noble; +stately; not boyish or womanish.</p> + +<p><em>Womanly</em>: becoming a woman; feminine; as <em>womanly</em> behaviour.</p> + +<p>Under <em>Woman</em> we find the adjectives—soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, +kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender, timorous, modest.</p> + +<p>Who can doubt that the dictionary maker defined and distributed his +adjectives aright<!--Page 142--> for the year 1856? Since then, however, many alarming +heresies have taken root in our land, and some are heard to declare that +both these sets of adjectives apply to men and women alike, and are, in +fact, necessities of any decent human outfit. Otherwise the conclusion +is obvious, that no one desirous of the adjective 'manly' must ever +be—soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous, or modest; and no one desirous of the adjective +'womanly' be—firm, brave, undaunted, dignified, noble, or stately.</p> + +<p>But surely the essentials of 'manliness' and 'womanliness' belong to man +and woman alike—the externals are purely artistic considerations, and +subject to the vagaries of fashion. In art no one would think of +allowing fashion any serious artistic opinion. It is usually the art +which is out of fashion that is most truly art. Similarly, fashions in +manliness or womanliness have nothing to do with real manliness or +womanliness. Moreover, the adjectives 'manly' or 'womanly,' applied to +works of art, or the artistic surfaces of men and women, are<!--Page 143--> +irrelevant—that is to say, impertinent. You have no right to ask a +poem or a picture to look manly or womanly, any more than you have any +right to ask a man or a woman to look manly or womanly. There is no such +thing as looking manly or womanly. There is looking beautiful or ugly, +distinguished or commonplace, individual or insignificant. The one law +of externals is beauty in all its various manifestations. To ask the sex +of a beautiful person is as absurd as it would be to ask the publisher +the sex of a beautiful book. Such questions are for midwives and +doctors.</p> + +<p>It was once the fashion for heroes to shed tears on the smallest +occasion, and it does not appear that they fought the worse for it; some +of the firmest, bravest, most undaunted, most dignified, most noble, +most stately human beings have been women; as some of the softest, +mildest, most pitiful and flexible, most kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous and modest human beings have been men. Indeed, some of +the bravest men that ever trod this planet have worn corsets, and it +needs more courage<!--Page 144--> nowadays for a man to wear his hair long than to +machine-gun a whole African nation. Moreover, quite the nicest women one +knows ride bicycles—in the rational costume.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 145--> +<h3><a name="essay16">THE FALLACY OF A NATION</a></h3> + +<p>It is, I am given to understand, a familiar axiom of mathematics that no +number of ciphers placed in front of significant units, or tens or +hundreds of units, adds in the smallest degree to the numerical value of +those units. The figure one becomes of no more importance however many +noughts are marshalled in front of it—though, indeed, in the +mathematics of human nature this is not so. Is not a man or woman +considered great in proportion to the number of ciphers that walk in +front of him, from a humble brace of domestics to guards of honour and +imperial armies?</p> + +<p>A parallel profound truth of mathematics is that a nought, however many +times it be multiplied, remains nought; but again we find the reverse +obtain in the mathematics of human nature. One might have supposed<!--Page 146--> that +the result of one nobody multiplied even fifty million times would still +be nobody. However, such is far from being the case. Fifty million +nobodies make—a nation. Of course, there is no need for so many. I am +reckoning as a British subject, and speak of fifty million merely as an +illustration of the general fact that it is the multiplication of +nobodies that makes a nation. 'Increase and multiply' was, it will be +remembered, the recipe for the Jewish nation.</p> + +<p>Nobodies of the same colour, tongue, and prejudices have but to +congregate together in a crowd sufficiently big for other similar crowds +to recognise them, and then they are given a name of their own, and +become recognised as a nation—one of the 'Great Powers.'</p> + +<p>Beyond those differences in colour, tongue, and prejudices there is +really no difference between the component units—or rather ciphers—of +all these several national crowds. You have seen a procession of various +trades-unions filing toward Hyde Park, each section with its particular +banner with a strange device: 'The United Guild of Paperhangers,'<!--Page 147--> 'The +Ancient Order of Plumbers,' and so on. And you may have marvelled to +notice how alike the members of the various carefully differentiated +companies were. So to say, they each and all might have been plumbers; +and you couldn't help feeling that it wouldn't have mattered much if +some of the paper-hangers had by mistake got walking amongst the +plumbers, or <em>vice versa</em>.</p> + +<p>So the great trades-unions of the world file past, one with the odd word +'Russia' on its banner; another boasting itself 'Germany'—this with a +particularly bumptious and self-important young man walking backward in +front of it, in the manner of a Salvation Army captain, and imperiously +waving an iron wand; still another 'nation' calling itself 'France'; and +yet another boasting the biggest brass band, and called 'England.' Other +smaller bodies of nobodies, that is, smaller nations, file past with +humbler tread—though there is really no need for their doing so. For, +as we have said, they are in every particular like to those haughtier +nations who take precedence of them. In fact, one or two of them, such +as Norway<!--Page 148--> and Denmark—were a truer system of human mathematics to +obtain—are really of more importance than the so-called greater +nations, in that among their nobodies they include a larger percentage +of intellectual somebodies.</p> + +<p>Remembering that percentage of wise men, the formula of a nation were +perhaps more truly stated in our first mathematical image. The wise men +in a nation are as the units with the noughts in front of them. And when +I say wise men I do not, indeed, mean merely the literary men or the +artists, but all those somebodies with some real force of character, +people with brains and hearts, fighters and lovers, saints and thinkers, +and the patient, industrious workers. Such, if you consider, are really +no integral part of the nation among which they are cast. They have no +part in what are grandiloquently called national interests—war, +politics, and horse-racing to wit. A change of Government leaves them as +unmoved as an election for the board of guardians. They would as soon +think of entering Parliament or the County Council, as of yearning to +manage the gasworks, or to go about<!--Page 149--> with one of those carts bearing the +legend 'Aldermen and Burgesses of the City of London' conspicuously upon +its front. Their main concern in political changes is the rise and fall +of the income-tax, and, be the Cabinet Tory or Liberal, their rate +papers come in for the same amount. It is likely that national changes +would affect them but little more. What more would a foreign invasion +mean than that we should pay our taxes to French, Russian, or German +officials, instead of to English ones? French and Italians do our +cooking, Germans manage our music, Jews control our money markets; +surely it would make little difference to us for France, Russia, or +Germany to undertake our government. The worst of being conquered by +Russia would be the necessity of learning Russian; whereas a little +rubbing up of our French would make us comfortable with France. Besides, +to be conquered by France would save us crossing the Channel to Paris, +and then we might hope for cafés in Regent Street, and an emancipated +literature. As a matter of fact, so-called national interests are merely +certain<!--Page 150--> private interests on a large scale, the private interests of +financiers, ambitious politicians, soldiers, and great merchants. +Broadly speaking, there are no rival nations—there are rival markets; +and it is its Board of Trade and its Stock Exchange rather than its +Houses of Parliament that virtually govern a country. Thus one seaport +goes down and another comes up, industries forsake one country to bless +another, the military and naval strengths of nations fluctuate this way +and that; and to those whom these changes affect they are undoubtedly +important matters—the great capitalist, the soldier, and the +politician; but to the quiet man at home with his wife, his children, +his books, and his flowers, to the artist busied with brave translunary +matters, to the saint with his eyes filled with 'the white radiance of +eternity,' to the shepherd on the hillside, the milkmaid in love, or the +angler at his sport—what are these pompous commotions, these busy, +bustling mimicries of reality? England will be just as good to live in +though men some day call her France. Let the big busybodies divide her +amongst them<!--Page 151--> as they like, so that they leave one alone with one's fair +share of the sky and the grass, and an occasional, not too vociferous, +nightingale.</p> + +<p>The reader will perhaps forgive the hackneyed references to Sir Thomas +Browne peacefully writing his <em>Religio Medici</em> amid all the commotions +of the Civil War, and to Gautier calmly correcting the proofs of his new +poems during the siege of Paris. The milkman goes his rounds amid the +crash of empires. It is not his business to fight. His business is to +distribute his milk—as much after half-past seven as may be +inconvenient. Similarly, the business of the thinker is with his +thought, the poet with his poetry. It is the business of politicians to +make national quarrels, and the business of the soldier to fight them. +But as for the poet—let him correct his proofs, or beware the printer.</p> + +<p>The idea, then, of a nation is a grandiloquent fallacy in the interests +of commerce and ambition, political and military. All the great and +good, clever and charming people belong to one secret nation, for which +there is no name unless it be the Chosen<!--Page 152--> People. These are the lost +tribes of love, art, and religion, lost and swamped amid alien peoples, +but ever dreaming of a time when they shall meet once more in Jerusalem.</p> + +<p>Yet though they are thus aliens, taking and wishing no part in the +organisation of the 'nations' among which they dwell, this does not +prevent those nations taking part and credit in them. And whenever a +brave soldier wins a battle, or an intrepid traveller discovers a new +land, his particular nation flatters itself, as though it—the million +nobodies—had done it. With a profound indifference to, indeed an active +dislike of, art and poetry, there is nothing on which a nation prides +itself so much as upon its artists and poets, whom, invariably, it +starves, neglects, and even insults, as long as it is not too silly to +do so.</p> + +<p>Thus the average Englishman talks of Shakespeare—as though he himself +had written the plays; of India—as though he himself had conquered it. +And thus grow up such fictions as 'national greatness' and 'public +opinion.'</p> + +<p>For what is 'national greatness' but the<!--Page 153--> glory reflected from the +memories of a few great individuals? and what is 'public opinion' but +the blustering echoes of the opinion of a few clever young men on the +morning papers?</p> + +<p>For how can people in themselves little become great by merely +congregating into a crowd, however large? And surely fools do not become +wise, or worth listening to, merely by the fact of their banding +together.</p> + +<p>A 'public opinion' on any matter except football, prize-fighting, and +perhaps cricket, is merely ridiculous—by whatever brutal physical +powers it may be enforced—ridiculous as a town council's opinion upon +art; and a nation is merely a big fool with an army.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 154--> +<h3><a name="essay17">THE GREATNESS OF MAN</a></h3> + +<p>Ignorant, as I inevitably am, dear reader, of your intellectual and +spiritual upbringing, I can hardly guess whether the title of my article +will impress you as a platitude or as a paradox. Goodness knows, some +men and women think quite enough of themselves as it is, and, from a +certain momentary point of view, there may seem little occasion indeed +to remind man of his importance.</p> + +<p>I refer to your intellectual and spiritual upbringing, because I venture +to wonder if it was in the least like my own. I was brought up, I +rejoice to say, in the bosom of an orthodox Puritan family. I was led +and driven to believe that man was everybody, and that God was +somebody—and that not merely the Sabbath, but the whole universe, was +made for man: that the stars were his bedtime candles, and that the sun<!--Page 155--> +arose to ensure his catching the 8.37 of a morning.</p> + +<p>On this belief I acted for many years. Every young man believes that +there is no god but God, and that he is born to be His prophet—though +perhaps that belief is not so common nowadays. I am speaking of many +years ago.</p> + +<p>Science, however, has long since changed all that. Those terrible Muses, +geology, astronomy, and particularly biology, have reduced man to a +humility which, if in some degree salutary, becomes in its excess highly +dangerous. Why should one maggot in this great cheese of the world take +itself more seriously than others? Why dream mightily and do bravely if +we are but a little higher than the beasts that perish? Nature cares +nothing about us, and her giant forces laugh at our fancies. The world +has no such meaning as we thought. Poets and saints, deluded by +unhealthy imaginations, have misled us, and it is quite likely that the +wild waves are really saying nothing more important than 'Beecham's +Pills.'</p> + +<p>'Give us a definition of life,' I asked a<!--Page 156--> certain famous scientist and +philosopher whom I am privileged to call my friend.</p> + +<p>'Nothing easier!' he gaily replied. 'Life is a product of solar energy, +falling upon the carbon compounds, on the outer crust of a particular +planet, in a particular corner of the solar system.'</p> + +<p>'And that,' I said, 'really satisfies you as a definition of life—of +all the wistful wonder of the world!' And as I spoke I thought of Moses +with mystically shining face upon the Mount of the Law, of Ezekiel rapt +in his divine fancies, of Socrates drinking his cup of hemlock, of +Christ's agony in the garden; the golden faces of the great of the world +passed as in a dream before me,—soldiers, saints, poets, and lovers. I +thought of Horatius on the bridge, of the holy and gentle soul of St. +Francis, of Chatterton in his splendid despair, and in fancy I went with +the awestruck citizens of Verona to reverently gaze at the bodies of two +young lovers who had counted the world well lost if they might only +leave it together.</p> + +<p>The carbon compounds!</p> + +<p>I took down <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>, listened<!--Page 157--> to its passionate spheral +music, and the carbon compounds have never troubled me again.</p> + +<p>Love laughs at the carbon compounds, and a great book, a noble act, a +beautiful face, make nonsense of such cheap formula for the mystery of +human life.</p> + +<p>Yet this parable of the carbon compounds is a fair sample of all that +science can tell us when we come to ultimates. We go away from its +oracles with a mouthful of sounding words, which may seem very +impressive till we examine their emptiness. What, for example, is all +this rigmarole about solar energy and the carbon compounds but a more +pompous way of putting the old scriptural statement that man was made of +the dust of the ground? To say that God took a handful of dust and +breathed upon it and it became man, is no harder to realise than that +solar rays falling upon that dust should produce humanity and all the +various phantasmagoria of life. If anything, it is more explanatory. It +leaves us with an inspiring mystery for explanation.</p> + +<p>In saying this, I do not forget our debt to<!--Page 158--> science. It has done much +in clearing our minds of cant, in popularising more systematic thinking, +and in instituting sounder methods of observation. In some directions it +has deepened our sense of wonder. It has broadened our conception of the +universe, though I fear it has been at the expense of narrowing our +conception of man. With Hamlet it contemptuously says, 'What is this +quintessence of dust!' It is so impressed by the mileage and tonnage of +the universe, so abased before the stupendous measurements of the +cosmos, the appalling infinity and eternity of its space and time, that +it forgets the marvel of the mind that can grasp all these conceptions, +forgets, too, that, big and bullying as the forces of nature may be, man +has been able in a large measure to control, indeed to domesticate, +them. Surely the original fact of lightning is little more marvellous +than the power of man to turn it into his errand-boy or his horse, to +light his rooms with it, and imprison it in pennyworths, like the genius +in the bottle, in the underground railway. Mere size seems unimpressive +when we contem<!--Page 159-->plate such an extreme of littleness as say the ant, that +pin-point of a personality, that mere speck of being, yet including +within its infinitesimal proportions a clever, busy brain, a soldier, a +politician, and a merchant. That such and so many faculties should have +room to operate within that tiny body—there is a marvel before which, +it seems to me, the billions of miles that keep us from falling into the +jaws of the sun, and the tonnage of Jupiter, are comparatively +insignificant and conceivable.</p> + +<p>No, we must not allow ourselves to be frightened by the mere size and +weight of the universe, or be depressed because our immediate genealogy +is not considered aristocratic. Perhaps, after all, we are sons of God, +and as Mr. Meredith finely puts it, our life here may still be</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'... a little holding</p> + <p>To do a mighty service.'</p> +</div> + +<p>'Things of a day!' exclaims Pindar. 'What is a man? What is a man not?'</p> + +<p>It is good for our Nebuchadnezzars, the kings of the world, and +conceited, successful people generally, to measure themselves<!--Page 160--> against +the great powers of the universe, to humble their pride by contemplation +of the fixed stars; but a too humble attitude toward the Infinite, a too +constant pondering upon eternity, is not good for us, unless, so to say, +we can live with them as friends, with the inspiring feeling that, +little as we may seem, there is that in us which is no less infinite, no +less cosmic, and that our passions and dreams have, as Mr. William +Watson puts it, 'a relish of eternity.'</p> + +<p>Readers of Amiel's 'Journal' will know what a sterilising, petrifying +influence his trance-like contemplation of the Infinite had upon his +life. Amiel was simply hypnotised by the universe, as a man may +hypnotise himself by gazing fixedly at a star.</p> + +<p>Mr. Pater, you will remember, has a remarkable study of a similar +temperament in his <em>Imaginary Portraits</em>. Sebastian van Storck, like +Amiel, had become hypnotised by the Infinite. It paralysed in him all +impulse or power 'to be or do any limited thing.'</p> + +<p>'For Sebastian, at least,' we read, 'the world and the individual alike +had been<!--Page 161--> divested of all effective purpose. The most vivid of finite +objects, the dramatic episodes of Dutch history, the brilliant +personalities which had found their parts to play in them, that golden +art, surrounding one with an ideal world, beyond which the real world +was discernible indeed, but etherealised by the medium through which it +came to one; all this, for most men so powerful a link to existence, +only set him on the thought of escape—into a formless and nameless +infinite world, evenly grey.... Actually proud, at times, of his +curious, well-reasoned nihilism, he could but regard what is called the +business of life as no better than a trifling and wearisome delay.'</p> + +<p>This mood, once confined to a few mystics is likely to become a common +one, is already, one imagines, far from infrequent—so the increase of +suicide would lead us to suppose. Robbed of his hope of a glorious +immortality, stripped of his spiritual significance, bullied and +belittled by science on every hand, man not unnaturally begins to feel +that it is no use taking his life seriously, that, in fact, it betrays a +lack of humour to do so. While<!--Page 162--> he was a supernatural being, a son of +God, it was with him a case of <em>noblesse oblige</em>; and while he is happy +and comfortable he doesn't mind giving up the riddle of the world. It is +only the unhappy that ever really think. But what is he to do when agony +and despair come upon him, when all that made his life worth living is +taken from him? How is he to sustain himself? where shall he look for +his strength or his hope? He looks up at the sky full of stars, but he +is told that God is not there, that the city of God is long since a +ruin, and that owls hoot to each other across its moss-grown fanes and +battlements; he looks down on the earth, full of graves, a vast +necropolis of once radiant dreams, with the living for its +phantoms,—and there is no comfort anywhere. Happy is he if some simple +human duty be at hand, which he may go on doing blindly and +dumbly—till, perhaps, the light come again. It is difficult to offer +comfort to such a one. Comfort is cheap, and we know nothing. When life +holds nothing for our love and delight, it is difficult to explain why +we should go on living it—except on<!--Page 163--> the assumption that it matters, +that it is, in some mystical way, supremely important, how we live it, +and what we make of those joys and sorrows which, say some, are but +meant as mystical trials and tests.</p> + +<p>Sebastian van Storck refused 'to be or do any limited thing,' but the +answer to his mysticism is to be found in a finer mysticism, that which +says that there is no limited act or thing, but that the significance, +as well as the pathos, of eternity is in our smallest joys and sorrows, +as in our most everyday transactions, and the greatness of God incarnate +in His humblest child.</p> + +<p>This, the old doctrine of the microcosm, seems in certain moments, +moments one would wish to say, of divination, strangely plain and +clear—when, in Blake's words, it seems so easy to</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'... see a world in a grain of sand,</p> + <p class="indent1">And a heaven in a wild flower;</p> + <p>Hold infinity in the palm of your hand</p> + <p class="indent1">And Eternity in an hour.'</p> +</div> + +<p>Perhaps in the street, an effect of light, a passing face, yes, even the +plaintive grind of a street organ, some such everyday circum<!--Page 164-->stance, +affects you suddenly in quite a strange way. It has become +universalised. It is no longer a detail of the Strand, but a cryptic +symbol of human life. It has been transfigured into a thing of infinite +pathos and infinite beauty, and, sad or glad, brings to you an +inexplicable sense of peace, an unshakable conviction that man is a +spirit, that his life is indeed of supreme and lovely significance, and +that his destiny is secure and blessed.</p> + +<p>Matthew Arnold, ever sensitive to such spiritual states, has described +these trance-like visitations in 'The Buried Life'—</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'Only, but this is rare—</p> + <p>When a beloved hand is laid in ours,</p> + <p>When, jaded with the rush and glare</p> + <p>Of the interminable hours,</p> + <p>Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,</p> + <p>When our world-deafen'd ear</p> + <p>Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd—</p> + <p>A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,</p> + <p>And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again:</p> + <p>The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,</p> + <p>And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.</p> + <p>A man becomes aware of his life's flow,</p> + <p>And hears its winding murmur; and he sees</p> + <p>The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.</p> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <p>'And there arrives a lull in the hot race</p> + <p>Wherein he doth for ever chase</p><!--Page 165--> + <p>That flying and elusive shadow, rest.</p> + <p>An air of coolness plays upon his face,</p> + <p>And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.</p> + <p>And then he thinks he knows</p> + <p>The hills where his life rose,</p> + <p>And the sea where it goes.'</p> + </div> +</div> + +<p>'To be or do any limited thing'! What indeed, we ask in such hours, is a +limited thing, when all the humble interests of our daily life are +palpably big with eternity? Is the first kiss of a great love a limited +thing? though there is, unhappily, no denying that it comes to an end! +When a young husband and wife smile across to each other above the sleep +of their little child—is that a limited thing? When the siren voices of +the world blend together on the lips of a young poet, and with rapt eyes +and hot heart he makes a song as of the morning stars—is that a limited +thing? Are love, and genius, and duty done in the face of death—are +these limited things? I think not—and man, indeed, knows better.</p> + +<p>Greatness is not relative. It is absolute. It is not for man to depress +himself by measuring himself against the eternities and the immensities +external to him. What he<!--Page 166--> has to do is to look inward upon himself, to +fathom the eternities and the immensities in his own heart and brain.</p> + +<p>And the more man sees himself forsaken by the universe, the more +opportunity to vindicate his own greatness. Is there no kind heart +beating through the scheme of things?—man's heart shall still be kind. +Will the eternal silence make mock of his dreams and his idealisms, +laugh coldly at 'the splendid purpose in his eyes'? Well, so be it. His +dreams and idealisms are none the less noble things, and if the gods do +thus make mock of mortal joy and pain—let us be grateful that we were +born mere men.</p> + +<p>Moreover, he has one great answer to the universe—the answer of +courage. He is still Prometheus, and there is no limit to what he can +bear. Let the vultures of pain rend his heart as they will, he can still +hiss 'coward' in the face of the Eternal. Nay, he can even laugh at his +sufferings—thanks to the spirit of humour, that most blessed of +ministering angels, without which surely the heart of humanity had long +since broken, by<!--Page 167--> which man is able to look with a comical eye upon +terrors, as it were taking themselves so seriously, coming with such +Olympian thunders and lightnings to break the spirit of a mere six foot +of earth!</p> + +<p>But while his courage and his humour are defences of which he cannot be +disarmed, whatever be the intention of the Eternal, it is by no means +certain that nature does not mean kindly by man. Perhaps the pain of the +world is but the rough horseplay of great powers that mean but jest—and +kill us in it: as though one played at 'tick' with an elephant!</p> + +<p>Perhaps, after all,—who knows?—God is love, and His great purpose +kind.</p> + +<p>Surely, when you think of it, the existence in man of the senses of love +and pity implies the probability of their existence elsewhere in the +universe too.</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'Into that breast which brings the rose</p> + <p>Shall I with shuddering fall.'</p> +</div> + +<p>So runs the profoundest thought in modern poetry—and need I say it is +Mr. Meredith's?</p> + +<p>As the fragrance and colour of the rose must in some occult way be +properties of<!--Page 168--> the rude earth from which they are drawn by the sun, may +not human love also be a kindly property of matter—that mysterious +life-stuff in which is packed such marvellous potentialities? Evidently +love must be somewhere in the universe—else it had not got into the +heart of man; and perhaps pity slides down like an angel in the rays of +the solar energy, while there is the potential beating of a human heart +even in the hard crust of the carbon compounds.</p> + +<p>I confess that this seems to me no mere fancy, but a really comforting +speculation. Pain, we say, is inherent in the scheme of the universe; +but is not love seen to be no less inherent, too?</p> + +<p>There must be some soul of beauty to animate the lovely face of the +world, some soul of goodness to account for its saints. If the gods are +cruel, it is strange that man should be so kind, and that some pathetic +spirit of tenderness should seem to stir even in the bosoms of beasts +and birds.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, we cannot too often insist that, whatever uncertainties there +be, man has one certainty—himself. Science has<!--Page 169--> really adduced nothing +essential against his significance. That he is not as big as an Alp, as +heavy as a star, or as long-lived as an eagle, is nothing against his +proper importance. Even a nobleman is of more significance in the world +than his acres, and giants are not proverbial for their intellectual or +spiritual qualities. The ant is of more importance than the ass, and the +great eye of a beautiful woman is more significant than the whole clayey +bulk of Mars.</p> + +<p>After all the scientific mockery of the old religious ideal of the +importance of man, one begins to wonder if his Ptolemaic fancy that he +was the centre of the universe, and that it was all made for him, is not +nearer the If truth than the pitiless theories which hardly allow him +equality with the flea that perishes.</p> + +<p>Suppose if, after all, the stars were really meant as his bedtime +candles, and the sun's purpose in rising is really that he may catch the +8.37!</p> + +<p>For, as Sir Thomas Browne says in his solemn English, 'there is surely a +piece of Divinity in us, something that was before the elements, and +owes no homage unto the sun.'</p><!--Page 170--> + +<p>The long winter of materialistic science seems to be breaking up, and +the old ideals are seen trooping back with something more than their old +beauty, in the new spiritual spring that seems to be moving in the +hearts of men.</p> + +<p>After all its talk, science has done little more than correct the +misprints of religion. Essentially, the old spiritualistic and poetic +theories of life are seen, not merely weakly to satisfy the cravings of +man's nature, but to be mostly in harmony with certain strange and +moving facts in his constitution, which the materialists +unscientifically ignore.</p> + +<p>It was important, and has been helpful, to insist that man is an animal, +but it is still more important to insist that he is a spirit as well. He +is, so to say, an animal by accident, a spirit by birthright: and, +however homely his duties may occasionally seem, his life is bathed in +the light of a sacred transfiguring significance, its smallest acts +flash with divine meanings, its highest moments are rich with 'the +pathos of eternity,' and its humblest duties mighty with the +responsibilities of a god.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 171--> +<h3><a name="essay18">DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS</a></h3> + +<h4><em>A DIALOGUE</em><br> +(<em>To the Memory of J.S. and T.C.L.</em>)</h4> + +<h4>PERSONS: SCRIPTOR AND LECTOR.</h4> + +<p>[This dialogue was written originally as a rejoinder to certain +criticisms on a book of mine entitled, <em>The Religion of a Literary +Man</em>—<em>Religio Scriptoris</em>—hence the names given to the two 'persons.' +It was written in March 1894, before an event in the writer's life to +which, erroneously, some have supposed it to refer.]</p> + + +<p>LECTOR. But do you really mean, Scriptor, that you have no desire for +the life after death?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. I never said quite that, Lector, though perhaps I might almost +have gone so far. What I did say was that we have been accustomed to +exaggerate its importance to us here and now, that it really matters +less to us than we imagine.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. I see. But you must speak for yourself, Scriptor. I am sure that +it matters<!--Page 172--> much to many, to most of us. It does, I know, to me.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Less than you think, my dear Lector. Besides, you are really +too young to know. It is true that, as years go, you are ten years my +senior, but what of that? You have that vigorous health which is the +secret of perpetual youth. You have not yet realised decay, not to speak +of death. The immortality of the soul is a question wide of you, who +have as yet practically no doubt of the immortality of the body. But +I—well, it would be melodramatic to say that I face death every day. +The metaphor applies but to desperate callings and romantic complaints. +To some Death comes like a footpad, suddenly, and presents his +pistol—and the smoke that curls upward from his empty barrel is your +soul.</p> + +<p>To another he comes featureless, a stealthily accumulating London fog, +that slowly, slowly chokes the life out of you, without allowing you the +consolation of a single picturesque moment, a single grand attitude. For +you, probably, Death will only come when you die. I have to live with +him as well. I<!--Page 173--> shall smoulder for years, you will be carried to heaven, +like Enoch, in a beautiful lightning.</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p class="indent3">'A simple child</p> + <p>That lightly draws its breath,</p> + <p>And feels its life in every limb,</p> + <p>What can it know of Death?'</p> +</div> + +<p>That's you, my dear Lector, for all your forty years.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. All the more reason, Scriptor, that you should desire a +hereafter. You sometimes talk of the work you would do if you were a +robust Philistine such as I. Would it not be worth while to live +again, if only to make sure of that <em>magnum opus</em>—just to realise +those dreams that you say are daily escaping you?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Ah! so speaks the energetic man, eager to take the world on +his shoulders. I know the images of death that please you, +Lector—such as that great one of Arnold's, about 'the sounding +labour-house vast of being.'</p> + +<p>But, Lector, you who love work so well—have you never heard tell of +a thing called Rest? Have you never known what it is to be tired, my +Lector?—not tired at the end<!--Page 174--> of a busy day, but tired in the morning, +tired in the Memnonian sunlight, when larks and barrel-organs start on +their blithe insistent rounds. No, the man who is tired of a morning +sings not music-hall songs in his bedroom as he dashes about in his +morning bath. But will you never want to go to bed, Lector? Will you +be always like the children who hate to be sent to bed, and think that +when they are grown up they will never go to bed at all? Yet in a few +years' time how glad they are of the stray chance of bed at ten. May +it not be so with sleep's twin-brother? In our young vigour, driven by +a hundred buoyant activities, enticed by dream on dream, time seems so +short for all we think we have to do; but surely when the blood begins +to thin, and the heart to wax less extravagantly buoyant, when comfort +croons a kettle-song whose simple spell no sirens of ambition or +romance can overcome—don't you think that then 'bedtime' will come to +seem the best hour of the day, and 'Death as welcome as a friend would +fall'?</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But you are no fair judge, Scrip<!--Page 175-->tor. You say my health, my +youth, as you waggishly call it, puts me out of court. Yet surely your +ill-health and low spirits just as surely vitiate your judgment?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Admitted, so far as my views are the outcome of my +particular condition. But you forget that the condition I have been +supposing is not merely particular, but, on the contrary, the most +general among men. Was it not old age?—which, like youth, is +independent of years. You may be young beyond your years, I may be old +in advance of them; but old age does come some time, and with it the +desire of rest.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But does not old age spend most of its thought in dwelling +fondly on its lost youth, hanging like a remote sunrise in its +imagination? Is it not its one yearning desire just to live certain +hours of its youth over again?—and would the old man not give all he +possesses for the certainty of being born young again into eternity?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. He would give everything—but the certainty of rest. After +seventy years of ardent life one needs a long sleep to refresh us +in. Besides, age may not be so<!--Page 176--> sure of the advantages of youth. All is +not youth that laughs and glitters. Youth has its hopes, which are +uncertain; but age has its memories, which are sure; youth has its +passions, but age has its comforts.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. Your answers come gay and pat, Scriptor, but your voice +betrays you. In spite of you, it saddens all your words. Tell me, have +you ever known what it is actually to lose any one who is dear to you? +Have you looked on death face to face?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Yes, Lector, I have—but once. It is now about five years +ago, but the impression of it haunts me to this hour. Perhaps the +memory is all the keener because it was my one experience. In a world +where custom stales all things, save Cleopatra, it is all the better +perhaps not to see even too much of Death, lest we grow familiar with +him. For instance, doctors and soldiers, who look on him daily, seem +to lose the sense of his terror—nay, worse, of his tragedy. Maybe it +is something in his favour, and Death, like others, may only need to +be known to be loved.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But tell me, Scriptor, of this sad experience, which even now +it moves you to<!--Page 177--> name; or is the memory too sad to recall?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Sad enough, Lector, but beautiful for all that, beautiful as +winter. It was winter when she of whom I am thinking died—a winter +that seemed to make death itself whiter and colder on her marble +forehead. It is but one sad little story of all the heaped-up sorrow +of the world; but in it, as in a shell, I seem to hear the murmur of +all the tides of tears that have surged about the lot of man from the +beginning.</p> + +<p>There were two dear friends of mine whom I used to call the happiest +lovers in the world. They had loved truly from girlhood and boyhood, +and after some struggle—for they were not born into that class which +is denied the luxury of struggle—at length saw a little home bright +in front of them. And then Jenny, who had been ever bright and strong, +suddenly and unaccountably fell ill. Like the stroke of a sword, like +the stride of a giant, Death, to whom they had never given a thought, +was upon them. It was consumption, and love could only watch and +pray. Suddenly my<!--Page 178--> friend sent for me, and I saw with my own eyes what +at a distance it had seemed impossible to believe. As I entered the +house, with the fresh air still upon me, I spoke confidently, with +babbling ignorant tongue. 'Wait till you see her face!' was all my +poor stricken friend could say.</p> + +<p>Ah! her face! How can I describe it? It was much sweeter afterwards, +but now it was so dark and witchlike, so uncanny, almost wicked, so +thin and full of inky shadows. She sat up in her bed, a wizened little +goblin, and laughed a queer, dry, knowing laugh to herself, a laugh +like the scraping of reeds in a solitary place. A strange black +weariness seemed to be crushing down her brows, like the 'unwilling +sleep' of a strong narcotic. She would begin a sentence and let it +wither away unfinished, and point sadly and almost humorously to her +straight black hair, clammy as the feathers of a dead bird lying in +the rain. Her hearing was strangely keen. And yet she did not know, +was not to know. How was one to talk to her—talk of being well again, +and books and country walks, when she had so<!--Page 179--> plainly done with all +these things? How bear up when she, with a half-sad, half-amused +smile, showed her thin wrists?—how say that they would soon be strong +and round again? Ugh! she was already beginning to be different from +us, already putting off our body-sweet mortality, and putting on the +fearful garments of death, changing before our eyes from ruddy +familiar humanity into a being of another element, an element we dread +as the fish dreads the air. Soon we should not be able to talk to +her. Soon she would have unlearnt all the sweet grammar of earth. She +was no longer Jenny, but a fearful symbol of mysteries at which the +flesh crept. She was going to die.</p> + +<p>Have you never looked ahead towards some trial, some physical trial, +maybe an operation?—for perhaps the pains of the body are the +keenest, after all—those of the spirit are at least in some part +metaphor. You look forward with dread, yet it is at last over. It is +behind you. And have you never thought that so it will be with death +some day? Poor little Jenny was to face the great operation.</p><!--Page 180--> + +<p>Next time I saw her she was dead. In our hateful English fashion, they +had shut her up in a dark room, and we had to take candles to see +her. I shall never forget the moment when my eyes first rested on that +awful snow-white sheet, so faintly indented by the fragile form +beneath, lines very fragile, but oh! so hard and cold, like the +indentations upon frozen snow; never forget my strange unaccountable +terror when he on one side and I on the other turned down the icy +sheet from her face. But terror changed to awe and reverence, as her +face came upon us with its sweet sphinx-like smile. Lying there, with +a little gold chain round her neck and a chrysanthemum in the bosom of +her night-gown, there was a curious regality about her, a look as +though she wore a crown our eyes were unable to see. And while I gazed +upon her, the sobs of my friend came across the bed, and as he called +to her I seemed to hear the eternal Orpheus calling for his lost +Eurydice. Poor lad!—poor maid! Here, naked and terrible, was all the +tragedy of the world compressed into an hour, the Medusa-face of life +that turns the bravest<!--Page 181--> to stone. Surely, I felt, God owed more than He +could ever repay to these two lovers, whom it had been so easy to +leave to their simple joys. And from that night to this I can never +look upon my white bed without seeing afar off the moment when it, +too, will bear the little figure of her I love best in the world, +bound for her voyage to the Minotaur Death; just as I never put off my +clothes at night, and stretch my limbs down among the cool sheets, +without thinking of the night when I shall put off my clothes for the +last time and close my eyes for ever.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But, my friend, this is to feel too much; it is morbid.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Morbid! How can one really <em>feel</em> and not be morbid? If one +be morbid, one can still be brave.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But surely, true-lover as you are, it would be a joy to you to +think that this terrible parting of death will not be final. We cannot +love so well without hoping that we may meet our loved ones somewhere +after death.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Hopes! wishes! desires! What of them? We hope, we <em>desire</em> +all things.<!--Page 182--> Who has not cried for the moon in his time? But what is +the use of talking of what we desire? Does life give us all we wish, +however passionately we wish it, and is Death any more likely to +listen to the cry of our desires? Of course we <em>wish it</em>, wish it with +a pathetic urgency which is too poignant to bear, and which the wise +man bravely stifles. It would all be different if we <em>knew</em>.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But does not science even, of late, hold out the promise of +its probability?—and the greatest poets and thinkers have always been +convinced of its truth.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. The promise of a probability! O my Lector, what a poor +substitute is that for a certainty! And as for the great men you speak +of, what does their 'instinctive' assurance amount to but a strong +sense of their own existence at the moment of writing or speaking? +Does one of them anywhere assert immortality as a <em>fact</em>—a fact of +which he has his own personal proof and knowledge—a scientific, not +an imaginative, theological fact? Arguments on the subject are +naught. It is waste of time to read them; unsupported by fact,<!--Page 183--> they +are one and all cowardly dreams, a horrible hypocritical clutching at +that which their writers have not the courage to forgo.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. Yet may not a dream be of service to reality, my friend? Is it +not certain that people are all the better and all the happier for +this dream, as you call it?—for what seems to me this sustaining +faith?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Happier? Some people, perhaps, in a lazy, unworthy +fashion. But 'better'? Well, so long as we believed in 'eternal +punishment' no doubt people were sometimes terrified into 'goodness' +by the picture of that dread vista of torment, as no doubt they were +bribed into it by the companion picture of a green unbounded Paradise; +but, O my friend, what an unworthy kind of goodness, the mere mask of +virtue! And now that the Inferno has practically disappeared from our +theology, the belief in eternal life simply means unlimited cakes and +ale, for good and evil alike, for all eternity. How such a belief can +be moralising I fail to understand. To my mind, indeed, far from being +moralising, this belief in immortality is responsible<!--Page 184--> for no +inconsiderable portion of the wrong and misery of the world. It is the +baneful narcotic which has soothed the selfish and the slothful from +the beginning. It is that unlimited credit which makes the bankrupt. +It simply gives us all eternity to procrastinate in. Instead of +manfully eating our peck of dirt here and now, we leave it and all +such disagreeables to the hereafter.</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>'He said, "I believe in Eternal Life,"</p> + <p>As he threw his life away—</p> + <p class="indent3">What need to hoard?</p> + <p class="indent3">He could well afford</p> + <p>To squander his mortal day.</p> + <p>With Eternity his, what need to care?—</p> + <p>A sort of immortal millionaire.'</p> +</div> + +<p>LECTOR. I am glad to be reminded, Scriptor, that you are a poet, for the +line of your argument had almost made me forget it. One expects other +views from a poet.</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. When, my dear Lector, shall we get rid of the silly idea that +the poet should give us only the ornamental view of life, and rock us to +sleep, like babies, with pretty lullabies? Is it not possible to make +<em>facts</em> sing as well as fancies? With all this beautiful world to sing +of—for beautiful it<!--Page 185--> is, however it be marred; with this wonderful +life—and wonderful and sweet it is though it is shot through with such +bitter pain; with such <em>certainties</em> for his theme, we yet beg him to +sing to us of shadows!</p> + +<p>And you talk of 'faith.' 'Faith' truly is what we want, but it is faith +in the life here, not in the life hereafter. Faith in the life here! Let +our poets sing us that. And such as would deny it—I would hang them as +enemies of society.</p> + +<p>LECTOR. But, at all events, to keep to our point—you at least <em>hope</em> +for immortality. If Edison, say, were suddenly to discover it for us as +a scientific certainty, you would welcome the news?</p> + +<p>SCRIPTOR. Well, yes and no! Have you seen the 'penny' phonographs in the +Strand? You should go and have a pennyworth of the mysteries of time and +space! How long will Edison's latest magic toy survive this +popularisation, I wonder? For a little moment it awakens the sense of +wonder in the idly curious, who set the demon tube to their ears; but if +they make any remarks at all, it is of the cleverness of Mr. Edison,<!--Page 186--> +the probable profits of the invention—and not a word of the wonder of +the world! So it would be with the undiscovered country. I was blamed +the other day as being cheaply smart because I said that if 'one +traveller returned,' his resurrection would soon be as commonplace as +the telephone, and that enterprising firms would be interviewing him as +to the prospects of opening branch establishments in Hades. Yet it is a +perfectly serious, and, I think, true remark; for who that knows the +modern man, with his small knowingness, and his utter incapacity for +reverence, would doubt that were Mr. Edison actually to be the Columbus +of the Unseen, it would soon be as overrun with gaping tourists as +Switzerland, and that within a year railway companies would be +advertising 'Bank-holidays in Eternity'?</p> + +<p>No! let us keep the Unseen—or, if it must be discovered, let the key +thereof be given only to true-lovers and poets.</p> + + + + +<!--Page 187--> +<h3><a name="essay19">A SEAPORT IN THE MOON</a></h3> + + +<p>No one is so hopelessly wrong about the stars as the astronomer, and I +trust that you never pay any attention to his remarks on the moon. He +knows as much about the moon as a coiffeur knows of the dreams of the +fair lady whose beautiful neck he makes still more beautiful. There is +but one opinion upon<!--Page 188--> the moon—namely, our own. And if you think that +science is thus wronged, reflect a moment upon what science makes of +things near at hand. Love, it says, is merely a play of pistil and +stamen, our most fascinating poetry and art is 'degeneration,' and human +life, generally speaking, is sufficiently explained by the 'carbon +compounds'—God-a-mercy! If science makes such grotesque blunders about +radiant matters right under its nose, how can one think of taking its +opinion upon matters so remote as the stars—or even the moon, which is +comparatively near at hand?</p> + +<p>Science says that the moon is a dead world, a cosmic ship littered with +the skeletons of its crew, and from which every rat of vitality has long +since escaped. It is the ghost that rises from its tomb every night, to +haunt its faithless lover, the world. It is a country of ancient +silver-mines, unworked for centuries. You may see the gaping mouths of +the dark old shafts through your telescopes. You may even see the +rusting pit tackle, the ruinous engine-houses, and the idle pick and +shovel. Or you may say that it is counterfeit silver, coined to take in +the young fools who love to gaze upon it. It is, so to speak, a bad +half-crown.</p> + +<p>As you will! but I am of Endymion's belief—and no one was ever more +intimate with the moon. For me the moon is a country of great seaports, +whither all the ships of our dreams come home. From all quarters of the +world, every day of the week, there are ships sailing to the moon. They +are the ships that sail just when and where you please. You take your +passage on that<!--Page 189--> condition. And it is ridiculous to think for what a +trifle the captain will take you on so long a journey. If you want to +come back, just to take an excursion and no more, just to take a lighted +look at those coasts of rose and pearl, he will ask no more than a glass +or two of bright wine—indeed, when the captain is very kind, a flower +will take you there and back in no time; if you want to stay whole days +there, but still come back dreamy and strange, you may take a little +dark root and smoke it in a silver pipe, or you may drink a little phial +of poppy-juice, and thus you shall find the Land of Heart's Desire; but +if you are wise and would stay in that land for ever, the terms are even +easier—a little powder shaken into a phial of water, a little piece of +lead no bigger than a pea, and a farthing's-worth of explosive fire, and +thus also you are in the Land of Heart's Desire for ever.</p> + +<p>I dreamed last night that I stood on the blustering windy wharf, and the +dark ship was there. It was impatient, like all of us, to leave the +world. Its funnels belched black smoke, its engines throbbed against<!--Page 190--> +the quay like arms that were eager to strike and be done, and a bell +was beating impatient summons to be gone. The dark captain stood ready +on the bridge, and he looked into each of our faces as we passed on +board. 'Is it for the long voyage?' he said. 'Yes! the long voyage,' I +said—and his stern eyes seemed to soften as I answered.</p> + +<p>At last we were all aboard, and in the twinkling of an eye were out of +sight of land. Yet, once afloat, it seemed as though we should never +reach our port in the moon—so it seemed to me as I lay awake in my +little cabin, listening to the patient thud and throb of the great +screws, beating in the ship's side like a human heart.</p> + +<p>Talking with my fellow-voyagers, I was surprised to find that we were +not all volunteers. Some, in fact, complained pitifully. They had, they +said, been going about their business a day or two before, and suddenly +a mysterious captain had laid hold of them, and pressed them to sail +this unknown sea. Thus, without a word of warning, they had been +compelled to leave behind them all they held dear. This, one felt, was a +little hard of<!--Page 191--> the captain; but those of us whose position was exactly +the reverse, who had friends on the other side, all whose hopes indeed +were invested there, were too selfishly expectant of port to be severe +on the captain who was taking us thither.</p> + +<p>There were three friends I had especially set out to see: two young +lovers who had emigrated to those colonies in the moon just after their +marriage, and there was another. What a surprise it would be to all +three, for I had written no letter to say I was coming. Indeed, it was +just a sudden impulse, the pistol-flash of a long desire.</p> + +<p>I tried to imagine what the town would be like in which they were now +living. I asked the captain, and he answered with a sad smile that it +would be just exactly as I cared to dream it.</p> + +<p>'Oh, well then,' I thought, 'I know what it will be like. There shall be +a great restless, tossing estuary, with Atlantic winds for ever ruffling +the sails of busy ships, ships coming home with laughter, ships leaving +home with sad sea-gull cries of farewell. And the shaggy tossing water +shall be bounded on<!--Page 192--> either bank with high granite walls, and on one +bank shall be a fretted spire soaring with a jangle of bells, from amid +a tangle of masts, and underneath the bells and the masts shall go +streets rising up from the strand, streets full of faces, and sweet with +the smell of tar and the sea. O captain! will it be morning or night +when we come to my city? In the morning my city is like a sea-blown +rose, in the night it is bright as a sailor's star.</p> + +<p>'If it be early morning, what shall I do? I shall run to the house in +which my friends lie in happy sleep, never to be parted again, and kiss +my hand to their shrouded window; and then I shall run on and on till +the city is behind and the sweetness of country lanes is about me, and I +shall gather flowers as I run, from sheer wantonness of joy; and then at +last, flushed and breathless, I shall stand beneath her window. I shall +stand and listen, and I shall hear her breathing right through the heavy +curtains, and the hushed garden and the sleeping house will bid me keep +silence, but I shall cry a great cry up to the morning star, and say, +"No, I will not<!--Page 193--> keep silence. Mine is the voice she listens for in her +sleep. She will wake again for no voice but mine. Dear one, awake, the +morning of all mornings has come!"'</p> + +<p>As I write, the moon looks down at me like a Madonna from the great +canvas of the sky. She seems beautiful with the beauty of all the eyes +that have looked up at her, sad with all the tears of all those eyes; +like a silver bowl brimming with the tears of dead lovers she seems. +Yes, there are seaports in the moon; there are ships to take us there.</p> + + + + +<h3>THE END</h3> + + + +<p>Most of the foregoing essays have made a first appearance either in +<em>The Yellow Book</em>, <em>The Nineteenth Century</em>, <em>The Cosmopolitan</em>, <em>The +Westminster Gazette</em>, or <em>The Realm</em>, to the editors of which the writer +is indebted for kind permission to reprint.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prose Fancies (Second Series) +by Richard Le Gallienne + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSE FANCIES (SECOND SERIES) *** + +***** This file should be named 14103-h.htm or 14103-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/1/0/14103/ + +Produced by Brendan Lane, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/old/14103.txt b/old/14103.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0ac9c00 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14103.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4060 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Prose Fancies (Second Series), by Richard Le Gallienne + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Prose Fancies (Second Series) + +Author: Richard Le Gallienne + +Release Date: November 20, 2004 [EBook #14103] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSE FANCIES (SECOND SERIES) *** + + + + +Produced by Brendan Lane, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +PROSE FANCIES + +(SECOND SERIES) + +BY + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE + + + +LONDON: JOHN LANE + +CHICAGO: H.S. STONE AND CO. + +1896 + + + + +TO + +MAGGIE LE GALLIENNE + +WITH LOVE + + Poor are the gifts of the poet-- + Nothing but words! + The gifts of kings are gold, + Silver, and flocks and herds, + Garments of strange soft silk, + Feathers of wonderful birds, + Jewels and precious stones, + And horses white as the milk-- + These are the gifts of kings: + But the gifts that the poet brings + Are nothing but words. + + Forty thousand words! + Take them--a gift of flies! + Words that should have been birds, + Words that should have been flowers, + Words that should have been stars + In the eternal skies. + Forty thousand words! + Forty thousand tears-- + All out of two sad eyes. + + + + + CONTENTS PAGE + + A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN, 1 + SPRING BY PARCEL POST, 20 + THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND, 27 + THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET, 39 + VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT, 49 + THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE, 58 + ABOUT THE SECURITIES, 67 + THE BOOM IN YELLOW, 79 + LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN, 90 + A POET IN THE CITY, 98 + BROWN ROSES, 108 + THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR, 112 + ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES, 119 + THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE, 125 + THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX, 135 + THE FALLACY OF A NATION, 145 + THE GREATNESS OF MAN, 154 + DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS, 171 + A SEAPORT IN THE MOON, 187 + + + + +A SEVENTH-STORY HEAVEN + + +At one end of the city that I love there is a tall, dingy pile of +offices that has evidently seen more prosperous fortunes. It is not the +aristocratic end. It is remote from the lordly street of the fine shops +of the fair women, where in the summer afternoons the gay bank clerks +parade arm-in-arm in the wake of the tempestuous petticoat. It lies +aside from the great exchange which looks like a scene from _Romeo and +Juliet_ in the moonlight, from the town-hall from whose clocked and +gilded cupola ring sweet chimes at midnight, and whence, throned above +the city, a golden Britannia, in the sight of all men, is seen visibly +ruling the waves--while in the square below the death of Nelson is +played all day in stone, with a frieze of his noble words about the +pedestal. England expects! What an influence that stirring challenge +has yet upon the hearts of men may be seen by any one who will study the +faces of the busy, imaginative cotton-brokers, who, in the thronged and +humming mornings, sell what they have never seen to a customer they will +never see. + +In fact, the end I mean is just the very opposite end to that. It is the +end where the cotton that everybody sells and nobody buys _is_ seen, +piled in great white stacks, or swinging in the air from the necks of +mighty cranes, cranes that could nip up an elephant with as little ado, +and set him down on the wharf, with a box on his ugly ears for his +cowardly trumpeting. It is the end that smells of tar, the domain of the +harbourmasters, where the sailor finds a 'home,'--not too sweet, and +where the wild sea is tamed in a maze of granite squares and basins; the +end where the riggings and buildings rise side by side, and a clerk +might swing himself out upon the yards from his top-floor desk. Here is +the Custom House, and the conversation that shines is full of freightage +and dock dues; here are the shops that sell nothing but oilskins, +sextants, and parrots, and here the taverns do a mighty trade in rum. + +It was in this quarter, for a brief sweet time, that Love and Beauty +made their strange home, as though a pair of halcyons should choose to +nest in the masthead of a cattleship. Love and Beauty chose this +quarter, as, alas! Love and Beauty must choose so many things--for its +cheapness. Love and Beauty were poor, and office rents in this quarter +were exceptionally low. But what should Love and Beauty do with an +office? Love was a poor poet in need of a room for his bed and his +rhymes, and Beauty was a little blue-eyed girl who loved him. + +It was a shabby, forbidding place, gloomy and comfortless as a warehouse +on the banks of Styx. No one but Love and Beauty would have dared to +choose it for their home. But Love and Beauty have a great confidence in +themselves--a confidence curiously supported by history,--and they never +had a moment's doubt that this place was as good as another for an +earthly Paradise. So Love signed an agreement for one great room at the +very top, the very masthead of the building, and Beauty made it pretty +with muslin curtains, flowers, and dainty makeshifts of furniture, but +chiefly with the light of her own heavenly face. A stroke of luck coming +one day to the poet, the lovers, with that extravagance which the poor +alone have the courage to enjoy, procured a piano on the kind-hearted +hire-purchase system, a system specially conceived for lovers. Then, +indeed, for many a wonderful night that room was not only on the seventh +floor, but in the seventh heaven; and as Beauty would sit at the piano, +with her long hair flying loose, and her soul like a whirl of starlight +about her brows, a stranger peering in across the soft lamplight, seeing +her face, hearing her voice, would deem that the long climb, flight +after flight of dreary stair, had been appropriately rewarded by a +glimpse of heaven. + +Certainly it must have seemed a strange contrast from the life about and +below it. The foot of that infernal stair plunged in the warm +rum-and-thick-twist atmosphere of a sailor's tavern--and 'The Jolly +Shipmates' was a house of entertainment by no means to be despised. +Often have I sat there with the poet, drinking the whisky from which +Scotland takes its name, among wondering sea-boots and sou'-westers, who +could make nothing of that wild hair and that still wilder talk. + +From the kingdom of rum and tar you mounted into a zone of commission +agents fund shipbrokers, a chill, unoccupied region, in which every +small office bore the names of half a dozen different firms, and yet +somehow could not contrive to look busy. Finally came an airy echoing +landing, a region of empty rooms, which the landlords in vain +recommended as studios to a city that loved not art. Here dwelt the +keeper and his kind-hearted little wife, and no one besides save Love +and Beauty. There was thus a feeling of rarefaction in the atmosphere, +as though at this height it was only the Alpine flora of humanity that +could find root and breathing. But once along the bare passage and +through a certain door, and what a sudden translation it was into a +gracious world of books and flowers and the peace they always bring. + +Once upon a time, in that enchanted past where dwell all the dreams we +love best, precisely, with loving punctuality, at five in the afternoon, +a pretty, girlish figure, like Persephone escaping from the shades, +stole through the rough sailors at the foot of that sordid Jacob's +ladder and made her way to the little heaven at the top. + +I shall not describe her, for the good reason that I cannot. Leonardo, +ever curious of the beauty that was most strangely exquisite, once in an +inspired hour painted such a face, a face wrought of the porcelain of +earth with the art of heaven. But, whoever should paint it, God +certainly made it--must have been the comment of any one who caught a +glimpse of that little figure vanishing heavenwards up that stair, like +an Assumption of Fra Angelico's--that is, any one interested in art and +angels. + +She had not long to wait outside the door she sought, for the poet, who +had listened all day for the sound, had ears for the whisper of her +skirts as she came down the corridor, and before she had time to knock +had already folded her in his arms. The two babes in that thieves' wood +of commission agents and shipbrokers stood silent together for a +moment, in the deep security of a kiss such as the richest millionaire +could never buy--and then they fell to comparing notes of their day's +work. The poet had had one of his rare good days. He had made no money, +his post had been even more disappointing than usual,--but he had +written a poem, the best he had ever written, he said, as he always said +of his last new thing. He had been burning to read it to somebody all +afternoon--had with difficulty refrained from reading it to the +loquacious little keeper's wife as she brought him some coals--so it was +not to be expected that he should wait a minute before reading it to her +whom indeed it strove to celebrate. With arms round each other's necks, +they bent over the table littered with the new-born poem, all blots and +dashes like the first draft of a composer's score, and the poet, deftly +picking his way among the erasures and interlineations, read aloud the +beautiful words--with a full sense of their beauty!--to ears that deemed +them more beautiful even than they were. The owners of this now valuable +copyright allow me to irradiate my prose with three of the verses. + +'Ah! what,' half-chanted, half-crooned the poet-- + + 'Ah! what a garden is your hair!-- + Such treasure as the kings of old, + In coffers of the beaten gold, + Laid up on earth--and left it there.' + +So tender a reference to hair whose beauty others beside the poet had +loved must needs make a tender interruption--the only kind of +interruption the poet could have forgiven--and 'Who,' he continued-- + + 'Who was the artist of your mouth? + What master out of old Japan + Wrought it so dangerous to man ...' + +And here it was but natural that laughter and kisses should once more +interrupt-- + + 'Those strange blue jewels of your eyes, + Painting the lily of your face, + What goldsmith set them in their place-- + Forget-me-nots of Paradise? + + 'And that blest river of your voice, + Whose merry silver stirs the rest + Of water-lilies in your breast ...' + +At last, in spite of more interruptions, the poem came to an +end--whereupon, of course, the poet immediately read it through once +more from the beginning, its personal and emotional elements, he felt, +having been done more justice on a first reading than its artistic +excellences. + +'Why, darling, it is splendid,' was his little sweetheart's comment; +'you know how happy it makes me to think it was written for me, don't +you?' And she took his hands and looked up at him with eyes like the +morning sky. + +Romance in poetry is almost exclusively associated with very refined +ethereal matters, stars and flowers and such like--happily, in actual +life it is often associated with much humbler objects. Lovers, like +children, can make their paradises out of the quaintest materials. +Indeed, our paradises, if we only knew, are always cheap enough; it is +our hells that are so expensive. Now these lovers--like, if I mistake +not, many other true lovers before and since--when they were +particularly happy, when some special piece of good luck had befallen +them, could think of no better paradise than a little dinner together in +their seventh-story heaven. 'Ah! wilderness were Paradise enow!' + +To-night was obviously such an occasion. But, alas! where was the money +to come from? They didn't need much--for it is wonderful how happy you +can be on five shillings, if you only know how. At the same time it is +difficult to be happy on ninepence--which was the entire fortune of the +lovers at the moment. Beauty laughingly suggested that her celebrated +hair might prove worth the price of their dinner. The poet thought a +pawnbroker might surely be found to advance ten shillings on his +poem--the original MS. too,--else had they nothing to pawn, save a few +gold and silver dreams which they couldn't spare. What was to be done? +Sell some books, of course! It made them shudder to think how many poets +they had eaten in this fashion. It was sheer cannibalism--but what was +to be done? Their slender stock of books had been reduced entirely to +poetry. If there had only been a philosopher or a modern novelist, the +sacrifice wouldn't have seemed so unnatural. And then Beauty's eyes fell +upon a very fat informing-looking volume on the poet's desk. + +'Wouldn't this do?' she said. + +'Why, of course!' he exclaimed; 'the very thing. A new history of +socialism just sent me for review. Hang the review; we want our dinner, +don't we, little one? And then I've read the preface, and looked through +the index--quite enough to make a column of, with a plentiful supply of +general principles thrown in! Why, of course, there's our dinner for +certain, dull and indigestible as it looks. It's worth fifty minor poets +at old Moser's. Come along....' + +So off went the happy pair--ah! how much happier was Beauty than ever so +many fine ladies one knows who have only, so to say, to rub their +wedding-rings for a banquet to rise out of the ground, with the most +distinguished guests around the table, champagne of the best, and +conversation of the worst. + +Old Moser found histories of socialism profitable, more profitable +perhaps than socialism, and he actually gave five-and-sixpence for the +volume. With the ninepence already in their pockets, you will see that +they were now possessors of quite a small fortune. Six-and-threepence! +It wouldn't pay for one's lunch nowadays. Ah! but that is because the +poor alone know the art of dining. + +You needn't wish to be happier and merrier than those two lovers, as +they gaily hastened to that bright and cosy corner of the town where +those lovely ham-and-beef shops make glad the faces of the passers-by. O +those hams with their honest shining faces, polished like mahogany--and +the man inside so happy all day slicing them with those wonderful long +knives (which, of course, the superior class of reader has never seen) +worn away to a veritable thread, a mere wire, but keen as Excalibur. +Beauty used to calculate in her quaint way how much steel was worn away +with each pound of ham, and how much therefore went to the sandwich. And +what an artist was the carver! What a true eye! what a firm, flexible +wrist! never a shaving of fat too much--he was too great an artist for +that. Then there were those dear little cream cheeses, and those little +brown jugs of yellow cream come all the way from Devonshire--you could +hear the cows lowing across the rich pasture, and hear the milkmaids +singing and the milk whizzing into the pail, as you looked at them. + +And then those perfectly lovely sausages--I beg the reader's pardon! I +forgot that the very mention of the word smacks of vulgarity. Yet, all +the same, I venture to think that a secret taste for sausages among the +upper classes is more widespread than we have any idea of. I confess +that Beauty and her poet were at first ashamed of admitting their vulgar +frailty to each other. They needed to know each other very well first. +Yet there is nothing, when once confessed, that brings two people so +close as--a taste for sausages. + +'You darling!' exclaimed Beauty, with something like tears in her voice, +when her poet first admitted this touch of nature--and then next moment +they were in fits of laughter that a common taste for a very 'low' food +should bring tears to their eyes! But such are the vagaries of love--as +you will know, if you know anything about it--'vulgar,' no doubt, though +only the vulgar would so describe them--for it is only vulgarity that +is always 'refined.' + +Then there was the florist's to visit. What beautiful trades some people +ply! To sell flowers is surely like dealing in fairies. Beautiful must +grow the hands that wire them, and sweet the flower-girl's every +thought! + +There remained but the wine merchant's, or, had we not better say at +once, the grocer's, for our lovers could afford no rarer vintages than +Tintara or the golden burgundy of Australia; and it is wonderful to +think what a sense of festivity one of those portly colonial flagons +lent to their little dining-table. Sometimes, I may confide, when they +wanted to feel very dissipated, and were _very_ rich, they would allow +themselves a small bottle of Benedictine--and you should have seen +Beauty's eyes as she luxuriously sipped at her green little liqueur +glass; for, like most innocent people, she enjoyed to the full the +delight of feeling occasionally wicked. However, these were rare +occasions, and this night was not one of them. + +Half a pound of black grapes completed their shopping, and then, with +their arms full of their purchases, they made their way home again, the +two happiest people in what is, after all, a not unhappy world. + +Then came the cooking and the laying of the table. For all her Leonardo +face, Beauty was a great cook--like all good women, she was as earthly +in some respects as she was heavenly in others, which I hold to be a +wise combination--and, indeed, both were excellent cooks; and the poet +was unrivalled at 'washing up,' which, I may say, is the only skeleton +at these Bohemian feasts. + +You should have seen the gusto with which Beauty pricked those +sausages--I had better explain to the un-Bohemian reader that to attempt +to cook a sausage without first pricking it vigorously with a fork, to +allow for the expansion of its juicy gases, is like trying to smoke a +cigar without first cutting off the end--and oh! to hear again their +merry song as they writhed in torment in the hissing pan, like Christian +martyrs raising hymns of praise from the very core of Smithfield fires. + +Meanwhile, the poet would be surpassing himself in the setting-out of +the little table, cutting up the bread reverently as though it were for +an altar--as indeed it was,--studying the effect of the dish of +tomatoes, now at this corner, now at that, arranging the flowers with +much more care than he arranged the adjectives in his sonnets, and +making ever so sumptuous an effect with that half a pound of grapes. + +And then at last the little feast would begin, with a long grace of eyes +meeting and hands clasping: true eyes that said, 'How good it is to +behold you, to be awake together in this dream of life!' true hands that +said, 'I will hold you fast for ever--not death even shall pluck you +from my hand, shall loose this bond of you and me'; true eyes, true +hands, that had immortal meanings far beyond the speech of mortal words. + +And it had all come out of that dull history of socialism, and had cost +little more than a crown! What lovely things can be made out of money! +Strange to think that a little silver coin of no possible use or beauty +in itself can be exchanged for so much tangible, beautiful pleasure. A +piece of money is like a piece of opium, for in it lie locked up the +most wonderful dreams--if you have only the brains and hearts to dream +them. + +When at last the little feast grew near its end, Love and Beauty would +smoke their cigarettes together; and it was a favourite trick of theirs +to lower the lamp a moment, so that they might see the stars rush down +upon them through the skylight which hung above their table. It gave +them a sense of great sentinels, far away out in the lonely universe, +standing guard over them, seemed to say that their love was safe in the +tender keeping of great forces. They were poor, but then they had the +stars and the flowers and the great poets for their servants and +friends; and, best of all, they had each other. Do you call that being +poor? + +And then, in the corner, stood that magical box with the ivory keys, +whose strings waited ready night and day--strange media through which +the myriad voices, the inner-sweet thoughts, of the great world-soul +found speech, messengers of the stars to the heart, and of the heart to +the stars. + +Beauty's songs were very simple. She got little practice, for her poet +only cared to have her sing over and over again the same sweet songs; +and perhaps if you had heard her sing 'Ask nothing more of me, sweet,' +or 'Darby and Joan,' you would have understood his indifference to +variety. + +At last the little feast is quite, quite finished. Beauty has gone home; +her lover still carries her face in his heart as she waved and waved and +waved to him from the rattling lighted tramcar; long he sits and sits +thinking of her, gazing up at those lonely ancient stars; the air is +still bright with her presence, sweet with her thoughts, warm with her +kisses, and as he turns to the shut piano, he can still see her white +hands on the keys and her girlish face raised in an ecstasy--Beata +Beatrix--above the music. + + 'O love, my love! if I no more should see + Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of thee, + Nor image of thine eyes in any spring-- + How then should sound upon Life's darkening slope + The ground-whirl of the perished leaves of Hope, + The wind of Death's imperishable wing!' + +And then ... he would throw himself upon his bed, and burst into tears. + + * * * * * + + 'And they are gone: aye, ages long ago + These lovers fled away into the storm.' + +That seventh-story heaven once more leads a dull life as the office of a +ship-chandler, and harsh voices grate the air where Beauty sang. The +books and the flowers and the lovers' faces are gone for ever. I suppose +the stars are the same, and perhaps they sometimes look down through +that roof-window, and wonder what has become of those two lovers who +used to look up at them so fearlessly long ago. + +But friends of mine who believe in God say that He has given His angels +charge concerning that dingy old seventh-floor heaven, and that, for +those who have eyes to see, there is no place where a great dream has +been dreamed that is not thus watched over by the guardian angels of +memory. + +_For M. Le G., 25 September 1895._ + + + + +SPRING BY PARCEL POST + + + They've taken all the spring from the country to the town-- + Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow.... + +So began to jig and jingle my thoughts as in my letters and newspapers +this morning I read, buried alive among the solitary fastnesses of the +Surrey hills, the last news from town. The news I envied most was that +spring had already reached London. 'Now,' ran a pretty article on spring +fashions, 'the sunshine makes bright the streets, and the +flower-baskets, like huge bouquets, announce the gay arrival of spring.' +I looked up and out through my hillside window. The black ridge on the +other side of the valley stood a grim wall of burnt heather against the +sky--which sky, like the bullets in the nursery rhyme, was made +unmistakably of lead; a close rain was falling methodically, and, +generally speaking, the world looked like a soaked mackintosh. It wasn't +much like the gay arrival of spring, and grimly I mused on the +advantages of life in town. + +Certainly, it did seem hard, I reflected, that town should be ahead of +us even in such a country matter as spring. Flower-baskets indeed! Why, +we haven't as much as a daisy for miles around. It is true that on the +terrace there the crocuses blaze like a street on fire, that the +primroses thicken into clumps, lying among their green leaves like +pounds of country butter; it is true that the blue cones of the little +grape hyacinth are there, quaintly formal as a child's toy-flowers; yes! +and the big Dutch hyacinths are already shamelessly _enceinte_ with +their buxom waxen blooms, so fat and fragrant--(one is already delivered +of a fine blossom. Well, that is a fine baby, to be sure! say the other +hyacinths, with babes no less bonny under their own green aprons--all +waiting for the doctor sun). Then among the blue-green blades of the +narcissus, here and there you see a stem topped with a creamish +chrysalis-like envelope, from which will soon emerge a beautiful eye, +rayed round with white wings, looking as though it were meant to fly, +but remaining rooted--a butterfly on a stalk; while all the beds are +crowded with indeterminate beak and blade, pushing and elbowing each +other for a look at the sun, which, however, sulkily declines to look at +them. It is true there is spring on the terrace, but even so it is +spring imported from the town--spring bought in Holborn, spring +delivered free by parcel post; for where would the terrace have been but +for the city seedsman--that magician who sends you strangely spotted +beans and mysterious bulbs in shrivelled cerements, weird little +flower-mummies that suggest centuries of forgotten silence in painted +Egyptian tombs. This strange and shrivelled thing can surely never live +again, we say, as we hold it in our hands, seeing not the glowing +circles of colour, tiny rings of Saturn, packed so carefully inside this +flower-egg, the folds of green and silver silk wound round and round the +precious life within. + +But, of course, this is all the seedsman's cunning, and no credit to +Nature; and I repeat, that were it not for railways and the parcel +post--goodness knows whether we should ever get any spring at all in the +country! Think of the days when it had to travel down by stage-coach. +For, left to herself, what is the best Nature can do for you with March +well on the way? Personally, I find the face of the country practically +unchanged. It is, to all intents and purposes, the same as it has been +for the last three or four months--as grim, as unadorned, as bleak, as +draughty, and generally as comfortless as ever. There isn't a flower to +be seen, hardly a bird worth listening to, not a tree that is not +winter-naked, and not a chair to sit down upon. If you want flowers on +your walks you must bring them with you; songs, you must take a poet +under your arm; and if you want to rest, lean laboriously on your +stick--or take your chance of rheumatism. + +Of course your specialists, your botanists, your nature-detectives, will +tell you otherwise. They have surprised a violet in the act of +blossoming; after long and excited chase have discovered a clump of +primroses in their wild state; seen one butterfly, heard one cuckoo. But +as one swallow does not make a summer, it takes more than one cuckoo to +make a spring. I confess that only yesterday I saw three sulphur +butterflies, with my own eyes; I admit the catkins, and the +silver-notched palm; and I am told on good colour-authority that there +is a lovely purplish bloom, almost like plum-bloom, over certain copses +in the valley; by taking thought, I have observed the long horizontal +arms of the beech growing spurred with little forked branches of +spear-shaped buds, and I see little green nipples pushing out through +the wolf-coloured rind of the dwarf fir-trees. Spring is arming in +secret to attack the winter--that is sure enough, but spring in secret +is no spring for me. I want to see her marching gaily with green +pennons, and flashing sun-blades, and a good band. + +I want butterflies as they have them at the Lyceum--'butterflies all +white,' 'butterflies all blue,' 'butterflies of gold,' and I should +particularly fancy 'butterflies all black.' But there, again, you +see,--you must go to town, within hearing of Mrs. Patrick Campbell's +_voix d'or_. I want the meadows thickly inlaid with buttercups and +daisies; I want the trees thick with green leaves, the sky all larks and +sunshine; I want hawthorn and wild roses--both at once; I want some go, +some colour, some warmth in the world. Oh, where are the pipes of Pan? + +The pipes of Pan are in town, playing at street corners and in the +centres of crowded circuses, piled high with flower-baskets blazing with +refulgent flowery masses of white and gold. Here are the flowers you can +only buy in town; simple flowers enough, but only to be had in town. +Here are fragrant banks of violets every few yards, conflagrations of +daffodils at every crossing, and narcissus in scented starry garlands +for your hair. + +You wander through the Strand, or along Regent Street, as through the +meadows of Enna--sweet scents, sweet sounds, sweet shapes, are all about +you; the town-butterflies, white, blue, and gold, 'wheel and shine' and +flutter from shop to shop, suddenly resurgent from their winter +wardrobes as from a chrysalis; bright eyes flash and flirt along the +merry, jostling street, while the sun pours out his golden wine +overhead, splashing it about from gilded domes and bright-faced +windows--and ever are the voices at the corners and the crossings +calling out the sweet flower-names of the spring! + + * * * * * + +But here in the country it is still all rain and iron. I am tired of +waiting for this slow-moving provincial spring. Let us to the town to +meet the spring--for: + + They've taken all the spring from the country to the town-- + Like the butter and the eggs, and the milk from the cow; + And if you want a primrose, you write to London now, + And if you need a nightingale, well,--Whiteley sends it down. + + + + +THE GREAT MERRY-GO-ROUND + + +In an age curious of new pleasures, the merry-go-round seems still to +maintain its ancient popularity. I was the other day the delighted, +indeed the fascinated, spectator of one in full swing in an old +Thames-side town. It was a very superior example, with a central musical +engine of extraordinary splendour, and horses that actually curveted, as +they swirled maddeningly round to the strains of 'The Man that Broke the +Bank at Monte Carlo.' How I longed to join the wild riders! But though I +am a brave man, I confess that to ride a merry-go-round in front of a +laughter-loving Cockney public is more than I can dare. I had to content +myself with watching the faces of the riders. I noticed particularly one +bright-eyed little girl, whose whole passionate young soul seemed to be +on fire with ecstasy, and for whom it was not difficult to prophesy +trouble when time should bring her within reach of more dangerous +excitements. Then there was a stolid little boy, dull and unmoved in +expression, as though he were in church. Life, one felt sure, would be +safe enough, and stupid enough, for him; the world would have no music +to stir or draw him. The fifes would go down the street with a sweet +sound of marching feet, and the eyes of other men would brighten and +their blood be all glancing spears and streaming banners, but he would +remain behind his counter; from the strange hill beyond the town the +dear, unholy music, so lovely in the ears of other men and maids, would +call to him in vain, and morning and evening the stars would sing above +his draper's shop, but he never hear a word. + +What particularly struck me was the number of quite grown-up, even +elderly, people who came and had their pennyworth of horse-exercise. Now +it was a grave young workman quietly smoking his pipe as he revolved; +now it was a stout middle-aged woman returning from marketing, on whom +the Zulu music and the whirling horses laid their irresistible spells. +Unless ye become as little children! + +Is the Kingdom of Heaven really at hand? For, indeed, men and women, and +perhaps particularly literary men and women, are once more becoming as +little children in their pleasures. + +Seriously, one of the most curious and significant of recent literary +phenomena is the sudden return of the literary man to physical, and +so-called 'Philistine,' pleasures and modes of recreation. Perhaps +Stevenson set the fashion with his canoe and his donkey. But at the +moment that he was valiantly daring any one to tell him whether there +was anything better worth doing 'than fooling among boats,' Edward +Fitzgerald, all unconscious and careless of literary fashions, was +giving still more practical expression to the physical faith that was in +him, by going shares in a Lowestoft herring-lugger, and throwing his +heart as well as his money into the fortunes of its noble skipper +'Posh.' A literary man _par excellence_, Mr. Lang reproaches his sires +for his present way of life-- + + 'Why lay your gipsy freedom down + And doom your child to pen and ink?' + +and by steady and persistent golfing, and writing about angling and +cricket, comes as near to the noble savage as is possible to so +incorrigibly civilised a man. Mr. Henley--that Berserker of the +pen--sings the sword with a vigour that makes one curious to see him +using it, and we all know Mr. Kipling's views on the matter. Then Mr. +Bernard Shaw rides a bicycle! + +Those men of letters whose inclinations or opportunities do not lead +them to these out-of-door, and more or less ferocious, pleasures seek to +forget themselves at the music-hall, the Aquarium, or the numerous +Earl's Court exhibitions. They become amateurs of foreign dancing, +connoisseurs of the trapeze, or they leave their great minds at home and +go up the Great Wheel. Earl's Court, particularly, is becoming quite a +modern Vauxhall--Tan-ta-ra-ra! Earl's Court! Earl's Court!--and Mr. Imre +Kiralfy, with his conceptions and designs, is to our generation what +Albert Smith was to the age of Dickens and Edmund Yates. + +It takes some experience of life to realise how right this is; to +realise that, after all our fine philosophies and cocksure sciences, +there is no better answer to the riddle of things than a good game of +cricket or an exciting spin on one's 'bike.' The real inner significance +of Earl's Court--Mr. Kiralfy will no doubt be prepared to hear--is the +failure of science as an answer to life. We give up the riddle, and +enjoy ourselves with our wiser children. Simple pleasures, no doubt, for +the profound! But what is simple, and what is profound? + +The simple joy we get from 'fooling among boats' on a summer day, the +thrill of a well-hit ball, the rapture of a skilful dive, are no more +easy to explain than the more complicated pleasures of literature, or +art, or religion. And why is it--to come closer to our theme--that the +round or the whirling have such attraction for us? What is the secret of +the fascination of the circle? Why is it that the turning of anything, +be it but a barrel-organ or a phrase, holds one as with an hypnotic +power? I confess that I can never genuinely pity a knife-grinder, +however needy. Think of the pleasure of driving that wheel all day, the +merry chirp of the knife on the stone, and the crisp, bright spray of +the flying sparks! Why, he does 'what some men dream of all their +lives'! Wheels of all kinds have the same strange charm; mill-wheels, +colliery-wheels, spinning-wheels, water-wheels, and wheeling waters: +there may--who knows?--have been a certain pleasure in being broken on +the wheel, and, at all events, that hideous punishment is another +curious example of the fascination of the circle. It would take a whole +volume to illustrate the prevalence of the circle in external nature, in +history, and, even more significant, in language. We all know, or think +we know, that the world is round-- + + 'This orb--this round + Of sight and sound,' + +as Mr. Quiller Couch sings--though I remember a porter at school who was +sure that it was flat, and who used to say that Hamlet's + + 'How weary, stale, _flat_, and unprofitable + Seem to me all the uses of this _world_!' + +was a cryptic reference to Shakespeare's secret belief in his theory. +Many of the things we love most are round. Is not money, according to +the proverb, made round that it may go round, and are not the men most +in demand described as 'all-round men'? Nor are all-round women without +their admirers. Events, we know, move in a circle, as time moves in +cycles--though, alas! not on them. The ballet and the bicycle are +popular forms of the circle, and it is the charm of the essay to be +'roundabout.' + +Again, how is it that that which on a small scale does not impress us at +all, when on a large scale impresses us so much? What is the secret of +the impressiveness of size, bulk, height, depth, speed, and mileage? +Philosophically, a mountain is no more wonderful than a molehill, yet no +man is knighted for climbing a molehill. One little drop of water and +one little grain of sand are essentially as wonderful as 'the mighty +ocean' or 'the beauteous land' to which they contribute. A balloon is +no more wonderful than an air-bubble, and were you to build an Atlantic +liner as big as the Isle of Wight it would really be no more remarkable +than an average steam-launch. Nobody marvels at the speed of a snail, +yet, given a snail's pace to start with, an express train follows as a +matter of course. Movement, not the rate of movement, is the mystery. +Precisely the same materials, the same forces, the same methods, are +employed in the little as in the big of these examples. Why should mere +accumulation, reiteration, and magnification make the difference? We may +ask why? But it does, for all that. If we answer that these mammoth +multiplications impress us because they are so much bigger, taller, +fatter, faster, etc., than we are, the question arises--How many times +bigger than a man must a mountain be before it impresses us? Perhaps the +problem has already been tackled by the schoolman who pondered how many +angels could dance on the point of a needle. + +However, these and similar first principles, it will readily be seen, +are far from being irrelevant for the visitor at the Earl's Court +Exhibition. No doubt they are continually discussed by the thousands who +daily and nightly throng that very charming dream-world which Mr. +Kiralfy has built 'midmost the beating' of our 'steely sea.' + +To an age that is over-read and over-fed Mr. Kiralfy brings the message: +'Leave your great minds at home, and go up the Great Wheel!' and I heard +his voice and obeyed. The sensation is, I should say, something between +going up in a balloon and being upon shipboard--a sensation compounded, +maybe, of the creaking of the circular rigging, the pleasure of rising +in the air, the freshening of the air as you ascend, the strange feeling +of the earth receding and spreading out beneath you, the curious +diminution of the people below--to their proper size. You will hear +original minds all about you comparing them to ants, and it is curious +to notice the involuntary feeling of contempt that possesses you as you +watch them. I believe one has a half-defined illusion that we are +growing greater as they are growing smaller. Ants and flies! ants and +flies! with here and there a fiery centipede in the shape of a District +train dashing in and out amongst them. We lose the power of +understanding their motions, and their throngs and movements do indeed +seem as purposeless at this height as the hurry-scurrying about an +anthill. At this height, indeed, one seems to understand how small a +matter a bank smash may seem to the Almighty; though, as a lady said to +me--as we clung tightly together in terror 'a-top of the topmost +bough'--it must be gratifying to see so many churches. + +Those who would keep their illusions about the beauty of London had +better stay below, at least in the daytime, for it makes one's heart +sink to look on those miles and miles of sordid grey roofs huddled in +meaningless rows and crescents, just for all the world like a huge +child's box of wooden bricks waiting to be arranged into some +intelligible pattern. Of course, this is not London proper. Were the +Great Wheel set up in Trafalgar Square, one is fain to hope that the +view from it would be less disheartening--though it might be better not +to try. + +By night, except for the bright oases of the Indian Exhibition, the view +is little more than a black blank, a great inky plain with faint sparks +and rows of light here and there, as though the world had been made of +saltpetre paper, and had lately been set fire to. Were you a traveller +from Mars you would say that the world was very badly lighted. But, for +all that, night is the time for the Great Wheel, for the conflagration +of pleasure at our feet makes us forget the void dark beyond. Then the +Wheel seems like a great revolving spider's web, with fireflies +entangled in it at every turn, and the little engine-house at the +centre, with its two electric lights, seems like the great lord spider, +with monstrous pearls for his eyes. And, as in the daytime the height +robs the depth of its significance, strips poor humanity of any +semblance of impressive or attractive meaning, at night the effect is +just the reverse. What a fairy-world is this opening out beneath our +feet, with its golden glowing squares and circles and palaces, with its +lamplit gardens and pagodas! and who are these gay and beautiful beings +flitting hither and thither, and passing from one bright garden to +another on the stream of pleasure? If this many-coloured, passionate +dream be really human life, let us hasten to be down amongst it once +more! And, after all, is not this flattering night aspect of the world +more true than that disheartening countenance of it in the daylight? +Those golden squares and glowing gardens and flashing waters are, of +course, an illusion of the magician Kiralfy's, yet what power could the +illusion have upon us without the realities of beauty and love and +pleasure it attracts there? + + + + +THE BURIAL OF ROMEO AND JULIET + + +One morning of all mornings the citizens of Verona were startled by +strange news. Tragic forces, to which they had been accustomed to pay +little heed, had been at work in their city during the dark hours, and +young Romeo of the Montagues, handsome, devil-may-care lad as they had +known him, and little Juliet of the Capulets, that madcap, merry, gentle +young mistress, lay dead, side by side in the church of Santa Maria. + +Death! surely they were used to death! and Love, flower of the clove! +they were used to _love_. But here were love and death, that somehow +they could not understand. So they hurried in wondering groups to Santa +Maria, that they might gaze at the dead lovers, and thus perhaps come to +understand. + +Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came. And their +presence-chamber was bright with candles and flowers, and sweet with +the sweet smell of death. The air that had drunk in their wild words +and their last long looks of heavenly love still hung about the dark +corners, as the air where a rose has been holds a little while the +memory of its breath. Yes! that morning, in that dank but shining +tomb, you might draw into you the very breath of love. The air you +breathed had passed through the sweet lungs of Juliet, it had been +etherealised with her holy passion, and washed clean with her lovely +words. And now, for a little while yet, it feasted on the fair peace +of their glad young faces. To-morrow, or the next day, or the next +week, they would belong to the unvisited treasure-house of the past, +but now this morning of all mornings, this day that could never come +again, they still belonged to the real and radiant present. + +Flowers there are that bloom but once in a hundred years, but here in +this tomb had blossomed one of those marvellous flowers that bloom but +once throughout eternity. Poets and kings in after-times, O men of +Verona, will yearn to have seen what you look upon to-day. For you, you +thick and greasy citizens, are chosen out of all time to behold this +beauty. There were once in the world thousands of men and women who had +heard the very words of Christ as they fell from His lips, words that we +may only read. There have been men, actual living, foolish men, who have +looked on at the valour of Horatius, men who from the crowded banks of +the Nile have watched the living body of Cleopatra step into her gilded +barge, men who, standing idle in the streets of Florence, have seen the +love-light start in the great Dante's eyes, seen his hand move to his +laden heart, as the little Beatrice passed him by among her maidens. +Base men of the past, by the indulgent accident of time, have been +granted to behold these wonders, and now for you, O men of Verona, a +like wonder has been born. + + * * * * * + +Romeo and Juliet lay receiving their guests in the vault of the +Capulets, with a strange smile of welcome for all who came. + +It had been an innocent little desire, yet had all the world come +against it. It had been a simple little desire, yet too strong for all +the world to break. + +Strange this enmity of the world to love, as though men should take arms +against the song of a bird, or plot against the opening of a flower. + +But now, what was this strange homage to a love that a few hours ago had +no friend in all the daylight, a fearful bliss beneath the secret moon? +But yesterday a stupid old nurse, a herb-gathering friar, a rascally +apothecary, had been their only friends, and now was all the world come +here to do their bidding. + +No need to steal again beneath the shade of orchard walls, no need again +to heed if lark or nightingale sang in the reddening east. For the world +had grown all warm to love, warm and kind as June to the rose. + + * * * * * + +Three days lay Romeo and Juliet receiving their guests in the vault of +the Capulets, with that strange smile of welcome for all who came. +Three days the world worshipped the love it could not understand, but +still came dense and denser throngs to worship. For the news of the +wonderful flower that had blossomed in Verona had gone far and wide, and +travellers from distant cities kept pouring in to look at those strange +young lovers, who had deemed the world well lost so that they might +leave it together. + +Then the governor of the city decreed, as the time drew near when the +two lovers must be left to their peace, and it was ill that any should +lose the sight of this marvel, that on the fourth day they should be +carried through the streets in the eyes of all the people, and then be +buried together in the vault of the Capulets--for by this burial in the +same tomb, says the old chronicler who was first honoured with the +telling of their sweet story, the governor hoped to bring about a peace +between the Montagues and Capulets, at least for a little while. + +Meanwhile, though Verona was a city of many trades and professions, and +love and death were idle things, yet was there little said of business +all these days, and little else done but talk of the two lovers, of +whom, indeed, it was true, as it has seldom been true out of Holy Writ, +that death was swallowed up in victory. During these days also there +stole a strange sweetness over the city, as though the very spirit of +love had nested there, and was filling the air with its soft +breathing--as when in the first days of spring the birds sing so sweetly +that broken hearts must hide away, and hard hearts grow a little kind. +Men once more spoke kindly to their wives, and even coarse faces wore a +gentle light,--just as sometimes at evening the setting sun will turn to +tenderness even black rocks and frowning towers. + +There were many wild stories afloat about the end of the lovers. Some +said one way and some another. By some the story went that Romeo was +already dead before Juliet had awakened from her swoon, but others +declared that the poison had not worked upon him until Juliet's +awakening had made him awhile forget that he was to die. There were +those who professed to know the very words of their wild farewell, and +in fact there had been several witnesses of Juliet's agony over the body +of her lord. These had told how first she had raved and clung to him, +and called him 'Romeo,' 'Sweet Sir Romeo,' 'Husband,' and many +flower-like names, and had petted him and wooed him to come back. Then +on a sudden she had cried, God-a-mercy--how cold thou art!' and looked +at him long and strangely. Then had she grown stern, and anon soft. +'Canst thou not come back, my love? Then must I follow thee. Not so far +art thou on the way of death, but that I shall overtake thee, and +together shall we go to Pluto's realm, and seek a kinder world.' + +Thereat she had plunged Romeo's dagger into her side, though some said +she had stopped her heart's beating by the strong will of her great +love. Yea--such were the distracted rumours--some averred that at the +last she had curst Christ and His saints, and called upon Venus, who, it +was rumoured in awestruck whispers, was being worshipped once more in +secret corners of the world. + +It was strong noon when, on the fourth day, Romeo and Juliet were +carried through the bright and solemn streets, that the world might be +saved; saved as ever by the spectacle and the worship of a mysterious +nobility, [comma added by transcriber] an uncomprehended greatness, a +beauty which haunts not its daily dreams, lifted up by the humble gaze +of devout eyes into the empyrean of greater souls, stirred to an +unfamiliar passion, and fired with glimpses of a strange unworldly +truth. + +In the light of the sun the faces of the two lovers, as they lay amid +their flowers, seemed to have grown a little weary, but they still wore +their sweet and royal smile, and their laurelled brows were very white +and proud. + +And in the faces that looked upon them, as they moved slowly by, with +sweet death music, and the hushed marching of feet, and the wafted odour +of lilies, there was to be seen strangely blent a great pity for their +tragedy and a heavenly tenderness for their love. It was like a dream +passing down the streets of a dream, so deep and tender was the silence, +for only the hearts of men were speaking; though here and there a girl +sobbed, or a young man buried his face in his sleeve, and the sternest +eyes were dashed with the holy water of tears. And with the pity and +tenderness, who shall say but that in all that silent heart-speech there +was no little envy of the two who had loved so truly and died in the +springtide of their love, before the ways of love had grown dusty with +its summer, or dreary with its autumn, before its dreams had petrified +into duties, and its passion deadened into use? + +'Would it were thou and I,' said many wedded eyes one to the other, +delusively warm and soft for a moment, but all cold and hard again on +the morrow. + +And maybe some poet would say in his heart-- + +'If you loved her living, my Romeo, what were your love could you but +see her dead!' for indeed life has no beauty so wonderful as the beauty +of death. + +And, as in all places and times, there was a base remnant that gaped and +worshipped not, and in their hearts resented all this distinction paid +to a nobility they could not recognise, as the like had grumbled when +Cimabue's Madonna had been carried through the streets in glory. But of +these there is no need that we should take account, any more than of the +beasts that moved head down amid the pastures outside the town, knowing +not of the wonder that was passing within. For the ass will munch his +thistles though the Son of Man be his rider, nor will the sheep look +aside from his grazing though Apollo be the herdsman. + + * * * * * + +At length the sacred pageant was ended, gone like the passing of an +aerial music, and the people went to their homes silent, with haunted +eyes; while the Earth, which had given this beauty, took it back to +herself, and one more Persephone of human loveliness was shut within the +gates of the forgetful grave. + + + + +VARIATIONS UPON WHITEBAIT + + +A very Pre-Raphaelite friend of mine came to me one day and said _a +propos_ of his having designed a very Early English chair: 'After all, +if one has anything to say one might as well put it into a chair!' + +I thought the remark rather delicious, as also his other remark when one +day in a curiosity-shop we were looking at another chair, which the +dealer declared to be Norman. My friend seated himself in it very +gravely, and after softly moving about from side to side, testing it, it +would appear, by the sensation it imparted to the sitting portion of his +limbs, he solemnly decided: 'I don't think the _flavour_ of this chair +is Norman!' + +I thought of this Pre-Raphaelite brother as the Sphinx and I were seated +a few evenings ago at our usual little dinner, in our usual little +sheltered corner, on the Lover's Gallery of one of the great London +restaurants. The Sphinx says that there is only one place in Europe +where one can really dine, but as it is impossible to be always within +reasonable train service of that Montsalvat of cookery, she consents to +eat with me--she cannot call it dine--at the restaurant of which I +speak. I being very simple-minded, untravelled, and unlanguaged, think +it, in my Cockney heart, a very fine place indeed, with its white marble +pillars surrounding the spacious peristyle, and flashing with a thousand +brilliant lights and colours; with its stately cooks, clothed in white +samite, mystic, wonderful, ranged behind a great altar loaded with big +silver dishes, and the sacred musicians of the temple ranged behind +them--while in and out go the waiters, clothed in white and black, +waiters so good and kind that I am compelled to think of Elijah being +waited on by angels. + +They have such an eye for a romance, too, and really take it personally +to heart if it should befall that our little table is usurped by others +that know not love. I like them, too, because they really seem to have +an eye for the strange beauty and charm of the Sphinx, quite an +unexpected taste for Botticelli. They ill conceal their envy of my lot, +and sometimes, in the meditative pauses between the courses, I see them +romantically reckoning how it might be possible by desperately saving +up, by prodigious windfalls of tips, from unexampled despatch and +sweetness in their ministrations, how it might be possible in ten years' +time, perhaps even in five--the lady would wait five years! and her +present lover could be artistically poisoned meanwhile!--how it might be +possible to come and sue for her beautiful hand. Then a harsh British +cry for 'waiter' comes like a rattle and scares away that beautiful +dream-bird, though, as the poor dreamer speeds on the quest of roast +beef for four, you can see it still circling with its wonderful blue +feathers around his pomatumed head. + +Ah, yes, the waiters know that the Sphinx is no ordinary woman. She +cannot conceal even from them the mystical star of her face, they too +catch far echoes of the strange music of her brain, they too grow +dreamy with dropped hints of fragrance from the rose of her wonderful +heart. + +How reverently do they help her doff her little cloak of silk and lace! +with what a worshipful inclination of the head, as in the presence of a +deity, do they await her verdict of choice between rival soups--shall it +be 'clear or thick'? And when she decides on 'thick,' how relieved they +seem to be, as if--well, some few matters remain undecided in the +universe, but never mind, this is settled for ever--no more doubts +possible on one portentous issue, at any rate--Madame will take her soup +'thick.' + +'On such a night' our talk fell upon whitebait. + +As the Sphinx's silver fork rustled among the withered silver upon her +plate, she turned to me and said: + +'Have you ever thought what beautiful little things these whitebait +are?' + +'Oh, yes,' I replied, 'they are the daisies of the deep sea, the +threepenny-pieces of the ocean.' + +'You dear!' said the Sphinx, who is alone in the world in thinking me +awfully clever. 'Go on, say something else, something pretty about +whitebait--there's a subject for you!' + +Then it was that, fortunately, I remembered my Pre-Raphaelite friend, +and I sententiously remarked: 'Of course, if one has anything to say one +cannot do better than say it about whitebait.... Well, whitebait....' + +But here, providentially, the band of the beef--that is, the band behind +the beef; that is, the band that nightly hymns the beef (the phrase is +to be had in three qualities)--struck up the overture from _Tannhaeuser_, +which is not the only music that makes the Sphinx forget my existence; +and thus, forgetting me, she momentarily forgot the whitebait. But I +remembered, remembered hard--worked at pretty things, as metal-workers +punch out their flowers of brass and copper. The music swirled about us +like golden waves, in which swam myriad whitebait, like showers of tiny +stars, like falling snow. To me it was one grand processional of +whitebait, silver ripples upon streams of gold. + +The music stopped. The Sphinx turned to me with the soul of Wagner in +her eyes, and then she turned to the waiter: 'Would it be possible,' she +said, 'to persuade the bandmaster to play that wonderful thing over +again?' + +The waiter seemed a little doubtful, even for the Sphinx, but he went +off to the bandmaster with the air of a man who has at last an +opportunity to show that he can dare all for love. Personally, I have a +suspicion that he poured his month's savings at the bandmaster's feet, +and begged him to do this thing for the most wonderful lady in the +world; or perhaps the bandmaster was really a musician, and his +musician's heart was touched--lonely there amid the beef--to think that +there was really some one, invisible though she were to him, some +shrouded silver presence, up there among the beefeaters, who really +loved to hear great music. Perhaps it was thus made a night he has never +forgotten; perhaps it changed the whole course of his life--who knows? +The sweet reassuring request may have come to him at a moment when, sick +at heart, he was deciding to abandon real music for ever, and settle +down amid the beef and the beef-music of Old England. + +Well, however it was, the waiter came back radiant with a 'Yes' on every +shining part of him, and if the _Tannhaeuser_ had been played well at +first, certainly the orchestra surpassed themselves this second time. + +When the great jinnee of music had once more swept out of the hall, the +Sphinx turned with shining eyes to the waiter: + +'Take,' she said, 'take these tears to the bandmaster. He has indeed +earned them.' + +'Tears, little one!' I said. 'See how they swim like whitebait in the +fishpools of your eyes!' + +'Oh, yes, the whitebait,' rejoined the Sphinx, glad of a subject to hide +her emotion. 'Now tell me something nice about them, though the poor +little things have long since disappeared. Tell me, for instance, how +they get their beautiful little silver waterproofs?' + +'Electric Light of the World,' I said, 'it is like this. While they are +still quite young and full of dreams, their mother takes them out in +picnic parties of a billion or so at a time to where the spring moon is +shining, scattering silver from its purse of pearl far over the wide +waters,--silver, silver, for every little whitebait that cares to swim +and pick it up. The mother, who has a contract with some such big +restaurateur as ours, chooses a convenient area of moonlight, and then +at a given sign they all turn over on their sides, and bask and bask in +the rays, little fin pressed lovingly against little fin--for this is +the happiest time in the young whitebait's life: it is at these +silvering parties that matches are made and future consignments of +whitebait arranged for. Well, night after night, they thus lie in the +moonlight, first on one side, then on the other, till by degrees, tiny +scale by scale, they have become completely lunar-plated. Ah! how sad +they are when the end of that happy time has come!' + +'And what happens to them after that?' asked the Sphinx. + +'One night when the moon is hidden their mother comes to them with +treacherous wile, and suggests that they should go off on a holiday +again to seek the moon--the moon that for a moment seems captured by the +pearl-fishers of the sky. And so off they go merrily, but, alas! no moon +appears; and presently they are aware of unwieldy bumping presences upon +the surface of the sea, presences as of huge dolphins; and rough voices +call across the water, till, scared, the little whitebaits turn home in +flight--to find themselves somehow meshed in an invisible prison, a net +as fine and strong as air, into which, O agony! they are presently +hauled, lovely banks of silver, shining like opened coffers beneath the +coarse and ragged flares of yellow torches. The rest is silence.' + +'What sad little lives! and what a cruel world it is!' said the +Sphinx--as she crunched with her knife through the body of a lark, that +but yesterday had been singing in the blue sky. Its spirit sang just +above our heads as she ate, and the air was thick with the grey ghosts +of all the whitebait she had eaten that night. + +But there were no longer any tears in her eyes. + + + + +THE ANSWER OF THE ROSE + + +The Sphinx and I sat in our little box at _Romeo and Juliet_. It was the +first time she had seen that fairy-tale of passion upon the stage. I had +seen it played once before--in Paradise. Therefore, I rather trembled to +see it again in an earthly play-house, and as much as possible kept my +eyes from the stage. All I knew of the performance--but how much was +that!--was two lovely voices making love like angels; and when there +were no words, the music told me what was going on. Love speaks so many +languages. + +One might as well look. It was as clear as moonlight to the tragic eye +within the heart. The Sphinx was gazing on it all with those eyes that +will never grow old, neither for years nor tears; but though I seemed to +be seeing nothing but an advertisement of Paderewski pianos on the +programme, I saw it--oh, didn't I see it?--all. The house had grown +dark, and the music low and passionate, and for a moment no one was +speaking. Only, deep in the thickets of my heart there sang a tragic +nightingale that, happily, only I could hear; and I said to myself, 'Now +the young fool is climbing the orchard wall! Yes, there go Benvolio and +Mercutio calling him; and now,--"he jests at scars who never felt a +wound"--the other young fool is coming out on to the balcony. God help +them both! They have no eyes--no eyes--or surely they would see the +shadow that sings "Love! Love! Love!" like a fountain in the moonlight, +and then shrinks away to chuckle "Death! Death! Death!" in the +darkness!' + +But, soft, what light from yonder window breaks! + +The Sphinx turned to me for sympathy--this time it was the soul of +Shakespeare in her eyes. + +'Yes!' I whispered, 'it is the Opening of the Eternal Rose, sung by the +Eternal Nightingale!' + +She pressed my hand approvingly; and while the lovely voices made their +heavenly love, I slipped out my silver-bound pocket-book of ivory and +pressed within it the rose which had just fallen from my lips. + +The worst of a great play is that one is so dull between the acts. Wit +is sacrilege, and sentiment is bathos. Not another rose fell from my +lips during the performance, though that I minded little, as I was the +more able to count the pearls that fell from the Sphinx's eyes. + +It took quite half a bottle of champagne to pull us up to our usual +spirits, as we sat at supper at a window where we could see London +spread out beneath us like a huge black velvet flower, dotted with fiery +embroideries, sudden flaring stamens, and rows of ant-like fireflies +moving in slow zig-zag processions along and across its petals. + +'How strange it seems,' said the Sphinx, 'to think that for every two of +those moving double-lights, which we know to be the eyes of hansoms, but +which seem up here nothing but gold dots in a very barbaric pattern of +black and gold, there are two human beings, no doubt at this time of +night two lovers, throbbing with the joy of life, and dreaming, heaven +knows what dreams!' + +'Yes,' I rejoined;' and to them I'm afraid we are even more impersonal. +From their little Piccadilly coracles our watch-tower in the skies is +merely a radiant facade of glowing windows, and no one of all who glide +by realises that the spirited illumination is every bit due to your +eyes. You have but to close them, and every one will be asking what has +gone wrong with the electric light.' + +A little nonsense is a great healer of the heart, and by means of such +nonsense as this we grew merry again. And anon we grew sentimental and +poetic, but--thank heaven! we were no longer tragic. + +Presently I had news for the Sphinx. 'The rose-tree that grows in the +garden of my mind,' I said, 'desires to blossom.' + +'May it blossom indeed,' she replied; 'for it has been flowerless all +this long evening; and bring me a rose fresh with all the dews of +inspiration--no florist's flower, wired and artificially scented, no +bloom of yesterday's hard-driven brains.' + +'I was only thinking,' I said, '_a propos_ of nightingales and roses, +that though all the world has heard the song of the nightingale to the +rose, only the nightingale has heard the answer of the rose. You know +what I mean?' + +'Know what you mean! Of course, that's always easy enough,' retorted the +Sphinx, who knows well how to be hard on me. + +'I'm so glad,' I ventured to thrust back; 'for lucidity is the first +success of expression: to make others see clearly what we ourselves are +struggling to see, believe with all their hearts what we are just daring +to hope, is--well, the religion of a literary man!' + +'Yes! it's a pretty idea,' said the Sphinx, once more pressing the rose +of my thought to her brain; 'and indeed it's more than pretty ...' + +'Thank you!' I said humbly. + +'Yes, it's _true_--and many a humble little rose will thank you for it. +For, your nightingale is a self-advertising bird. He never sings a song +without an eye on the critics, sitting up there in their stalls among +the stars. He never, or seldom, sings a song for pure love, just +because he must sing it or die. Indeed, he has a great fear of death, +unless--you will guarantee him immortality. But the rose, the trusting +little earth-born rose, that must stay all her life rooted in one spot +till some nightingale comes to choose her--some nightingale whose song +maybe has been inspired and perfected by a hundred other roses, which +are at the moment pot-pourri--ah, the shy bosom-song of the rose ...' + +Here the Sphinx paused, and added abruptly-- + +'Well--there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!' + +'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!' + +'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of +course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but +half-born--humourists always prefer to deliver themselves--so I shook my +head. + +'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of +her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey' and +'Stupid,'--which I recognised and meekly bore. + +'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But +don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no +nightingales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is +always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the +nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.' + +'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx. + +'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses--but ... +but....' + +'But what?' + +'But--well, I much prefer roses. Indeed I do.' + +'Rose of the World,' I continued with sentiment, 'draw in your thorns. I +cannot bear them.' + +'Ah!' she answered eagerly, 'that is just it. The nightingale that is +worthy of the rose will not only bear, but positively love, her thorns. +It is for that reason she wears them. The thorns of the rose properly +understood are but the tests of the nightingale. The nightingale that +is frightened of the thorns is not worthy of the rose--of that you may +be sure....' + +'I am not frightened of the thorns,' I managed to interject. + +'Sing then once more,' she cried, 'the Song of the Nightingale.' + +And it was thus I sang:-- + + O Rose of the World, a nightingale, + A Bird of the World, am I, + I have loved all the world and sung all the world, + But I come to your side to die. + + Tired of the world, as the world of me, + I plead for your quiet breast, + I have loved all the world and sung all the world-- + But--where is the nightingale's nest? + + In a hundred gardens I sung the rose, + Rose of the World, I confess-- + But for every rose I have sung before + I love you the more, not less. + + Perfect it grew by each rose that died, + Each rose that has died for you, + The song that I sing--yea, 'tis no new song, + It is tried--and so it is true. + + Petal or thorn, yea! I have no care, + So that I here abide; + Pierce me, my love, or kiss me, my love, + But keep me close to your side. + + I know not your kiss from your scorn, my love, + Your breast from your thorn, my rose, + And if you must kill me, well, kill me, my love! + But--say 'twas the death I chose. + +'Is it true?' asked the Rose. + +'As I am a nightingale,' I replied; and as we bade each other +good-night, I whispered: + +'When may I expect the Answer of the Rose?' + + + + +ABOUT THE SECURITIES + + +When I say that my friend Matthew lay dying, I want you so far as +possible to dissociate the statement from any conventional, and +certainly from any pictorial, conceptions of death which you may have +acquired. Death sometimes shows himself one of those impersonal artists +who conceal their art, and, unless you had been told, you could hardly +have guessed that Matthew was dying, dying indeed sixty miles an hour, +dying of consumption, dying because some one else had died four years +before, dying too of debt. + +Connoisseurs, of course, would have understood; at a glance would have +named the sculptor who was silently chiselling those noble hollows in +the finely modelled face,--that Pygmalion who turns all flesh to +stone,--at a glance would have named the painter who was cunningly +weighting the brows with darkness that the eyes might shine the more +with an unaccustomed light. Matthew and I had long been students of the +strange wandering artist, had begun by hating his art (it is ever so +with an art unfamiliar to us), and had ended by loving it. + +'Let us see what the artist has added to the picture since yesterday,' +said Matthew, signing to me to hand him the mirror. + +'H'm,' he murmured, 'he's had one of his lazy days, I'm afraid. He's +hardly added a touch--just a little heightened the chiaroscuro, +sharpened the nose a trifle, deepened some little the shadows round the +eyes.... + +'O why,' he presently sighed, 'does he not work a little overtime and +get it done? He's been paid handsomely enough.... + +'Paid,' he continued, 'by a life that is so much undeveloped gold-mine, +paid by all my uncashed hopes and dreams....' + +'He works fast enough for me, old fellow,' I interrupted; 'there was a +time, was there not, when he worked too fast for you and me?' + +There are moments, for certain people, when such fantastic unreality as +this is the truest realism. Matthew and I talked like this with our +brains, because we hadn't the courage to allow our hearts to break in +upon the conversation. Had I dared to say some real emotional thing, +what effect would it have had but to set poor tired Matthew a-coughing? +and it was our aim that he should die with as little to-do as +practicable. The emotional in such situations is merely the obvious. +There was no need for either of us to state the elementary feelings of +our love. I knew that Matthew was going to die, and he knew that--I was +going to live, and we pitied each other accordingly; though I confess my +feeling for him was rather one of envy,--when it was not congratulation. + +Thus, to tell the truth, we never mentioned 'the hereafter.' I don't +believe it even occurred to us. Indeed, we spent the few hours that +remained of our friendship in retailing the latest gathered of those +good stories with which we had been accustomed to salt our intercourse. + +One of Matthew's anecdotes was, no doubt, somewhat suggested by the +occasion, and I should add that he had always somewhat of an +ecclesiastical bias--would, I believe, have ended some day as a +Monsignor, a notable 'Bishop Blougram.' + +His story was of an evangelistic preacher who desired to impress his +congregation with the unmistakable reality of hell-fire. 'You know the +Black Country, my friends,' he had declaimed,' you have seen it, at +night, flaring with a thousand furnaces, in the lurid incandescence of +which myriads of unhappy beings, our fellow-creatures (God forbid!), +snatch a precarious existence--you have seen them silhouetted against +the yellow glare, running hither and thither, as it seemed from afar, in +the very jaws of the awful fire. Have you realised that the burdens with +which they thus run hither and thither are molten iron, iron to which +such a stupendous heat has been applied that it has melted, melted as +though it had been sugar in the sun?--well! returning to hell-fire, let +me tell you this, that in hell they eat this fiery molten metal for +ice-cream!--yes! and are glad to get anything so cool.' + +It was thus we talked while Matthew lay dying, for why should we not +talk as we had lived? We both laughed long and heartily over this story; +perhaps it would have amused us less had Matthew not been dying; and +then his kind old nurse brought in our lunch. We had both excellent +appetites, and were far from indifferent to the dainty little meal which +was to be our last but one together. I brought my table as close to +Matthew's pillow as was possible, and he stroked my hand with tenderness +in which there was a touch of gratitude. + +'You are not frightened of the bacteria!' he laughed sadly; and then he +told me, with huge amusement, how a friend (and a true, dear friend for +all that) had come to see him a day or two before, and had hung over the +end of the bed to say farewell, daring to approach no nearer, mopping +his fear-perspiring brows with a handkerchief soaked in 'Eucalyptus'! + +'He had brought an anticipatory elegy too,' said my friend, 'written +against my burial. I wish you'd read it for me,' and he fidgeted for it +in the nervous manner of the dying. Finding it among his pillows, he +handed it to me saying, 'You needn't be frightened of it. It is well +dosed with Eucalyptus.' + +We laughed even more over this poem than over our stories, and then we +discussed the terms of three cremation societies to which, at the +express request of my friend, I had written a day or two before. + +Then having smoked a cigar and drunk a glass of port together (for the +assured dying are allowed to 'live well'), Matthew grew sleepy, and, +tucking him beneath the counterpane, I left him, for, after all, he was +not to die that day. + +Circumstances prevented my seeing him again for a week. When I did so, +entering the room poignantly redolent of the strange sweet odour of +antiseptics, I saw that the great artist had been busy in my absence. +Indeed, his work was nearly at an end. Yet to one unfamiliar with his +methods there was still little to alarm in Matthew's face. In fact, with +the exception of his brain, and his ice-cold feet, he was alive as ever. +And even to his brain had come a certain unnatural activity, a life as +of the grave, a sort of vampire vitality, which would assuredly have +deceived any who had not known him. He still told his stories, laughed +and talked with the same unconquerable humour, was in every way alert +and practical, with this difference, that he had forgotten he was going +to die, that the world in which he exercised his various faculties was +another world to that in which, in spite of his delirium, we ate our +last boiled fowl, drank our last wine, smoked our last cigar together. +His talk was so convincingly rational, dealt with such unreal matters in +so every-day a fashion, that you were ready to think that surely it was +you and not he whose mind was wandering. + +'You might reach that pocket-book, and ring for Mrs. Davies,' he would +say in so casual a way that of course you would ring. On Mrs. Davies's +appearance he would be fumbling about among the papers in his +pocket-book, and presently he would say, with a look of frustration that +went to one's heart--'I've got a ten-pound note somewhere here for you, +Mrs. Davies, to pay you up till Saturday, but somehow I seem to have +lost it. Yet it must be somewhere about. Perhaps you'll find it as you +make the bed in the morning. I'm so sorry to have troubled you....' + +And then he would grow tired and doze a little on his pillow. + +Suddenly he would be alert again, and with a startling vividness tell me +strange stories from the dreamland into which he was now passing. + +I had promised to see him on Monday, but had been prevented, and had +wired to him accordingly. This was Tuesday. + +'You needn't have troubled to wire,' he said. 'Didn't you know I was in +London from Saturday to Monday?' + +'The doctor and Mrs. Davies didn't know,' he continued with the creepy +cunning of the dying: 'I managed to slip away to look at a house I think +of taking--in fact I've taken it. It's in--in--now, where is it? Now +isn't that silly? I can see it as plain as anything--yet I cannot, for +the life of me, remember where it is, or the number.... It was somewhere +St. John's Wood way ... never mind, you must come and see me there, when +we get in....' + +I said he was dying in debt, and thus the heaven that lay about his +deathbed was one of fantastic Eldorados, sudden colossal legacies, and +miraculous windfalls. + +'I haven't told you,' he said presently, 'of the piece of good luck that +has befallen me. You are not the only person in luck. I can hardly +expect you to believe me, it sounds so like the Arabian Nights. However, +it's true for all that. Well, one of the little sisters was playing in +the garden a few afternoons ago, making mud-pies or something of that +sort, and she suddenly scraped up a sovereign. Presently she found two +or three more, and our curiosity becoming aroused, a turn or two with +the spade revealed quite a bed of gold; and the end of it was, that on +further excavating, the whole garden proved to be one mass of +sovereigns. Sixty thousand pounds we counted ... and then, what do you +think?--it suddenly melted away....' + +He paused for a moment, and continued, more in amusement than regret-- + +'Yes--the Government got wind of it, and claimed the whole lot as +treasure-trove! + +'But not,' he added slyly, 'before I'd paid off two or three of my +biggest bills. Yes--and--you'll keep it quiet, of course,--there's +another lot been discovered in the garden, but we shall take good care +the Government doesn't get hold of it this time, you bet.' + +He told this wild story with such an air of simple conviction that, odd +as it may seem, one believed every word of it. But the tale of his +sudden good-fortune was not ended. + +'You've heard of old Lord Osterley,' he presently began again. 'Well, +congratulate me, old man: he has just died and left everything to me. +You know what a splendid library he had--to think that that will all be +mine--and that grand old park through which we've so often wandered, you +and I! Well, we shall need fear no gamekeeper now, and of course, dear +old fellow, you'll come and live with me--like a prince--and just write +your own books and say farewell to journalism for ever. Of course I can +hardly believe it's true yet. It seems too much of a dream, and yet +there's no doubt about it. I had a letter from my solicitors this +morning, saying that they were engaged in going through the securities, +and--and--but the letter's somewhere over there; you might read it. No? +can't you find it? It's there somewhere about, I know. Never mind, you +can see it again....' he finished wearily. + +'Yes!' he presently said, half to himself, 'it will be a wonderful +change! a wonderful change!' + + * * * * * + +At length the time came to say good-bye, a good-bye I knew must be the +last, for my affairs were taking me so far away from him that I could +not hope to see him for some days. + +'I'm afraid, old man,' I said, 'that I mayn't be able to see you for +another week.' + +'O never mind, old fellow, don't worry about me. I'm much better +now--and by the time you come again we shall know all about the +securities.' + +The securities! My heart had seemed like a stone, incapable of feeling, +all those last unreal hours together; but the pathos of that sad phrase, +so curiously symbolic, suddenly smote it with overwhelming pity, and the +tears sprang to my eyes for the first time. As I bent over him to kiss +his poor damp forehead, and press his hand for the last farewell, I +murmured-- + +'Yes--dear, dear old friend. We shall know all about the securities....' + + + + +THE BOOM IN YELLOW + + +Green must always have a large following among artists and art lovers; +for, as has been pointed out, an appreciation of it is a sure sign of a +subtle artistic temperament. There is something not quite good, +something almost sinister, about it--at least, in its more complex +forms, though in its simple form, as we find it in outdoor nature, it is +innocent enough; and, indeed, is it not used in colloquial metaphor as +an adjective for innocence itself? Innocence has but two colours, white +or green. But Becky Sharp's eyes also were green, and the green of the +aesthete does not suggest innocence. There will always be wearers of the +green carnation; but the popular vogue which green has enjoyed for the +last ten or fifteen years is probably passing. Even the aesthete himself +would seem to be growing a little weary of its indefinitely divided +tones, and to be anxious for a colour sensation somewhat more positive +than those to be gained from almost imperceptible _nuances_, of green. +Jaded with over-refinements and super-subtleties, we seem in many +directions to be harking back to the primary colours of life. Blue, +crude and unsoftened, and a form of magenta, have recently had a short +innings; and now the triumph of yellow is imminent. Of course, a love +for green implies some regard for yellow, and in our so-called aesthetic +renaissance the sunflower went before the green carnation--which is, +indeed, the badge of but a small schism of aesthetes, and not worn by +the great body of the more catholic lovers of beauty. + +Yellow is becoming more and more dominant in decoration--in wall-papers, +and flowers cultivated with decorative intention, such as +chrysanthemums. And one can easily understand why: seeing that, after +white, yellow reflects more light than any other colour, and thus +ministers to the growing preference for light and joyous rooms. A few +yellow chrysanthemums will make a small room look twice its size, and +when the sun comes out upon a yellow wall-paper the whole room seems +suddenly to expand, to open like a flower. When it falls upon the pot of +yellow chrysanthemums, and sets them ablaze, it seems as though one had +an angel in the room. Bill-posters are beginning to discover the +attractive qualities of the colour. Who can ever forget meeting for the +first time upon a hoarding Mr. Dudley Hardy's wonderful Yellow Girl, the +pretty advance-guard of _To-Day_? But I suppose the honour of the +discovery of the colour for advertising purposes rests with Mr. Colman; +though its recent boom comes from the publishers, and particularly from +the Bodley Head. _The Yellow Book_ with any other colour would hardly +have sold as well--the first private edition of Mr. Arthur Benson's +poems, by the way, came caparisoned in yellow, and with the identical +name, _Le Cahier Jaune_; and no doubt it was largely its title that made +the success of _The Yellow Aster_. In literature, indeed, yellow has +long been the colour of romance. The word 'yellow-back' witnesses its +close association with fiction; and in France, as we know, it is the +all but universal custom to bind books in yellow paper. Mr. Heinemann +and Mr. Unwin have endeavoured to naturalise the custom here; but, +though in cloth yellow has emphatically 'caught on,' in paper it still +hangs fire. The ABC Railway Guide is probably the only exception, and +that, it is to be hoped, is not fiction. Mr. Lang has recently followed +the fashion with his _Yellow Fairy Book_; and, indeed, one of the best +known figures in fairydom is yellow--namely, the Yellow Dwarf. Yellow, +always a prominent Oriental colour, was but lately of peculiar +significance in the Far East; for were not the sorrows of a certain high +Chinese official intimately connected with the fatal colour? The Yellow +Book, the Yellow Aster, the Yellow Jacket!--and the Yellow Fever, like +'Orion' Home's sunshine, is always with us' somewhere in the world.' The +same applies also, I suppose, to the Yellow Sea. + +Till one comes to think of it, one hardly realises how many important +and pleasant things in life are yellow. Blue and green, no doubt, +contract for the colouring of vast departments of the physical world. +'Blue!' sings Keats, in a fine but too little known sonnet-- + + '... 'Tis the life of heaven--the domain + Of Cynthia--the wide palace of the sun-- + The tent of Hesperus, and all his train-- + The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey, and dun. + Blue! 'Tis the life of waters ... + Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest green, + Married to green in all the sweetest flowers.' + +Yellow might retort by quoting Mr. Grant Allen, in his book on _The +Colour Sense_, to the effect that the blueness of sea and sky is mainly +poetical illusion or inaccuracy, and that sea and sky are found blue +only in one experiment out of fourteen. At morning and evening they are +usually in great part stained golden. Blue certainly has one advantage +over yellow, in that it has the privilege of colouring some of the +prettiest eyes in the world. Yellow has a chance only in cases of +jaundice and liver complaint, and his colour scheme in such cases is +seldom appreciated. Again, green has the contract for the greater bulk +of the vegetable life of the globe; but his is a monotonous business, +like the painting of miles and miles of palings: grass, grass, grass, +trees, trees, trees, _ad infinitum_; whereas yellow leads a roving, +versatile life, and is seldom called upon for such monotonous labour. +The sands of Sahara are probably the only conspicuous instance of yellow +thus working by the piece. It is in the quality, in the diversity of the +things it colours, rather than in their mileage or tonnage, that yellow +is distinguished; though, for that matter, we suppose, the sun is as big +and heavy as most things, and that is yellow. Of course, when we say +yellow we include golden, and all varieties of the colour--saffron, +orange, flaxen, tawny, blonde, topaz, citron, etc. + +If the sun may reasonably be described as the most important object in +the world, surely money is the next. That, as we know, is, in its most +potent metallic form, yellow also. The 'yellow gold' is a favourite +phrase in certain forms of poetry; and 'yellow-boys' is a term of +natural affection among sailors. Following the example of their lord the +sun, most fires and lights are yellow or golden, and it is only in +times of danger or superstition that they burn red or blue. And, if +yellow be denied entrance to beautiful eyes, it enjoys a privilege +which--except in the case of certain indigo-staining African tribes, who +cannot be said to count--blue has never claimed: that of colouring +perhaps the loveliest thing in the world, the hair of woman. Hair is +naturally golden--unnaturally also. When Browning sings pathetically of +'dear dead women--with such hair too!' he continues:-- + + 'What's become of all the _gold_ + Used to hang and brush their bosoms'-- + +not 'all the blue' or 'all the brown,' though some of us, it is true, +are condemned to wear our hair brown or blue-black. But such are only +unhappy exceptions. Yellow or gold is the rule. The bravest men and the +fairest women have had golden hair, and, we may add, in reference to +another distinction of the colour we are celebrating, golden hearts. +Hair at the present time is doing its best to conform to its normal +conditions of colour. Numerous instances might be adduced of its +changing from black to gold, in obedience to chemical law. 'Peroxide of +hydrogen!' says the cynic. 'Beauty!' says the lover of art. + +And it might be argued, in a world of inevitable compromise, that the +damage done to the physical health and texture of the hair thus playing +the chameleon may well be overbalanced by the happiness, and consequent +increased effectiveness, of the person thus dyeing for the sake of +beauty. Thaumaturgists lay much stress on the mystic influence of +colours; and who knows but that, if we were only allowed to dye our hair +what colour we chose, we might be different men and women? Strange +things are told of women who have dyed their hair the colour of blood or +of wine, and we know from Christina Rossetti that golden hair is +negotiable in fairyland-- + + '"You have much gold upon your head," + They answered all together: + "Buy from us with a golden curl."' + +Whether Laura could have done business with the goblin merchantmen with +an oxidised curl is a difficult point, for fairies have sharp eyes; and, +though it be impossible for a mortal to tell the real gold from the +false gold hair, the fairies may be able to do so, and might reject the +curl as counterfeit. + +Again, if in the vegetable world green almost universally colours the +leaves, yellow has more to do with the flowers. The flowers we love best +are yellow: the cowslip, the daffodil, the crocus, the buttercup, half +the daisy, the honeysuckle, and the loveliest rose. Yellow, too, has its +turn even with the leaves; and what an artist he shows himself when, in +autumn, he 'lays his fiery finger' upon them, lighting up the forlorn +woodland with splashes--pure palette-colour of audacious gold! He hangs +the mulberry with heart-shaped yellow shields--which reminds one of the +heraldic importance of 'or,'--and he lines the banks of the Seine with +phantasmal yellow poplars. And other leaves still dearer to the heart +are yellow likewise; leaves of those sweet old poets whose thoughts seem +to have turned the pages gold. Let us dream of this: a maid with yellow +hair, clad in a yellow gown, seated in a yellow room, at the window a +yellow sunset, in the grate a yellow fire, at her side a yellow +lamplight, on her knee a Yellow Book. And the letters we love best to +read--when we dare--are they not yellow too? No doubt some disagreeable +things are reported of yellow. We have had the yellow-fever, and we have +had pea-soup. The eyes of lions are said to be yellow, and the ugliest +cats--the cats that infest one's garden--are always yellow. Some +medicines are yellow, and no doubt there are many other yellow +disagreeables; but we prefer to dwell upon the yellow blessings. I had +almost forgotten that the gayest wines are yellow. Nor has religion +forgotten yellow. It is to be hoped yellow will not forget religion. The +sacred robe of the second greatest religion of the world is yellow, 'the +yellow robe' of the Buddhist friar; and when the sacred harlots of +Hindustan walk in lovely procession through the streets, they too, like +the friars, are clad in yellow. Amber is yellow; so is the orange; and +so were stage-coaches and many dashing things of the old time; and pink +is yellow by lamplight. But gold-mines, it has been proved, are not so +yellow as is popularly supposed. Hymen's robe is Miltonically 'saffron,' +and the dearest petticoat in all literature--not forgetting the +'tempestuous' garment of Herrick's Julia--was 'yaller.' Yes!-- + + ''Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, + An' er name was Supi-yaw-lat, jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen.' + +Is it possible to say anything prettier for yellow than that? + + + + +LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN + + +My Dear Sir,--I agree with every word you say. You have my entire +sympathy. The world is indeed hard, hard to the sad--particularly hard +to the unsuccessful. A sure five hundred a year covers a multitude of +sorrows. It is ever an ill wind for the shorn lamb. If it be true that +nothing succeeds like success, it is no less sadly true that nothing +fails like failure. And when one thinks of it, it is only natural, for +every failure is an obstruction in the stream of life. Metaphorical +writers are fond of saying that the successful ride to success on the +back of the failures. It is true that many rise on stepping-stones of +their dead relations--but that is because their relations have been +financial successes. In truth, instead of the failure making the +fortune of the successful, it is just the reverse. A very successful man +would be the more successful were it not for the failures--on whom he +has either to spend his money to support, or his time to advise. The +strong are said to be impatient towards the weak--and is it to be +wondered at, in a world where even the strongest need all their +strength, in a sea where the best swimmer needs all his wind and muscle +and skill to keep afloat? If success is sometimes 'unfeeling' towards +failure, failure is often unfair to success. Of course, 'it is He that +hath made us and not we ourselves,' but that is a text that cuts both +ways; and when all is said and done, the failure detracts from the force +in the universe; he is the clog on the wheel of fortune. To say that the +successful man benefits by the failure of others is as true as it would +be to say that the ratepayer benefits by the poor-rates. You use the +word 'charlatan' somewhat profusely of several successful writers, and +no doubt you are right. But you must remember that it is a favourite +charge against the gifted and the fortunate. Because we have failed by +fair means, we are sure the other fellows have succeeded by foul. And, +moreover, one is apt to forget how much talent is needed to be a +charlatan. Never look down upon a charlatan. Courage, skill, personal +force or charm, great knowledge of human nature, dramatic instinct, and +industry--few charlatans succeed (and no one is called a charlatan till +he _does_ succeed, be his success as low or high as you please) without +possessing a majority of these qualities; how many of which--it would be +interesting to know--do you possess? + +Indeed, it would seem to need more gifts to be a rogue than an honest +man, and there is a sense in which every great man may be described as a +charlatan--_plus_ greatness; greatness being an almost indefinable +quality, a quality, at any rate, on which there is a bewildering +diversity of opinion. + +You seem a little cross with publishers and editors. They have not +proved the distinguished, brilliant, and sympathetic beings you imagined +them in your boyish dreams. No doubt, publishers and editors enter +hardly into the kingdom of heaven. But then, you see, they don't care so +much about that; they are much more interested in the next election at +certain fashionable clubs. It is really a little hard on them that they +should suffer from the ignorant misconception of the literary amateur. +It is only those who have had no dealings with them who would be unfair +enough to expect publishers or editors to be literary men. They are +business men--business men _par excellence_--and a good thing, too, for +their papers and their authors. You lament their mercenary view of life; +but, judging by your letter, even you are not disposed to regard money +as the root of all evil. + +You cannot understand why you have failed where others have succeeded. +You have far more Greek than Keats, more history than Scott, and you +know nineteen languages--ten of them to speak. With so many +accomplishments, it must indeed be hard to fail--though you do not seem +to have found it difficult. You have travelled too--have been twice +round the world, and have a thorough knowledge of the worst hotels. +Certainly, it is singular. Nevertheless, I must confess that the dullest +men I have ever met have been professors of history; the worst poets +have not only known Greek, but French as well; and, generally speaking +the most tiresome of my acquaintances have more degrees than I have +Latin to name them in. Alas! it is not experience, or travel, or +language, but the use we make of them, that makes literary success, +which, one may add, is particularly dependent--perhaps not +unnaturally--on the use we make of language. A book may be a book, +although there is neither Latin nor Greek, nor travel, nor +experience--in fact 'nothing' in it; and though, like myself, you may +pay an Oxford professor a thousand a year to correct your proofs, you +may still miss immortality. + +To these intellectual and general equipments you add goodness of heart, +sincerity of conviction, and martyrdom for your opinions; you are, it +would seem, like many others of us, the best fellow and greatest man of +your acquaintance. Permit me to remind you that we are not talking of +goodness of heart, of strength or beauty of character, but of success, +which is a thing apart, a fine art in itself. + +You confess that you are somewhat unpractical: you expect +others--hard-worked journalists who never met you--to tell you what to +read, how to form your style, and how 'to get into the magazines.' You +are, you say, with something of pride, but a poor business man. That is +a pity, for nearly every successful literary man of the day, and +particularly the novelists, are excellent business men. Indeed, the +history of literature all round has proved that the men who have been +masters of words have also been masters of things--masters of the facts +of life for which those words stand. Many writers have mismanaged their +affairs from idleness and indifference, but few from incapacity. Leigh +Hunt boasted that he could never master the multiplication-table. +Perhaps that accounts for his comparative failure as a writer. +Incompetence in one art is far from being a guarantee of competency in +another, and a man is all the more likely to make a name if he is able +to make a living--though, judging from Coleridge, it seems a good plan +to let another hard-worked man support one's wife and children. On the +other hand, though business faculty is a great deal, it is not +everything: for a man may be as punctual and methodical as Southey, and +yet miss the prize of his high calling, or as generally 'impossible' as +Blake, and yet win his place among the immortals. + +In fact, after all, success in literature has something to do with +writing. In temporary success, industry and business faculty, and an +unworked field--be it Scotland, Ireland, or the Isle of Man (any place +but plain England!)--are the chief factors. For that more lasting +success which we call fame other qualities are needed, such qualities as +imagination, fancy, and magic and force in the use of words. Can you +honestly say, O beloved, though tiresome, correspondent, that these +great gifts are yours? Judging from your letter--but Heaven forbid that +I should be unkind! For, need I say I love you with a fellow-feeling? Do +you think that you are the only unappreciated genius on the planet--not +to speak of all the other unappreciated geniuses on all the other +planets? Thank goodness, the postal arrangements with the latter are as +yet defective! Others there are with hearts as warm, minds as profound, +and style at least as attractive, who languish in unmerited +neglect--Miltons inglorious indeed, though far from mute. + +Believe me, you are not alone. In fact, there are so many like you that +it would be quite easy for you to find society without worrying me. And, +for all of us, there is the consolation that, though we fail as writers, +we may still succeed as citizens, as husbands and fathers and friends. +As Whitman would say--because you are not Editor of _The Times_, do you +give in that you are less than a man? There are poets that have never +entered into the Bodley Head, and great prose-writers who have never sat +in an editorial chair. Be satisfied with your heavenly crowns, O you +whining unsuccessful, and leave to your inferiors the earthly +five-shilling pieces. + + + + +A POET IN THE CITY + + + 'In the midway of this our mortal life, + I found me in a gloomy wood, astray.' + +I (and when I say I, I must be understood to be speaking dramatically) +only venture into the City once a year, for the very pleasant purpose of +drawing that twelve-pound-ten by which the English nation, ever so +generously sensitive to the necessities, not to say luxuries, of the +artist, endeavours to express its pride and delight in me. It would be a +very graceful exercise of gratitude for me here to stop and parenthesise +the reader on the subject of all that twelve-pound-ten has been to me, +how it has quite changed the course of my life, given me that +long-desired opportunity of doing my best work in peace, for which so +often I vainly sighed in Fleet Street, and even allowed me an indulgence +in minor luxuries which I could not have dreamed of enjoying before the +days of that twelve-pound-ten. Now not only peace and plenty, but +leisure and luxury are mine. There is nothing goes so far as--Government +money. + +Usually on these literally State occasions, I drive up in state, that is +in a hansom. There is only one other day in the year on which I am so +splendid, but that is another beautiful story. It, too, is a day and an +hour too joyous to be approached otherwise than on winged wheels, too +stately to be approached in merely pedestrian fashion. To go on foot to +draw one's pension seems a sort of slight on the great nation that does +one honour, as though a Lord Mayor should make his appearance in the +procession in his office coat. + +So I say it is my custom to go gaily, and withal stately, to meet my +twelve-pound-ten in a hansom. For many reasons the occasion always seems +something of an adventure, and I confess I always feel a little excited +about it--indeed, to tell the truth, a little nervous. As I glide along +in my state barge (which seems a much more proper and impressive image +for a hansom than 'gondola,' with its reminiscences of Earl's Court) I +feel like some fragile country flower torn from its roots, and +bewilderingly hurried along upon the turbid, swollen stream of London +life. + +The stream glides sweetly with a pleasant trotting tinkle of bells by +the green parkside of Piccadilly, and sweet is it to hear the sirens +singing, and to see them combing their gilded locks, on the yellow sands +of Piccadilly Circus--so called, no doubt, from the number of horses and +the skill of their drivers. Here are the whirling pools of pleasure, +merry wheels of laughing waters, where your hansom glides along with a +golden ease--it is only when you enter the First Cataract of the Strand +that you become aware of the far-distant terrible roar of the Falls! +They are yet nearly two miles away, but already, like Niagara, thou +hearest the sound thereof--the fateful sound of that human Niagara, +where all the great rivers of London converge: the dark, strong floods +surging out from the gloomy fastnesses of the East End, the +quick-running streams from the palaces of the West, the East with its +wagons, the West with its hansoms, the four winds with their omnibuses, +the horses and carriages under the earth jetting up their companies of +grimy passengers, the very air busy with a million errands. + +You are in the rapids--metaphorically speaking--as you crawl down +Cheapside; and here where the Bank of England and the Mansion House rise +sheer and awful from, shall we say, this boiling caldron, this 'hell' of +angry meeting waters--Threadneedle Street and Cornhill, Queen Victoria +Street and Cheapside, each 'running,' again metaphorically, 'like a +mill-race'--here in this wild maelstrom of human life and human +conveyances, here is the true 'Niagara in London,' here are the most +wonderful falls in the world--the London Falls. + +'Yes!' I said softly to myself, and I could see the sly sad smile on the +face of the dead poet, at the thought of whose serene wisdom a silence +like snow seemed momentarily to cover up the turmoil--'Yes!' I said +softly, 'there is still the same old crush at the corner of Fenchurch +Street!' + +By this time I had disbursed one of my two annual cab-fares, and was +standing a little forlorn at that very corner. It was a March afternoon, +bitter and gloomy; lamps were already popping alight in a desolate way, +and the east wind whistled mournfully through the ribs of the +passers-by. A very unflowerlike man was dejectedly calling out +'daffadowndillies' close by. The sound of the pretty old word, thus +quaintly spoken, brightened the air better than the electric lights +which suddenly shot rows of wintry moonlight along the streets. I bought +a bunch of the poor pinched flowers, and asked the man how he came to +call them 'daffadowndillies.' + +'D'vunshur,' he said, in anything but a Devonshire accent, and then the +east wind took him and he was gone--doubtless to a neighbouring tavern; +and no wonder, poor soul! Flowers certainly fall into strange hands here +in London. + +Well, it was nearing four, and if I wanted a grateful country's +twelve-pound-ten, I must make haste; so presently I found myself in a +great hall, of which I have no clearer impression than that there were +soft little lights all about me, and a soft chime of falling gold, like +the rippling of Pactolus. I have a sort of idea, too, of a great number +of young men with most beautiful moustaches, playing with golden +shovels; and as I thus stood among the soft lights and listened to the +most beautiful sound in the world, I thought that thus must Danae have +felt as she stood amid the falling shower. But I took care to see that +my twelve sovereigns and a half were right number and weight for all +that. + +Once more in the street, I lingered a while to take a last look at the +Falls. What a masterful alien life it all seemed to me! No single +personality could hope to stand alone amid all that stress of ponderous, +bullying forces. Only public companies, and such great impersonalities, +could hope to hold their own, to swim in such a whirlpool--and even +they, I had heard it whispered, far away in my quiet starlit garret, +sometimes went down. 'How,' I cried, 'would-- + + '... my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your deeps and heights ... + Rush of suns, and roll of systems, and your fiery clash of meteorites,' + +again quoting poetry. I always quote poetry in the City, as a +protest--moreover, it clears the air. + +The more people buffeted against me the more I felt the crushing sense +of almost cosmic forces. Everybody was so plainly an atom in a public +company, a drop of water in a tyrannous stream of human +energy--companies that cared nothing for their individual atoms, streams +that cared nothing for their component drops; such atoms and drops, for +the most part, to be had for thirty shillings a week. These people about +me seemed no more like individual men and women than individual puffs in +a mighty rushing wind, or the notes in a great scheme of music, are men +and women--to the banker so many pens with ears whereon to perch them, +to the capitalist so many 'hands,' and to the City man generally so many +'helpless pieces of the game he plays' up there in spidery nooks and +corners of the City. + +As I listened to the throbbing of the great human engines in the +buildings about me, a rising and a falling there seemed as of those +great steel-limbed monsters, weird contortionists of metal, that jet up +and down, and writhe and wrestle this way and that, behind the long +glass windows of great water-towers, or toil like Vulcan in the bowels +of mighty ships. An expression of frenzy seems to come up even from the +dumb tossing steel; sometimes it seems to be shaking great knuckled +fists at one and brandishing threatening arms, as it strains and sweats +beneath the lash of the compulsive steam. As one watches it, there seems +something of human agony about its panic-stricken labours, and something +like a sense of pity surprises one--a sense of pity that anything in the +world should have to work like that, even steel, even, as we say, +senseless steel. What, then, of these great human engine-houses! Will +the engines always consent to rise and fall, night and day, like that? +or will there some day be a mighty convulsion, and this blind Samson of +labour pull down the whole engine-house upon his oppressors? Who knows? +These are questions for great politicians and thinkers to decide, not +for a poet, who is too much terrified by such forces to be able calmly +to estimate and prophesy concerning them. + +Yes! if you want to realise Tennyson's picture of 'one poor poet's +scroll' ruling the world, take your poet's scroll down to Fenchurch +Street and try it there. Ah, what a powerless little 'private interest' +seems poetry there, poetry 'whose action is no stronger than a flower.' +In days of peace it ventures even into the morning papers; but, let only +a rumour of war be heard, and it vanishes like a dream on doomsday +morning. A County Council election passeth over it and it is gone. + +Yet it was near this very spot that Keats dug up the buried beauty of +Greece, lying hidden beneath Finsbury Pavement! and in the deserted City +churches great dramatists lie about us. Maybe I have wronged the +City--and at this thought I remembered a little bookshop but a few yards +away, blossoming like a rose right in the heart of the wilderness. + +Here, after all, in spite of all my whirlpools and engine-houses, was +for me the greatest danger in the City. Need I say, therefore, that I +promptly sought it, hovered about it a moment--and entered? How much of +that grateful governmental twelve-pound-ten came out alive, I dare not +tell my dearest friend. + +At all events I came out somehow reassured, more rich in faith. There +was a might of poesy after all. There were words in the little +yellow-leaved garland, nestling like a bird in my hand, that would +outlast the bank yonder, and outlive us all. I held it up. How tiny it +seemed, how frail amid all this stone and iron! A mere flower--a flower +from the seventeenth century--long-lived for a flower! Yes, an +_immortelle_. + + + + +BROWN ROSES + +'Well, I never thought to see this day, sir,' said Gibbs, with something +like tears in his voice, as he reluctantly plied his scissors upon +Hyacinth Rondel's distinguished curls. + +'Nor I, Gibbs--nor I!' said Rondel sadly, relapsing into silence again, +with his head meekly bent over the white sheet spread to catch his shorn +beauty. + +'To think of the times, sir, that I have dressed your head,' continued +Gibbs, whose grief bore so marked an emphasis, 'and to think that after +to-day ...' + +'But you forget, my dear Gibbs, that I shall now be a more constant +customer than ever!' + +'Ah, sir, but that will be different. It will be mere machine-cutting, +lawn-mowing, steam-reaping, if you understand me; there'll be no +pleasure in it, no artistic pleasure, I mean.' + +'Yes, Gibbs, and you are an artist--I have often told you that.' + +'Ah, sir, but I am coming to the conclusion that it is better not to be +an artist, better to be born just like every one else. In these days one +suffers too much. Why, sir, I haven't in the whole of my business six +heads like yours, and I go on cutting all the rest week in and week out, +just for the pleasure of dressing those six--and now there'll only be +five.' + + * * * * * + +'It looks like a winding-sheet,' mused Rondel presently, after a long +silence, broken only by the soft crunch and click of the fatal scissors, +as they feasted on the beautiful brown silk. + +'It do indeed, sir,' said Gibbs, with a shudder, as another little globe +of golden brown rolled down into Rondel's lap. + +'Poor brown roses!' sighed the poet, after another silence; 'they are +just like brown roses, aren't they, Gibbs?' + +'They are indeed, sir!' + +'Brown roses scattered over the winding-sheet of one's youth--eh, +Gibbs?' + +'They are indeed, sir.' + +'That's rather a pretty image, don't you think, Gibbs?' + +'Indeed I do, sir!' + +'Well, well, they have bloomed their last; and when Juliet's white hands +come seeking with their silver fingers, white maidens lost in the brown +enchanted forest, there will not be a rose left for her to gather.' + +'Believe me, sir, I would more gladly have cut off your head than your +hair--that is, figuratively speaking,' sobbed the artist-in-hair-oils. + +'Yes, my head would hardly be missed--you are quite right, Gibbs; but my +hair! What will they do without it at first nights and private views? It +was worth five shillings a week to many a poor paragraph-writer. Well, I +must try and make up for it by my beard!' + +'Your beard, sir?' exclaimed Gibbs in horror. + +'Yes, Gibbs; for some years I have been a Nazarene--that is, a Nazarite, +with the top half of my head; now I am going to change about and be a +Nazarite with the lower. The razor has kissed my cheeks and my chin and +the fluted column of my throat for the last time.' + +'You cannot mean it, sir!' said Gibbs, suspending his murderous task a +moment. + +'It's quite true, Gibbs.' + +'Does she wish that too, sir?' + +'Yes, that too.' + +'Well, sir, I have heard of men making sacrifices for their wives, but +of all the cruel....' + +'Please don't, Gibbs. It does no good. And Mrs. Rondel's motive is a +good one.' + +'Of course, sir, I cannot presume--and yet, if it wouldn't be presuming, +I should like to know why you are making this great, I may say this +noble, sacrifice?' + +'Well, Gibbs, we're old friends, and I'll tell you some day, but I +hardly feel up to it to-day.' + +'Of course not, sir, of course not--it's only natural,' said Gibbs +tenderly, while the scissors once more took up the conversation. + + + + +THE DONKEY THAT LOVED A STAR + + +'That is how the donkey tells his love!' I said one day, with intent to +be funny, as the prolonged love-whoop of a distant donkey was heard in +the land. + +'Don't be too ready to laugh at donkeys,' said my friend. 'For,' he +continued, 'even donkeys have their dreams. Perhaps, indeed, the most +beautiful dreams are dreamed by donkeys.' + +'Indeed,' I said, 'and now that I think of it, I remember to have said +that most dreamers are donkeys, though I never expected so scientific a +corroboration of a fleeting jest.' + +Now, my friend is an eminent scientist and poet in one, a serious +combination; and he took my remarks with seriousness at once scientific +and poetic. + +'Yes,' he went on, 'that is where you clever people make a mistake. You +think that because a donkey has only two vowel-sounds wherewith to +express his emotions, he has no emotions to express. But let me tell +you, sir ...' + +But here we both burst out laughing-- + +'You Golden Ass!' I said,'take a munch of these roses; perhaps they will +restore you.' + +'No,' he resumed, 'I am quite serious. I have for many years past made a +study of donkeys--high-stepping critics call it the study of Human +Nature--however, it's the same thing--and I must say that the more I +study them the more I love them. There is nothing so well worth studying +as the misunderstood, for the very reason that everybody thinks he +understands it. Now, to take another instance, most people think they +have said the last word on a goose when they have called it "a +goose"!--but let me tell you, sir ...' + +But here again we burst out laughing-- + +'Dear goose of the golden eggs,' I said, 'pray leave to discourse on +geese to-night--though lovely and pleasant would the discourse +be;--to-night I am all agog for donkeys.' + +'So be it,' said my friend,' and if that be so, I cannot do better than +tell you the story of the donkey that loved a star--keeping for another +day the no less fascinating story of the goose that loved an angel.' + +By this time I was, appropriately, all ears. + +'Well,' he once more began, 'there was once a donkey, quite an intimate +friend of mine--and I have no friend of whom I am prouder--who was +unpractically fond of looking up at the stars. He could go a whole day +without thistles, if night would only bring him stars. Of course he +suffered no little from his fellow-donkeys for this curious passion of +his. They said well that it did not become him, for indeed it was no +little laughable to see him gazing so sentimentally at the remote and +pitiless heavens. Donkeys who belonged to Shakespeare Societies recalled +the fate of Bottom, the donkey who had loved a fairy; but our donkey +paid little heed. There is perhaps only one advantage in being a +donkey--namely, a hide impervious to criticism. In our donkey's case it +was rather a dream that made him forget his hide--a dream that drew up +all the sensitiveness from every part, from hoof, and hide, and ears, so +that all the feeling in his whole body was centred in his eyes and +brain, and those, as we have said, were centred on a star. He took it +for granted that his fellows should sneer and kick-out at him--it was +ever so with genius among the donkeys, and he had very soon grown used +to these attentions of his brethren, which were powerless to withdraw +his gaze from the star he loved. For though he loved all the stars, as +every individual man loves all women, there was one star he loved more +than any other; and standing one midnight among his thistles, he prayed +a prayer, a prayer that some day it might be granted him to carry that +star upon his back--which, he recalled, had been sanctified by the holy +sign--were it but for ever so short a journey. Just to carry it a little +way, and then to die. This to him was a dream beyond the dreams of +donkeys. + +'Now, one night,' continued my friend, taking breath for himself and +me, 'our poor donkey looked up to the sky, and lo! the star was nowhere +to be seen. He had heard it said that stars sometimes fall. Evidently +his star had fallen. Fallen! but what if it had fallen upon the earth? +Being a donkey, the wildest dreams seemed possible to him. And, strange +as it may seem, there came a day when a poet came to his master and +bought our donkey to carry his little child. Now, the very first day he +had her upon his back, the donkey knew that his prayer had been +answered, and that the little swaddled babe he carried was the star he +had prayed for. And, indeed, so it was; for so long as donkeys ask no +more than to fetch and carry for their beloved, they may be sure of +beauty upon their backs. Now, so long as this little girl that was a +star remained a little girl, our donkey was happy. For many pretty years +she would kiss his ugly muzzle and feed his mouth with sugar--and thus +our donkey's thoughts sweetened day by day, till from a natural +pessimist he blossomed into a perfectly absurd optimist, and dreamed the +donkiest of dreams. But, one day, as he carried the girl who was really +a star through the spring lanes, a young man walked beside her, and +though our donkey thought very little of his talk--in fact, felt his +plain "hee-haw" to be worth all its smart chirping and twittering--yet +it evidently pleased the maiden. It included quite a number of +vowel-sounds--though, if the maiden had only known, it didn't mean half +so much as the donkey's plain monotonous declaration. + +'Well, our donkey soon began to realise that his dream was nearing its +end; and, indeed, one day his little mistress came bringing him the +sweetest of kisses, the very best sugar in the very best shops, but for +all that our donkey knew that it meant good-bye. It is the charming +manner of English girls to be at their sweetest when they say good-bye. + +'Our dreamer-donkey went into exile as servant to a woodcutter, and his +life was lenient if dull, for the woodcutter had no sticks to waste upon +his back; and next day his young mistress who was once a star took a +pony for her love, whom some time after she discarded for a talented +hunter, and, one fine day, like many of her sex, she pitched her +affections upon a man--he too being a talented hunter. To their wedding +came all the countryside. And with the countryside came the donkey. He +carried a great bundle of firewood for the servants' hall, and as he +waited outside, gazing up at his old loves the stars, while his master +drank deeper and deeper within, he revolved many thoughts. But he is +only known to have made one remark--in the nature, one may think, of a +grim jest-- + +'"After all!" he was heard to say, "she has married a donkey--after +all!" + +'No doubt it was feeble; but then our donkey was growing old and bitter, +and hope deferred had made him a cynic.' + + + + +ON LOVING ONE'S ENEMIES + +Like all people who live apart from it, the Founder of the Christian +religion was possessed of a profound knowledge of the world. As, +according to the proverb, the woodlander sees nothing of the wood for +its trees, so those who live in the world know nothing of it. They know +its gaudy, glittering surface, its Crystal Palace fireworks, and the +paste-diamonds with which it bedecks itself; they know its music-halls +and its night clubs, its Piccadillys and its politics, its restaurants +and its salons; but of the bad--or good?--heart of it all they know +nothing. In more meanings than one, it takes a saint to catch a sinner; +and Christ certainly knew as well as saved the sinner. + +But none of His precepts show a truer knowledge of life and its +conditions than His commandment that we should love our enemies. He +realised--can we doubt?--that, without enemies, the Church He bade His +followers build could not hope to be established. He knew that the +spiritual fire He strove to kindle would spread but little, unless the +four winds of the world blew against it. Well, indeed, may the Christian +Church love its enemies, for it is they who have made it. + +Indeed, for a man, or a cause, that wants to get on, there is nothing +like a few hearty, zealous enemies. Most of us would never be heard of +if it were not for our enemies. The unsuccessful man counts up his +friends, but the successful man numbers his enemies. A friend of mine +was lamenting, the other day, that he could not find twelve people to +disbelieve in him. He had been seeking them for years, he sighed, and +could not get beyond eleven. But, even so, with only eleven he was a +very successful man. In these kind-hearted days enemies are becoming so +rare that one has to go out of one's way to make them. The true +interpretation, therefore, of the easiest of the commandments is--make +your enemies, and your enemies will make you. + +So soon as the armed men begin to spring up in our fields, we may be +sure that we have not sown in vain. + +Properly understood, an enemy is but a negative embodiment of our +personalities or ideas. He is an involuntary witness to our vitality. +Much as he despises us, greatly as he may injure us, he is none the less +a creature of our making. It was we who put into him the breath of his +malignity, and inspired the activity of his malice. Therefore, with his +very existence so tremendous a tribute, we can afford to smile at his +self-conscious disclaimers of our significance. Though he slay us, we +_made_ him--to 'make an enemy,' is not that the phrase? + +Indeed, the fact that he is our enemy is his one _raison d'etre_. That +alone should make us charitable to him. Live and let live. Without us +our enemy has no occupation, for to hate us is his profession. Think of +his wives and families! + +The friendship of the little for the great is an old-established +profession; there is but one older--namely, the hatred of the little +for the great; and, though it is perhaps less officially recognised, it +is without doubt the more lucrative. It is one of the shortest roads to +fame. Why is the name of Pontius Pilate an uneasy ghost of history? +Think what fame it would have meant to be an enemy of Socrates or +Shakespeare! _Blackwood's Magazine_ and _The Quarterly Review_ only +survive to-day because they once did their best to strangle the genius +of Keats and Tennyson. Two or three journals of our own time, by the +same unfailing method, seek that circulation from posterity which is +denied them in the present. + +This is particularly true in literature, where the literary enemy is as +organised a tradesman as the literary agent. Like the literary agent, he +naturally does his best to secure the biggest men. No doubt the time +will come when the literary cut-throat--shall we call him?--will publish +dainty little books of testimonials from authors, full of effusive +gratitude for the manner in which they have been slashed and bludgeoned +into fame. 'Butcher to Mr. Grant Allen' may then become a familiar +legend over literary shop-fronts:-- + + 'Ah! did you stab at Shelley's heart + With silly sneer and cruel lie? + And Wordsworth, Tennyson, and Keats, + To murder did you nobly try? + + You failed, 'tis true; but what of that? + The world remembers still your name-- + 'Tis fame, _for you_, to be the cur + That barks behind the heels of Fame.' + +Any one who is fortunate enough to have enemies will know that all this +is far from being fanciful. If one's enemies have any other _raison +d'etre_ beyond the fact of their being our enemies--what is it? They are +neither beautiful nor clever, wise nor good, famous nor, indeed, +passably distinguished. Were they any of these, they would not have +taken to so humble a means of getting their living. Instead of being our +enemies, they could then have afforded to employ enemies on their own +account. + +Who, indeed, are our enemies? Broadly speaking, they are all those +people who lack what we possess. + +If you are rich, every poor man is necessarily your enemy. If you are +beautiful, the great democracy of the plain and ugly will mock you in +the streets. It will be the same with everything you possess. The +brainless will never forgive you for possessing brains, the weak will +hate you for your strength, and the evil for your good heart. If you can +write, all the bad writers are at once your foes. If you can paint, the +bad painters will talk you down. But more than any talent or charm you +may possess, the pearl of price for which you will be most bitterly +hated will be your success. You can be the most wonderful person that +ever existed, so long as you don't succeed, and nobody will mind. 'It is +the sunshine,' says some one, 'that brings out the adder.' So powerful, +indeed, is success that it has been known to turn a friend into a foe. +Those, then, who wish to engage a few trusty enemies out of place need +only advertise among the unsuccessful. + +_P.S._--For one service we should be particularly thankful to our +enemies--they save us so much in stimulants. Their unbelief so helps our +belief, their negatives make us so positive. + + + + +THE DRAMATIC ART OF LIFE + +It is a curious truth that, whereas in every other art deliberate choice +of method and careful calculation of effect are expected from the +artist, in the greatest and most difficult art of all, the art of life, +this is not so. In literature, painting, or sculpture you first evolve +your conception, and then, after long study of it, as it glows and +shimmers in your imagination, you set about the reverent selection of +that form which shall be its most truthful incarnation, in words, in +paint, in marble. Now life, as has been said many times, is an art too. +Sententious morality from time past has told us that we are each given a +part to play, evidently implying, with involuntary cynicism, that the +art of life is--the art of acting. + +As with the actor, we are each given a certain dramatic conception for +the expression of which we have precisely the same artistic +materials--namely, our own bodies, sometimes including heart and brains. +One has often heard the complaint of a certain actor that he acts +himself. On the metaphorical stage of life the complaint and the implied +demand are just the reverse. How much more interesting life would be if +only more people had the courage and skill to act themselves, instead of +abjectly understudying some one else! Of course, there are supers on the +stage of life as on the real stage. It is proper that these should dress +and speak and think alike. These one courteously excepts from the +generalisation that the composer of the play, as Marcus Aurelius calls +him, has given each of us a certain part to play--that part simply +oneself: a part, need one say, by no means as easy as it seems; a part +most difficult to study, and requiring daily rehearsal. So difficult is +it, indeed, that most people throw up the part, and join the ranks of +the supers--who, curiously enough, are paid much more handsomely than +the principals. They enter one of the learned or idle professions, join +the army or take to trade, and so speedily rid themselves of the irksome +necessity of being anything more individual than 'the learned counsel,' +'the learned judge,' 'my lord bishop,' or 'the colonel,' names +impersonal in application as the dignity of 'Pharaoh,' whereof the name +and not the man was alone important. Henceforth they are the Church, the +Law, the Army, the City, or that vaguer profession Society. Entering one +of these, they become as lost to the really living world as the monk who +voluntarily surrenders all will and character of his own at the +threshold of his monastery: bricks in a prison wall, privates in the +line, peas in a row. But, as I say, these are the parts that pay. For +playing the others, indeed, you are not paid, but expected to +pay--dearly. + +It is full time we turned to those on whom falls the burden of those +real parts. Such, when quite young, if they be conscientious artists, +will carefully consider themselves, their gifts and possibilities, study +to discover their artistic _raison d'etre_ and how best to fulfil it. +He or she will say: Here am I, a creature of great gifts and exquisite +sensibilities, drawn by great dreams, and vibrating to great emotions; +yet this potent and exquisite self is as yet, I know, but unwrought +material of the perfect work of art it is intended that I should make of +it--but the marble wherefrom, with patient chisel, I must liberate the +perfect and triumphant ME! As a poet listening with trembling ear to the +voice of his inspiration, so I tremulously ask myself--what is the +divine conception that is to become embodied in me, what is the divine +meaning of ME? How best shall I express it in look, in word, in deed, +till my outer self becomes the truthful symbol of my inner self--till, +in fact, I have successfully placed the best of myself on the outside +--for others besides myself to see, and know and love? + +What is my part, and how am I to play it? + +Returning to the latter image, there are two difficulties that beset one +in playing a part on the stage of life, right at the outset. You are not +allowed to 'look' it, or 'dress' it! What would an actor think, who, +asked to play Hamlet, found that he would be expected to play it +without make-up and in nineteenth-century costume? Yet many of us are in +a like dilemma with similar parts. Actors and audience must all wear the +same drab clothes and the same immobile expression. It is in vain you +protest that you do not really belong to this absurd and vulgar +nineteenth century, that you have been spirited into it by a cruel +mistake, that you really belong to mediaeval Florence, to Elizabethan, +Caroline, or at latest Queen Anne England, and that you would like to be +allowed to look and dress as like it as possible. It is no use; if you +dare to look or dress like anything but your own tradesmen--and other +critics--it is at your peril. If you are beautiful, you are expected to +disguise a fact that is an open insult to every other person you look +at; and you must, as a general rule, never look, wear, feel, or say what +everybody else is not also looking, wearing, feeling, or saying. + +Thus you get some hint of the difficulty of playing the part of yourself +on this stage of life. + +In these matters of dressing and looking your part musicians seem +granted an immunity denied to all their fellow-artists. Perhaps it is +taken for granted that the musician is a fool--the British public is so +intuitive. Yet it takes the same view of the poet, without allowing him +a like immunity. And, by the way, what a fine conception of his part had +Tennyson--of the dignity, the mystery, the picturesqueness of it! +Tennyson would have felt it an artistic crime to look like his +publisher; yet what poet is there left us to-day half so +distinguished-looking as his publisher? + +Indeed, curiously enough, among no set of men does the desire to look as +commonplace as the rest of the world seem so strong as among men of +letters. Perhaps it is out of consideration for the rest of the world; +but, whatever the reason, immobility of expression and general +mediocrity of style are more characteristic of them at present than even +the military. + +It is surely a strange paradox that we should pride ourselves on +schooling to foolish insensibility, on eliminating from them every mark +of individual character, the faces that were intended subtly and +eloquently to image our moods--to look glad when we are glad, sorry when +we are sorry, angry in anger, and lovely in love. + +The impassivity of the modern young man is indeed a weird and wonderful +thing. Is it a mark to hide from us the appalling sins he none the less +openly affects? Is it meant to conceal that once in his life he paid a +wild visit to 'The Empire'--by kind indulgence of the County Council? +that he once chucked a barmaid under the chin, that he once nearly got +drunk, that he once spoke to a young lady he did not know--and then ran +away? + +One sighs for the young men of the days of Gautier and Hugo, the young +men with red waistcoats who made asses of themselves at first nights and +on the barricades, young men with romance in their hearts and passion in +their blood, fearlessly sentimental and picturesquely everything. + +The lover then was not ashamed that you should catch radiant glimpses of +his love in his eyes--nay! if you smiled kindly on him, he would take +you by the arm and insist on your breaking a bottle with him in honour +of his mistress. Joy and sorrow then wore their appropriate colours, +according, so to say, to the natural sumptuary laws of the emotions--one +of which is that the right place for the heart is the sleeve. + +It is the duty of those who are great, or to whom great destinies of joy +or sorrow have been dealt, to wear their distinctions for the world to +see. It is good for the world, which in its crude way indicates the +rudiments of this dramatic art of life, when it decrees that the bride +shall walk radiant in orange blossom, and the mourner sadden our streets +with black--symbols ever passing before us of the moving vicissitudes of +life. + +The mourner cannot always be sad, or the bride merry; the bride indeed +sometimes weeps at the altar, and the mourner laughs a savage cynical +laugh at the grave; but for those moments in which they awhile forget +parts more important than themselves, the tailor and the dressmaker have +provided symbolical garments, just as military decorations have been +provided for heroes without the gift of looking heroic, and sacerdotal +vestments for the priest, who, like a policeman, is not always on duty. + +In playing his part the conscientious artist in life, like any other +actor, must often seem to feel more than he really feels at a given +moment, say more than he means. In this he is far from being +insincere--though he must make up his mind to be accused daily of +insincerity and affectation. On the contrary, it will be his very +sincerity that necessitates his make-believe. With his great part ever +before him in its inspiring completeness, he must be careful to allow no +merely personal accident of momentary feeling or action to jeopardise +the general effect. There are moments, for example, when a really true +lover, owing to such masterful natural facts as indigestion, a cold, or +extreme sleepiness, is unable to feel all that he knows he really feels. +To 'tell the truth,' as it is called, under such circumstances, would +simply be a most dangerous form of lying. There is no duty we owe to +truth more imperative than that of lying stoutly on occasion--for, +indeed, there is often no other way of conveying the whole truth than +by telling the part-lie. + +A watchful sincerity to our great conception of ourselves is the first +and last condition, of our creating that finest work of art--a +personality; for a personality, like a poet, is not only born but made. + + + + +THE ARBITRARY CLASSIFICATION OF SEX + +In an essay on Vauvenargues Mr. John Morley speaks with characteristic +causticity of those epigrammatists 'who persist in thinking of man and +woman as two different species,' and who make verbal capital out of the +fancied distinction in the form of smart epigrams beginning '_Les +femmes_.' It is one of Shakespeare's cardinal characteristics that _he +understood woman_. Mr. Meredith's fame as a novelist is largely due to +the fact that he too _understands women_. The one spot on the sun of +Robert Louis Stevenson's fame, so we are told, is that he could _never +draw a woman_. His capacity for drawing men counted for nothing, +apparently, beside this failure. Evidently the Sphinx has not the face +of a woman for nothing. That is why no one has read her riddle, +translated her mystic smile. Yet many people smile mysteriously, +without any profound meanings behind their smile, with no other reason +than a desire to mystify. Perhaps the Sphinx smiles to herself just for +the fun of seeing us take her smile so seriously. And surely women must +so smile as they hear their psychology so gravely discussed. Of course, +the superstition is invaluable to them, and it is only natural that they +should make the most of it. Man is supposed to be a complete ignoramus +in regard to all the specialised female 'departments'--from the supreme +mystery of the female heart to the humble domestic mysteries of a +household. Similarly, men are supposed to have no taste in women's +dress, yet for whom do women clothe themselves in the rainbow and the +sea-foam, if not to please men? And was not the high-priest of that +delicious and fascinating mystery a man--if it be proper to call the +late M. Worth a man,--as the best cooks are men, and the best waiters? + +It would seem to be assumed from all this mystification that men are +beings clear as daylight, both to themselves and to women. Poor, +simple, manageable souls, their wants are easily satisfied, their +psychology--which, it is implied, differs little from their +physiology--long since mapped out. + +It may be so, but it is the opinion of some that men's simplicity is no +less a fiction than women's mysterious complexity, and that human +character is made up of much the same qualities in men and women, +irrespective of a merely rudimentary sexual distinction, which has, of +course, its proper importance, and which the present writer would be the +last to wish away. From that quaint distinction of sex springs, of +course, all that makes life in the smallest degree worth living, from +great religions to tiny flowers. Love and beauty and poetry; +Shakespeare's plays, Burne-Jones's pictures, and Wagner's operas--all +such moving expressions of human life, as science has shown us, spring +from the all-important fact that 'male and female created He them.' + +This everybody knows, and few are fools enough to deny. Many people, +however, confuse this organic distinction of sex with its time-worn +conventional symbols; just as religion is commonly confused with its +external rites and ceremonies. The comparison naturally continues itself +further; for, as in religion, so soon as some traditional garment of the +faith has become outworn or otherwise unsuitable, and the proposal is +made to dispense with or substitute it, an outcry immediately is raised +that religion itself is in danger--so with sex, no sooner does one or +the other sex propose to discard its arbitrary conventional +characteristics, or to supplement them by others borrowed from its +fellow-sex, than an outcry immediately is raised that sex itself is in +danger. + +Sex--the most potent force in the universe--in danger because women +wear knickerbockers instead of petticoats, or military men take to +corsets and cosmetics! + +That parallel with religion may be pursued profitably one step further. +In religion, the conventional test of your faith is not how you live, +not in your kindness of heart or purity of mind, but how you believe--in +the Trinity, in the Atonement; and do you turn to the East during the +recital of the Apostles' Creed? These and such, as every one knows, are +the vital matters of religion. And it is even so with sex. You are not +asked for the realities of manliness or womanliness, but for the +shadows, the arbitrary externalities, the fashions of which change from +generation to generation. + +To be truly womanly you must never wear your hair short; to be truly +manly you must never wear it long. To be truly womanly you must dress as +daintily as possible, however uncomfortably; to be truly manly you must +wear the most hideous gear ever invented by the servility of tailors--a +strange succession of cylinders from head to heel; cylinder on head, +cylinder round your body, cylinders on arms and cylinders on legs. To be +truly womanly you must be shrinking and clinging in manner and trivial +in conversation; you must have no ideas, and rejoice that you wish for +none; you must thank Heaven that you have never ridden a bicycle or +smoked a cigarette; and you must be prepared to do a thousand other +absurd and ridiculous things. To be truly manly you must be and do the +opposite of all these things, with this exception--that with you the +possession of ideas is optional. The finest specimens of British manhood +are without ideas; but that, I say, is, generally speaking, a matter for +yourself. It is indeed the only matter in which you have any choice. +More important matters, such as the cut of your clothes and hair, the +shape of your face, the length of your moustache and the pattern of your +cane--all these are very properly regulated for you by laws of fashion, +which you could never dream of breaking. You may break every moral law +there is--or rather, was--and still remain a man. You may be a bully, a +cad, a coward and a fool, in the poor heart and brains of you; but so +long as you wear the mock regimentals of contemporary manhood, and are +above all things plain and undistinguished enough, your reputation for +manhood will be secure. There is nothing so dangerous to a reputation +for manhood as brains or beauty. + +In short, to be a true woman you have only to be pretty and an idiot, +and to be a true man you have only to be brutal and a fool. + +From these misconceptions of manliness and womanliness, these +superstitions of sex, many curious confusions have come about. They so +to say, professional differentiation between the sexes had at one time +gone so far that men were credited with the entire monopoly of a certain +set of human qualities, and women with the monopoly of a certain other +set of human qualities; yet every one of these are qualities which one +would have thought were proper to, and necessary for, all human beings +alike, male and female. + +In a dictionary of a date (1856) when everything on earth and in heaven +was settled and written in penny cyclopaedias and books of deportment, I +find these delicious definitions-- + +_Manly_: becoming a man; firm; brave; undaunted; dignified; noble; +stately; not boyish or womanish. + +_Womanly_: becoming a woman; feminine; as _womanly_ behaviour. + +Under _Woman_ we find the adjectives--soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, +kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender, timorous, modest. + +Who can doubt that the dictionary maker defined and distributed his +adjectives aright for the year 1856? Since then, however, many alarming +heresies have taken root in our land, and some are heard to declare that +both these sets of adjectives apply to men and women alike, and are, in +fact, necessities of any decent human outfit. Otherwise the conclusion +is obvious, that no one desirous of the adjective 'manly' must ever +be--soft, mild, pitiful and flexible, kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous, or modest; and no one desirous of the adjective +'womanly' be--firm, brave, undaunted, dignified, noble, or stately. + +But surely the essentials of 'manliness' and 'womanliness' belong to man +and woman alike--the externals are purely artistic considerations, and +subject to the vagaries of fashion. In art no one would think of +allowing fashion any serious artistic opinion. It is usually the art +which is out of fashion that is most truly art. Similarly, fashions in +manliness or womanliness have nothing to do with real manliness or +womanliness. Moreover, the adjectives 'manly' or 'womanly,' applied to +works of art, or the artistic surfaces of men and women, are +irrelevant--that is to say, impertinent. You have no right to ask a +poem or a picture to look manly or womanly, any more than you have any +right to ask a man or a woman to look manly or womanly. There is no such +thing as looking manly or womanly. There is looking beautiful or ugly, +distinguished or commonplace, individual or insignificant. The one law +of externals is beauty in all its various manifestations. To ask the sex +of a beautiful person is as absurd as it would be to ask the publisher +the sex of a beautiful book. Such questions are for midwives and +doctors. + +It was once the fashion for heroes to shed tears on the smallest +occasion, and it does not appear that they fought the worse for it; some +of the firmest, bravest, most undaunted, most dignified, most noble, +most stately human beings have been women; as some of the softest, +mildest, most pitiful and flexible, most kind, civil, obliging, humane, +tender, timorous and modest human beings have been men. Indeed, some of +the bravest men that ever trod this planet have worn corsets, and it +needs more courage nowadays for a man to wear his hair long than to +machine-gun a whole African nation. Moreover, quite the nicest women one +knows ride bicycles--in the rational costume. + + + + +THE FALLACY OF A NATION + +It is, I am given to understand, a familiar axiom of mathematics that no +number of ciphers placed in front of significant units, or tens or +hundreds of units, adds in the smallest degree to the numerical value of +those units. The figure one becomes of no more importance however many +noughts are marshalled in front of it--though, indeed, in the +mathematics of human nature this is not so. Is not a man or woman +considered great in proportion to the number of ciphers that walk in +front of him, from a humble brace of domestics to guards of honour and +imperial armies? + +A parallel profound truth of mathematics is that a nought, however many +times it be multiplied, remains nought; but again we find the reverse +obtain in the mathematics of human nature. One might have supposed that +the result of one nobody multiplied even fifty million times would still +be nobody. However, such is far from being the case. Fifty million +nobodies make--a nation. Of course, there is no need for so many. I am +reckoning as a British subject, and speak of fifty million merely as an +illustration of the general fact that it is the multiplication of +nobodies that makes a nation. 'Increase and multiply' was, it will be +remembered, the recipe for the Jewish nation. + +Nobodies of the same colour, tongue, and prejudices have but to +congregate together in a crowd sufficiently big for other similar crowds +to recognise them, and then they are given a name of their own, and +become recognised as a nation--one of the 'Great Powers.' + +Beyond those differences in colour, tongue, and prejudices there is +really no difference between the component units--or rather ciphers--of +all these several national crowds. You have seen a procession of various +trades-unions filing toward Hyde Park, each section with its particular +banner with a strange device: 'The United Guild of Paperhangers,' 'The +Ancient Order of Plumbers,' and so on. And you may have marvelled to +notice how alike the members of the various carefully differentiated +companies were. So to say, they each and all might have been plumbers; +and you couldn't help feeling that it wouldn't have mattered much if +some of the paper-hangers had by mistake got walking amongst the +plumbers, or _vice versa_. + +So the great trades-unions of the world file past, one with the odd word +'Russia' on its banner; another boasting itself 'Germany'--this with a +particularly bumptious and self-important young man walking backward in +front of it, in the manner of a Salvation Army captain, and imperiously +waving an iron wand; still another 'nation' calling itself 'France'; and +yet another boasting the biggest brass band, and called 'England.' Other +smaller bodies of nobodies, that is, smaller nations, file past with +humbler tread--though there is really no need for their doing so. For, +as we have said, they are in every particular like to those haughtier +nations who take precedence of them. In fact, one or two of them, such +as Norway and Denmark--were a truer system of human mathematics to +obtain--are really of more importance than the so-called greater +nations, in that among their nobodies they include a larger percentage +of intellectual somebodies. + +Remembering that percentage of wise men, the formula of a nation were +perhaps more truly stated in our first mathematical image. The wise men +in a nation are as the units with the noughts in front of them. And when +I say wise men I do not, indeed, mean merely the literary men or the +artists, but all those somebodies with some real force of character, +people with brains and hearts, fighters and lovers, saints and thinkers, +and the patient, industrious workers. Such, if you consider, are really +no integral part of the nation among which they are cast. They have no +part in what are grandiloquently called national interests--war, +politics, and horse-racing to wit. A change of Government leaves them as +unmoved as an election for the board of guardians. They would as soon +think of entering Parliament or the County Council, as of yearning to +manage the gasworks, or to go about with one of those carts bearing the +legend 'Aldermen and Burgesses of the City of London' conspicuously upon +its front. Their main concern in political changes is the rise and fall +of the income-tax, and, be the Cabinet Tory or Liberal, their rate +papers come in for the same amount. It is likely that national changes +would affect them but little more. What more would a foreign invasion +mean than that we should pay our taxes to French, Russian, or German +officials, instead of to English ones? French and Italians do our +cooking, Germans manage our music, Jews control our money markets; +surely it would make little difference to us for France, Russia, or +Germany to undertake our government. The worst of being conquered by +Russia would be the necessity of learning Russian; whereas a little +rubbing up of our French would make us comfortable with France. Besides, +to be conquered by France would save us crossing the Channel to Paris, +and then we might hope for cafes in Regent Street, and an emancipated +literature. As a matter of fact, so-called national interests are merely +certain private interests on a large scale, the private interests of +financiers, ambitious politicians, soldiers, and great merchants. +Broadly speaking, there are no rival nations--there are rival markets; +and it is its Board of Trade and its Stock Exchange rather than its +Houses of Parliament that virtually govern a country. Thus one seaport +goes down and another comes up, industries forsake one country to bless +another, the military and naval strengths of nations fluctuate this way +and that; and to those whom these changes affect they are undoubtedly +important matters--the great capitalist, the soldier, and the +politician; but to the quiet man at home with his wife, his children, +his books, and his flowers, to the artist busied with brave translunary +matters, to the saint with his eyes filled with 'the white radiance of +eternity,' to the shepherd on the hillside, the milkmaid in love, or the +angler at his sport--what are these pompous commotions, these busy, +bustling mimicries of reality? England will be just as good to live in +though men some day call her France. Let the big busybodies divide her +amongst them as they like, so that they leave one alone with one's fair +share of the sky and the grass, and an occasional, not too vociferous, +nightingale. + +The reader will perhaps forgive the hackneyed references to Sir Thomas +Browne peacefully writing his _Religio Medici_ amid all the commotions +of the Civil War, and to Gautier calmly correcting the proofs of his new +poems during the siege of Paris. The milkman goes his rounds amid the +crash of empires. It is not his business to fight. His business is to +distribute his milk--as much after half-past seven as may be +inconvenient. Similarly, the business of the thinker is with his +thought, the poet with his poetry. It is the business of politicians to +make national quarrels, and the business of the soldier to fight them. +But as for the poet--let him correct his proofs, or beware the printer. + +The idea, then, of a nation is a grandiloquent fallacy in the interests +of commerce and ambition, political and military. All the great and +good, clever and charming people belong to one secret nation, for which +there is no name unless it be the Chosen People. These are the lost +tribes of love, art, and religion, lost and swamped amid alien peoples, +but ever dreaming of a time when they shall meet once more in Jerusalem. + +Yet though they are thus aliens, taking and wishing no part in the +organisation of the 'nations' among which they dwell, this does not +prevent those nations taking part and credit in them. And whenever a +brave soldier wins a battle, or an intrepid traveller discovers a new +land, his particular nation flatters itself, as though it--the million +nobodies--had done it. With a profound indifference to, indeed an active +dislike of, art and poetry, there is nothing on which a nation prides +itself so much as upon its artists and poets, whom, invariably, it +starves, neglects, and even insults, as long as it is not too silly to +do so. + +Thus the average Englishman talks of Shakespeare--as though he himself +had written the plays; of India--as though he himself had conquered it. +And thus grow up such fictions as 'national greatness' and 'public +opinion.' + +For what is 'national greatness' but the glory reflected from the +memories of a few great individuals? and what is 'public opinion' but +the blustering echoes of the opinion of a few clever young men on the +morning papers? + +For how can people in themselves little become great by merely +congregating into a crowd, however large? And surely fools do not become +wise, or worth listening to, merely by the fact of their banding +together. + +A 'public opinion' on any matter except football, prize-fighting, and +perhaps cricket, is merely ridiculous--by whatever brutal physical +powers it may be enforced--ridiculous as a town council's opinion upon +art; and a nation is merely a big fool with an army. + + + + +THE GREATNESS OF MAN + +Ignorant, as I inevitably am, dear reader, of your intellectual and +spiritual upbringing, I can hardly guess whether the title of my article +will impress you as a platitude or as a paradox. Goodness knows, some +men and women think quite enough of themselves as it is, and, from a +certain momentary point of view, there may seem little occasion indeed +to remind man of his importance. + +I refer to your intellectual and spiritual upbringing, because I venture +to wonder if it was in the least like my own. I was brought up, I +rejoice to say, in the bosom of an orthodox Puritan family. I was led +and driven to believe that man was everybody, and that God was +somebody--and that not merely the Sabbath, but the whole universe, was +made for man: that the stars were his bedtime candles, and that the sun +arose to ensure his catching the 8.37 of a morning. + +On this belief I acted for many years. Every young man believes that +there is no god but God, and that he is born to be His prophet--though +perhaps that belief is not so common nowadays. I am speaking of many +years ago. + +Science, however, has long since changed all that. Those terrible Muses, +geology, astronomy, and particularly biology, have reduced man to a +humility which, if in some degree salutary, becomes in its excess highly +dangerous. Why should one maggot in this great cheese of the world take +itself more seriously than others? Why dream mightily and do bravely if +we are but a little higher than the beasts that perish? Nature cares +nothing about us, and her giant forces laugh at our fancies. The world +has no such meaning as we thought. Poets and saints, deluded by +unhealthy imaginations, have misled us, and it is quite likely that the +wild waves are really saying nothing more important than 'Beecham's +Pills.' + +'Give us a definition of life,' I asked a certain famous scientist and +philosopher whom I am privileged to call my friend. + +'Nothing easier!' he gaily replied. 'Life is a product of solar energy, +falling upon the carbon compounds, on the outer crust of a particular +planet, in a particular corner of the solar system.' + +'And that,' I said, 'really satisfies you as a definition of life--of +all the wistful wonder of the world!' And as I spoke I thought of Moses +with mystically shining face upon the Mount of the Law, of Ezekiel rapt +in his divine fancies, of Socrates drinking his cup of hemlock, of +Christ's agony in the garden; the golden faces of the great of the world +passed as in a dream before me,--soldiers, saints, poets, and lovers. I +thought of Horatius on the bridge, of the holy and gentle soul of St. +Francis, of Chatterton in his splendid despair, and in fancy I went with +the awestruck citizens of Verona to reverently gaze at the bodies of two +young lovers who had counted the world well lost if they might only +leave it together. + +The carbon compounds! + +I took down _Romeo and Juliet_, listened to its passionate spheral +music, and the carbon compounds have never troubled me again. + +Love laughs at the carbon compounds, and a great book, a noble act, a +beautiful face, make nonsense of such cheap formula for the mystery of +human life. + +Yet this parable of the carbon compounds is a fair sample of all that +science can tell us when we come to ultimates. We go away from its +oracles with a mouthful of sounding words, which may seem very +impressive till we examine their emptiness. What, for example, is all +this rigmarole about solar energy and the carbon compounds but a more +pompous way of putting the old scriptural statement that man was made of +the dust of the ground? To say that God took a handful of dust and +breathed upon it and it became man, is no harder to realise than that +solar rays falling upon that dust should produce humanity and all the +various phantasmagoria of life. If anything, it is more explanatory. It +leaves us with an inspiring mystery for explanation. + +In saying this, I do not forget our debt to science. It has done much +in clearing our minds of cant, in popularising more systematic thinking, +and in instituting sounder methods of observation. In some directions it +has deepened our sense of wonder. It has broadened our conception of the +universe, though I fear it has been at the expense of narrowing our +conception of man. With Hamlet it contemptuously says, 'What is this +quintessence of dust!' It is so impressed by the mileage and tonnage of +the universe, so abased before the stupendous measurements of the +cosmos, the appalling infinity and eternity of its space and time, that +it forgets the marvel of the mind that can grasp all these conceptions, +forgets, too, that, big and bullying as the forces of nature may be, man +has been able in a large measure to control, indeed to domesticate, +them. Surely the original fact of lightning is little more marvellous +than the power of man to turn it into his errand-boy or his horse, to +light his rooms with it, and imprison it in pennyworths, like the genius +in the bottle, in the underground railway. Mere size seems unimpressive +when we contemplate such an extreme of littleness as say the ant, that +pin-point of a personality, that mere speck of being, yet including +within its infinitesimal proportions a clever, busy brain, a soldier, a +politician, and a merchant. That such and so many faculties should have +room to operate within that tiny body--there is a marvel before which, +it seems to me, the billions of miles that keep us from falling into the +jaws of the sun, and the tonnage of Jupiter, are comparatively +insignificant and conceivable. + +No, we must not allow ourselves to be frightened by the mere size and +weight of the universe, or be depressed because our immediate genealogy +is not considered aristocratic. Perhaps, after all, we are sons of God, +and as Mr. Meredith finely puts it, our life here may still be + + '... a little holding + To do a mighty service.' + +'Things of a day!' exclaims Pindar. 'What is a man? What is a man not?' + +It is good for our Nebuchadnezzars, the kings of the world, and +conceited, successful people generally, to measure themselves against +the great powers of the universe, to humble their pride by contemplation +of the fixed stars; but a too humble attitude toward the Infinite, a too +constant pondering upon eternity, is not good for us, unless, so to say, +we can live with them as friends, with the inspiring feeling that, +little as we may seem, there is that in us which is no less infinite, no +less cosmic, and that our passions and dreams have, as Mr. William +Watson puts it, 'a relish of eternity.' + +Readers of Amiel's 'Journal' will know what a sterilising, petrifying +influence his trance-like contemplation of the Infinite had upon his +life. Amiel was simply hypnotised by the universe, as a man may +hypnotise himself by gazing fixedly at a star. + +Mr. Pater, you will remember, has a remarkable study of a similar +temperament in his _Imaginary Portraits_. Sebastian van Storck, like +Amiel, had become hypnotised by the Infinite. It paralysed in him all +impulse or power 'to be or do any limited thing.' + +'For Sebastian, at least,' we read, 'the world and the individual alike +had been divested of all effective purpose. The most vivid of finite +objects, the dramatic episodes of Dutch history, the brilliant +personalities which had found their parts to play in them, that golden +art, surrounding one with an ideal world, beyond which the real world +was discernible indeed, but etherealised by the medium through which it +came to one; all this, for most men so powerful a link to existence, +only set him on the thought of escape--into a formless and nameless +infinite world, evenly grey.... Actually proud, at times, of his +curious, well-reasoned nihilism, he could but regard what is called the +business of life as no better than a trifling and wearisome delay.' + +This mood, once confined to a few mystics is likely to become a common +one, is already, one imagines, far from infrequent--so the increase of +suicide would lead us to suppose. Robbed of his hope of a glorious +immortality, stripped of his spiritual significance, bullied and +belittled by science on every hand, man not unnaturally begins to feel +that it is no use taking his life seriously, that, in fact, it betrays a +lack of humour to do so. While he was a supernatural being, a son of +God, it was with him a case of _noblesse oblige_; and while he is happy +and comfortable he doesn't mind giving up the riddle of the world. It is +only the unhappy that ever really think. But what is he to do when agony +and despair come upon him, when all that made his life worth living is +taken from him? How is he to sustain himself? where shall he look for +his strength or his hope? He looks up at the sky full of stars, but he +is told that God is not there, that the city of God is long since a +ruin, and that owls hoot to each other across its moss-grown fanes and +battlements; he looks down on the earth, full of graves, a vast +necropolis of once radiant dreams, with the living for its +phantoms,--and there is no comfort anywhere. Happy is he if some simple +human duty be at hand, which he may go on doing blindly and +dumbly--till, perhaps, the light come again. It is difficult to offer +comfort to such a one. Comfort is cheap, and we know nothing. When life +holds nothing for our love and delight, it is difficult to explain why +we should go on living it--except on the assumption that it matters, +that it is, in some mystical way, supremely important, how we live it, +and what we make of those joys and sorrows which, say some, are but +meant as mystical trials and tests. + +Sebastian van Storck refused 'to be or do any limited thing,' but the +answer to his mysticism is to be found in a finer mysticism, that which +says that there is no limited act or thing, but that the significance, +as well as the pathos, of eternity is in our smallest joys and sorrows, +as in our most everyday transactions, and the greatness of God incarnate +in His humblest child. + +This, the old doctrine of the microcosm, seems in certain moments, +moments one would wish to say, of divination, strangely plain and +clear--when, in Blake's words, it seems so easy to + + '... see a world in a grain of sand, + And a heaven in a wild flower; + Hold infinity in the palm of your hand + And Eternity in an hour.' + +Perhaps in the street, an effect of light, a passing face, yes, even the +plaintive grind of a street organ, some such everyday circumstance, +affects you suddenly in quite a strange way. It has become +universalised. It is no longer a detail of the Strand, but a cryptic +symbol of human life. It has been transfigured into a thing of infinite +pathos and infinite beauty, and, sad or glad, brings to you an +inexplicable sense of peace, an unshakable conviction that man is a +spirit, that his life is indeed of supreme and lovely significance, and +that his destiny is secure and blessed. + +Matthew Arnold, ever sensitive to such spiritual states, has described +these trance-like visitations in 'The Buried Life'-- + + 'Only, but this is rare-- + When a beloved hand is laid in ours, + When, jaded with the rush and glare + Of the interminable hours, + Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, + When our world-deafen'd ear + Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-- + A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, + And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again: + The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, + And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. + A man becomes aware of his life's flow, + And hears its winding murmur; and he sees + The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. + + 'And there arrives a lull in the hot race + Wherein he doth for ever chase + That flying and elusive shadow, rest. + An air of coolness plays upon his face, + And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. + And then he thinks he knows + The hills where his life rose, + And the sea where it goes.' + +'To be or do any limited thing'! What indeed, we ask in such hours, is a +limited thing, when all the humble interests of our daily life are +palpably big with eternity? Is the first kiss of a great love a limited +thing? though there is, unhappily, no denying that it comes to an end! +When a young husband and wife smile across to each other above the sleep +of their little child--is that a limited thing? When the siren voices of +the world blend together on the lips of a young poet, and with rapt eyes +and hot heart he makes a song as of the morning stars--is that a limited +thing? Are love, and genius, and duty done in the face of death--are +these limited things? I think not--and man, indeed, knows better. + +Greatness is not relative. It is absolute. It is not for man to depress +himself by measuring himself against the eternities and the immensities +external to him. What he has to do is to look inward upon himself, to +fathom the eternities and the immensities in his own heart and brain. + +And the more man sees himself forsaken by the universe, the more +opportunity to vindicate his own greatness. Is there no kind heart +beating through the scheme of things?--man's heart shall still be kind. +Will the eternal silence make mock of his dreams and his idealisms, +laugh coldly at 'the splendid purpose in his eyes'? Well, so be it. His +dreams and idealisms are none the less noble things, and if the gods do +thus make mock of mortal joy and pain--let us be grateful that we were +born mere men. + +Moreover, he has one great answer to the universe--the answer of +courage. He is still Prometheus, and there is no limit to what he can +bear. Let the vultures of pain rend his heart as they will, he can still +hiss 'coward' in the face of the Eternal. Nay, he can even laugh at his +sufferings--thanks to the spirit of humour, that most blessed of +ministering angels, without which surely the heart of humanity had long +since broken, by which man is able to look with a comical eye upon +terrors, as it were taking themselves so seriously, coming with such +Olympian thunders and lightnings to break the spirit of a mere six foot +of earth! + +But while his courage and his humour are defences of which he cannot be +disarmed, whatever be the intention of the Eternal, it is by no means +certain that nature does not mean kindly by man. Perhaps the pain of the +world is but the rough horseplay of great powers that mean but jest--and +kill us in it: as though one played at 'tick' with an elephant! + +Perhaps, after all,--who knows?--God is love, and His great purpose +kind. + +Surely, when you think of it, the existence in man of the senses of love +and pity implies the probability of their existence elsewhere in the +universe too. + + 'Into that breast which brings the rose + Shall I with shuddering fall.' + +So runs the profoundest thought in modern poetry--and need I say it is +Mr. Meredith's? + +As the fragrance and colour of the rose must in some occult way be +properties of the rude earth from which they are drawn by the sun, may +not human love also be a kindly property of matter--that mysterious +life-stuff in which is packed such marvellous potentialities? Evidently +love must be somewhere in the universe--else it had not got into the +heart of man; and perhaps pity slides down like an angel in the rays of +the solar energy, while there is the potential beating of a human heart +even in the hard crust of the carbon compounds. + +I confess that this seems to me no mere fancy, but a really comforting +speculation. Pain, we say, is inherent in the scheme of the universe; +but is not love seen to be no less inherent, too? + +There must be some soul of beauty to animate the lovely face of the +world, some soul of goodness to account for its saints. If the gods are +cruel, it is strange that man should be so kind, and that some pathetic +spirit of tenderness should seem to stir even in the bosoms of beasts +and birds. + +Meanwhile, we cannot too often insist that, whatever uncertainties there +be, man has one certainty--himself. Science has really adduced nothing +essential against his significance. That he is not as big as an Alp, as +heavy as a star, or as long-lived as an eagle, is nothing against his +proper importance. Even a nobleman is of more significance in the world +than his acres, and giants are not proverbial for their intellectual or +spiritual qualities. The ant is of more importance than the ass, and the +great eye of a beautiful woman is more significant than the whole clayey +bulk of Mars. + +After all the scientific mockery of the old religious ideal of the +importance of man, one begins to wonder if his Ptolemaic fancy that he +was the centre of the universe, and that it was all made for him, is not +nearer the If truth than the pitiless theories which hardly allow him +equality with the flea that perishes. + +Suppose if, after all, the stars were really meant as his bedtime +candles, and the sun's purpose in rising is really that he may catch the +8.37! + +For, as Sir Thomas Browne says in his solemn English, 'there is surely a +piece of Divinity in us, something that was before the elements, and +owes no homage unto the sun.' + +The long winter of materialistic science seems to be breaking up, and +the old ideals are seen trooping back with something more than their old +beauty, in the new spiritual spring that seems to be moving in the +hearts of men. + +After all its talk, science has done little more than correct the +misprints of religion. Essentially, the old spiritualistic and poetic +theories of life are seen, not merely weakly to satisfy the cravings of +man's nature, but to be mostly in harmony with certain strange and +moving facts in his constitution, which the materialists +unscientifically ignore. + +It was important, and has been helpful, to insist that man is an animal, +but it is still more important to insist that he is a spirit as well. He +is, so to say, an animal by accident, a spirit by birthright: and, +however homely his duties may occasionally seem, his life is bathed in +the light of a sacred transfiguring significance, its smallest acts +flash with divine meanings, its highest moments are rich with 'the +pathos of eternity,' and its humblest duties mighty with the +responsibilities of a god. + + + + +DEATH AND TWO FRIENDS + +_A DIALOGUE_ + +(_To the Memory of J.S. and T.C.L._) + +PERSONS: SCRIPTOR AND LECTOR. + +[This dialogue was written originally as a rejoinder to certain +criticisms on a book of mine entitled, _The Religion of a Literary +Man_--_Religio Scriptoris_--hence the names given to the two 'persons.' +It was written in March 1894, before an event in the writer's life to +which, erroneously, some have supposed it to refer.] + + +LECTOR. But do you really mean, Scriptor, that you have no desire for +the life after death? + +SCRIPTOR. I never said quite that, Lector, though perhaps I might almost +have gone so far. What I did say was that we have been accustomed to +exaggerate its importance to us here and now, that it really matters +less to us than we imagine. + +LECTOR. I see. But you must speak for yourself, Scriptor. I am sure that +it matters much to many, to most of us. It does, I know, to me. + +SCRIPTOR. Less than you think, my dear Lector. Besides, you are really +too young to know. It is true that, as years go, you are ten years my +senior, but what of that? You have that vigorous health which is the +secret of perpetual youth. You have not yet realised decay, not to speak +of death. The immortality of the soul is a question wide of you, who +have as yet practically no doubt of the immortality of the body. But +I--well, it would be melodramatic to say that I face death every day. +The metaphor applies but to desperate callings and romantic complaints. +To some Death comes like a footpad, suddenly, and presents his +pistol--and the smoke that curls upward from his empty barrel is your +soul. + +To another he comes featureless, a stealthily accumulating London fog, +that slowly, slowly chokes the life out of you, without allowing you the +consolation of a single picturesque moment, a single grand attitude. For +you, probably, Death will only come when you die. I have to live with +him as well. I shall smoulder for years, you will be carried to heaven, +like Enoch, in a beautiful lightning. + + 'A simple child + That lightly draws its breath, + And feels its life in every limb, + What can it know of Death?' + +That's you, my dear Lector, for all your forty years. + +LECTOR. All the more reason, Scriptor, that you should desire a +hereafter. You sometimes talk of the work you would do if you were a +robust Philistine such as I. Would it not be worth while to live +again, if only to make sure of that _magnum opus_--just to realise +those dreams that you say are daily escaping you? + +SCRIPTOR. Ah! so speaks the energetic man, eager to take the world on +his shoulders. I know the images of death that please you, +Lector--such as that great one of Arnold's, about 'the sounding +labour-house vast of being.' + +But, Lector, you who love work so well--have you never heard tell of +a thing called Rest? Have you never known what it is to be tired, my +Lector?--not tired at the end of a busy day, but tired in the morning, +tired in the Memnonian sunlight, when larks and barrel-organs start on +their blithe insistent rounds. No, the man who is tired of a morning +sings not music-hall songs in his bedroom as he dashes about in his +morning bath. But will you never want to go to bed, Lector? Will you +be always like the children who hate to be sent to bed, and think that +when they are grown up they will never go to bed at all? Yet in a few +years' time how glad they are of the stray chance of bed at ten. May +it not be so with sleep's twin-brother? In our young vigour, driven by +a hundred buoyant activities, enticed by dream on dream, time seems so +short for all we think we have to do; but surely when the blood begins +to thin, and the heart to wax less extravagantly buoyant, when comfort +croons a kettle-song whose simple spell no sirens of ambition or +romance can overcome--don't you think that then 'bedtime' will come to +seem the best hour of the day, and 'Death as welcome as a friend would +fall'? + +LECTOR. But you are no fair judge, Scriptor. You say my health, my +youth, as you waggishly call it, puts me out of court. Yet surely your +ill-health and low spirits just as surely vitiate your judgment? + +SCRIPTOR. Admitted, so far as my views are the outcome of my +particular condition. But you forget that the condition I have been +supposing is not merely particular, but, on the contrary, the most +general among men. Was it not old age?--which, like youth, is +independent of years. You may be young beyond your years, I may be old +in advance of them; but old age does come some time, and with it the +desire of rest. + +LECTOR. But does not old age spend most of its thought in dwelling +fondly on its lost youth, hanging like a remote sunrise in its +imagination? Is it not its one yearning desire just to live certain +hours of its youth over again?--and would the old man not give all he +possesses for the certainty of being born young again into eternity? + +SCRIPTOR. He would give everything--but the certainty of rest. After +seventy years of ardent life one needs a long sleep to refresh us +in. Besides, age may not be so sure of the advantages of youth. All is +not youth that laughs and glitters. Youth has its hopes, which are +uncertain; but age has its memories, which are sure; youth has its +passions, but age has its comforts. + +LECTOR. Your answers come gay and pat, Scriptor, but your voice +betrays you. In spite of you, it saddens all your words. Tell me, have +you ever known what it is actually to lose any one who is dear to you? +Have you looked on death face to face? + +SCRIPTOR. Yes, Lector, I have--but once. It is now about five years +ago, but the impression of it haunts me to this hour. Perhaps the +memory is all the keener because it was my one experience. In a world +where custom stales all things, save Cleopatra, it is all the better +perhaps not to see even too much of Death, lest we grow familiar with +him. For instance, doctors and soldiers, who look on him daily, seem +to lose the sense of his terror--nay, worse, of his tragedy. Maybe it +is something in his favour, and Death, like others, may only need to +be known to be loved. + +LECTOR. But tell me, Scriptor, of this sad experience, which even now +it moves you to name; or is the memory too sad to recall? + +SCRIPTOR. Sad enough, Lector, but beautiful for all that, beautiful as +winter. It was winter when she of whom I am thinking died--a winter +that seemed to make death itself whiter and colder on her marble +forehead. It is but one sad little story of all the heaped-up sorrow +of the world; but in it, as in a shell, I seem to hear the murmur of +all the tides of tears that have surged about the lot of man from the +beginning. + +There were two dear friends of mine whom I used to call the happiest +lovers in the world. They had loved truly from girlhood and boyhood, +and after some struggle--for they were not born into that class which +is denied the luxury of struggle--at length saw a little home bright +in front of them. And then Jenny, who had been ever bright and strong, +suddenly and unaccountably fell ill. Like the stroke of a sword, like +the stride of a giant, Death, to whom they had never given a thought, +was upon them. It was consumption, and love could only watch and +pray. Suddenly my friend sent for me, and I saw with my own eyes what +at a distance it had seemed impossible to believe. As I entered the +house, with the fresh air still upon me, I spoke confidently, with +babbling ignorant tongue. 'Wait till you see her face!' was all my +poor stricken friend could say. + +Ah! her face! How can I describe it? It was much sweeter afterwards, +but now it was so dark and witchlike, so uncanny, almost wicked, so +thin and full of inky shadows. She sat up in her bed, a wizened little +goblin, and laughed a queer, dry, knowing laugh to herself, a laugh +like the scraping of reeds in a solitary place. A strange black +weariness seemed to be crushing down her brows, like the 'unwilling +sleep' of a strong narcotic. She would begin a sentence and let it +wither away unfinished, and point sadly and almost humorously to her +straight black hair, clammy as the feathers of a dead bird lying in +the rain. Her hearing was strangely keen. And yet she did not know, +was not to know. How was one to talk to her--talk of being well again, +and books and country walks, when she had so plainly done with all +these things? How bear up when she, with a half-sad, half-amused +smile, showed her thin wrists?--how say that they would soon be strong +and round again? Ugh! she was already beginning to be different from +us, already putting off our body-sweet mortality, and putting on the +fearful garments of death, changing before our eyes from ruddy +familiar humanity into a being of another element, an element we dread +as the fish dreads the air. Soon we should not be able to talk to +her. Soon she would have unlearnt all the sweet grammar of earth. She +was no longer Jenny, but a fearful symbol of mysteries at which the +flesh crept. She was going to die. + +Have you never looked ahead towards some trial, some physical trial, +maybe an operation?--for perhaps the pains of the body are the +keenest, after all--those of the spirit are at least in some part +metaphor. You look forward with dread, yet it is at last over. It is +behind you. And have you never thought that so it will be with death +some day? Poor little Jenny was to face the great operation. + +Next time I saw her she was dead. In our hateful English fashion, they +had shut her up in a dark room, and we had to take candles to see +her. I shall never forget the moment when my eyes first rested on that +awful snow-white sheet, so faintly indented by the fragile form +beneath, lines very fragile, but oh! so hard and cold, like the +indentations upon frozen snow; never forget my strange unaccountable +terror when he on one side and I on the other turned down the icy +sheet from her face. But terror changed to awe and reverence, as her +face came upon us with its sweet sphinx-like smile. Lying there, with +a little gold chain round her neck and a chrysanthemum in the bosom of +her night-gown, there was a curious regality about her, a look as +though she wore a crown our eyes were unable to see. And while I gazed +upon her, the sobs of my friend came across the bed, and as he called +to her I seemed to hear the eternal Orpheus calling for his lost +Eurydice. Poor lad!--poor maid! Here, naked and terrible, was all the +tragedy of the world compressed into an hour, the Medusa-face of life +that turns the bravest to stone. Surely, I felt, God owed more than He +could ever repay to these two lovers, whom it had been so easy to +leave to their simple joys. And from that night to this I can never +look upon my white bed without seeing afar off the moment when it, +too, will bear the little figure of her I love best in the world, +bound for her voyage to the Minotaur Death; just as I never put off my +clothes at night, and stretch my limbs down among the cool sheets, +without thinking of the night when I shall put off my clothes for the +last time and close my eyes for ever. + +LECTOR. But, my friend, this is to feel too much; it is morbid. + +SCRIPTOR. Morbid! How can one really _feel_ and not be morbid? If one +be morbid, one can still be brave. + +LECTOR. But surely, true-lover as you are, it would be a joy to you to +think that this terrible parting of death will not be final. We cannot +love so well without hoping that we may meet our loved ones somewhere +after death. + +SCRIPTOR. Hopes! wishes! desires! What of them? We hope, we _desire_ +all things. Who has not cried for the moon in his time? But what is +the use of talking of what we desire? Does life give us all we wish, +however passionately we wish it, and is Death any more likely to +listen to the cry of our desires? Of course we _wish it_, wish it with +a pathetic urgency which is too poignant to bear, and which the wise +man bravely stifles. It would all be different if we _knew_. + +LECTOR. But does not science even, of late, hold out the promise of +its probability?--and the greatest poets and thinkers have always been +convinced of its truth. + +SCRIPTOR. The promise of a probability! O my Lector, what a poor +substitute is that for a certainty! And as for the great men you speak +of, what does their 'instinctive' assurance amount to but a strong +sense of their own existence at the moment of writing or speaking? +Does one of them anywhere assert immortality as a _fact_--a fact of +which he has his own personal proof and knowledge--a scientific, not +an imaginative, theological fact? Arguments on the subject are +naught. It is waste of time to read them; unsupported by fact, they +are one and all cowardly dreams, a horrible hypocritical clutching at +that which their writers have not the courage to forgo. + +LECTOR. Yet may not a dream be of service to reality, my friend? Is it +not certain that people are all the better and all the happier for +this dream, as you call it?--for what seems to me this sustaining +faith? + +SCRIPTOR. Happier? Some people, perhaps, in a lazy, unworthy +fashion. But 'better'? Well, so long as we believed in 'eternal +punishment' no doubt people were sometimes terrified into 'goodness' +by the picture of that dread vista of torment, as no doubt they were +bribed into it by the companion picture of a green unbounded Paradise; +but, O my friend, what an unworthy kind of goodness, the mere mask of +virtue! And now that the Inferno has practically disappeared from our +theology, the belief in eternal life simply means unlimited cakes and +ale, for good and evil alike, for all eternity. How such a belief can +be moralising I fail to understand. To my mind, indeed, far from being +moralising, this belief in immortality is responsible for no +inconsiderable portion of the wrong and misery of the world. It is the +baneful narcotic which has soothed the selfish and the slothful from +the beginning. It is that unlimited credit which makes the bankrupt. +It simply gives us all eternity to procrastinate in. Instead of +manfully eating our peck of dirt here and now, we leave it and all +such disagreeables to the hereafter. + + 'He said, "I believe in Eternal Life," + As he threw his life away-- + What need to hoard? + He could well afford + To squander his mortal day. + With Eternity his, what need to care?-- + A sort of immortal millionaire.' + +LECTOR. I am glad to be reminded, Scriptor, that you are a poet, for the +line of your argument had almost made me forget it. One expects other +views from a poet. + +SCRIPTOR. When, my dear Lector, shall we get rid of the silly idea that +the poet should give us only the ornamental view of life, and rock us to +sleep, like babies, with pretty lullabies? Is it not possible to make +_facts_ sing as well as fancies? With all this beautiful world to sing +of--for beautiful it is, however it be marred; with this wonderful +life--and wonderful and sweet it is though it is shot through with such +bitter pain; with such _certainties_ for his theme, we yet beg him to +sing to us of shadows! + +And you talk of 'faith.' 'Faith' truly is what we want, but it is faith +in the life here, not in the life hereafter. Faith in the life here! Let +our poets sing us that. And such as would deny it--I would hang them as +enemies of society. + +LECTOR. But, at all events, to keep to our point--you at least _hope_ +for immortality. If Edison, say, were suddenly to discover it for us as +a scientific certainty, you would welcome the news? + +SCRIPTOR. Well, yes and no! Have you seen the 'penny' phonographs in the +Strand? You should go and have a pennyworth of the mysteries of time and +space! How long will Edison's latest magic toy survive this +popularisation, I wonder? For a little moment it awakens the sense of +wonder in the idly curious, who set the demon tube to their ears; but if +they make any remarks at all, it is of the cleverness of Mr. Edison, +the probable profits of the invention--and not a word of the wonder of +the world! So it would be with the undiscovered country. I was blamed +the other day as being cheaply smart because I said that if 'one +traveller returned,' his resurrection would soon be as commonplace as +the telephone, and that enterprising firms would be interviewing him as +to the prospects of opening branch establishments in Hades. Yet it is a +perfectly serious, and, I think, true remark; for who that knows the +modern man, with his small knowingness, and his utter incapacity for +reverence, would doubt that were Mr. Edison actually to be the Columbus +of the Unseen, it would soon be as overrun with gaping tourists as +Switzerland, and that within a year railway companies would be +advertising 'Bank-holidays in Eternity'? + +No! let us keep the Unseen--or, if it must be discovered, let the key +thereof be given only to true-lovers and poets. + + + + +A SEAPORT IN THE MOON + + +No one is so hopelessly wrong about the stars as the astronomer, and I +trust that you never pay any attention to his remarks on the moon. He +knows as much about the moon as a coiffeur knows of the dreams of the +fair lady whose beautiful neck he makes still more beautiful. There is +but one opinion upon the moon--namely, our own. And if you think that +science is thus wronged, reflect a moment upon what science makes of +things near at hand. Love, it says, is merely a play of pistil and +stamen, our most fascinating poetry and art is 'degeneration,' and human +life, generally speaking, is sufficiently explained by the 'carbon +compounds'--God-a-mercy! If science makes such grotesque blunders about +radiant matters right under its nose, how can one think of taking its +opinion upon matters so remote as the stars--or even the moon, which is +comparatively near at hand? + +Science says that the moon is a dead world, a cosmic ship littered with +the skeletons of its crew, and from which every rat of vitality has long +since escaped. It is the ghost that rises from its tomb every night, to +haunt its faithless lover, the world. It is a country of ancient +silver-mines, unworked for centuries. You may see the gaping mouths of +the dark old shafts through your telescopes. You may even see the +rusting pit tackle, the ruinous engine-houses, and the idle pick and +shovel. Or you may say that it is counterfeit silver, coined to take in +the young fools who love to gaze upon it. It is, so to speak, a bad +half-crown. + +As you will! but I am of Endymion's belief--and no one was ever more +intimate with the moon. For me the moon is a country of great seaports, +whither all the ships of our dreams come home. From all quarters of the +world, every day of the week, there are ships sailing to the moon. They +are the ships that sail just when and where you please. You take your +passage on that condition. And it is ridiculous to think for what a +trifle the captain will take you on so long a journey. If you want to +come back, just to take an excursion and no more, just to take a lighted +look at those coasts of rose and pearl, he will ask no more than a glass +or two of bright wine--indeed, when the captain is very kind, a flower +will take you there and back in no time; if you want to stay whole days +there, but still come back dreamy and strange, you may take a little +dark root and smoke it in a silver pipe, or you may drink a little phial +of poppy-juice, and thus you shall find the Land of Heart's Desire; but +if you are wise and would stay in that land for ever, the terms are even +easier--a little powder shaken into a phial of water, a little piece of +lead no bigger than a pea, and a farthing's-worth of explosive fire, and +thus also you are in the Land of Heart's Desire for ever. + +I dreamed last night that I stood on the blustering windy wharf, and the +dark ship was there. It was impatient, like all of us, to leave the +world. Its funnels belched black smoke, its engines throbbed against +the quay like arms that were eager to strike and be done, and a bell +was beating impatient summons to be gone. The dark captain stood ready +on the bridge, and he looked into each of our faces as we passed on +board. 'Is it for the long voyage?' he said. 'Yes! the long voyage,' I +said--and his stern eyes seemed to soften as I answered. + +At last we were all aboard, and in the twinkling of an eye were out of +sight of land. Yet, once afloat, it seemed as though we should never +reach our port in the moon--so it seemed to me as I lay awake in my +little cabin, listening to the patient thud and throb of the great +screws, beating in the ship's side like a human heart. + +Talking with my fellow-voyagers, I was surprised to find that we were +not all volunteers. Some, in fact, complained pitifully. They had, they +said, been going about their business a day or two before, and suddenly +a mysterious captain had laid hold of them, and pressed them to sail +this unknown sea. Thus, without a word of warning, they had been +compelled to leave behind them all they held dear. This, one felt, was a +little hard of the captain; but those of us whose position was exactly +the reverse, who had friends on the other side, all whose hopes indeed +were invested there, were too selfishly expectant of port to be severe +on the captain who was taking us thither. + +There were three friends I had especially set out to see: two young +lovers who had emigrated to those colonies in the moon just after their +marriage, and there was another. What a surprise it would be to all +three, for I had written no letter to say I was coming. Indeed, it was +just a sudden impulse, the pistol-flash of a long desire. + +I tried to imagine what the town would be like in which they were now +living. I asked the captain, and he answered with a sad smile that it +would be just exactly as I cared to dream it. + +'Oh, well then,' I thought, 'I know what it will be like. There shall be +a great restless, tossing estuary, with Atlantic winds for ever ruffling +the sails of busy ships, ships coming home with laughter, ships leaving +home with sad sea-gull cries of farewell. And the shaggy tossing water +shall be bounded on either bank with high granite walls, and on one +bank shall be a fretted spire soaring with a jangle of bells, from amid +a tangle of masts, and underneath the bells and the masts shall go +streets rising up from the strand, streets full of faces, and sweet with +the smell of tar and the sea. O captain! will it be morning or night +when we come to my city? In the morning my city is like a sea-blown +rose, in the night it is bright as a sailor's star. + +'If it be early morning, what shall I do? I shall run to the house in +which my friends lie in happy sleep, never to be parted again, and kiss +my hand to their shrouded window; and then I shall run on and on till +the city is behind and the sweetness of country lanes is about me, and I +shall gather flowers as I run, from sheer wantonness of joy; and then at +last, flushed and breathless, I shall stand beneath her window. I shall +stand and listen, and I shall hear her breathing right through the heavy +curtains, and the hushed garden and the sleeping house will bid me keep +silence, but I shall cry a great cry up to the morning star, and say, +"No, I will not keep silence. Mine is the voice she listens for in her +sleep. She will wake again for no voice but mine. Dear one, awake, the +morning of all mornings has come!"' + +As I write, the moon looks down at me like a Madonna from the great +canvas of the sky. She seems beautiful with the beauty of all the eyes +that have looked up at her, sad with all the tears of all those eyes; +like a silver bowl brimming with the tears of dead lovers she seems. +Yes, there are seaports in the moon; there are ships to take us there. + + + + +THE END + + + + +Most of the foregoing essays have made a first appearance either in +_The Yellow Book_, _The Nineteenth Century_, _The Cosmopolitan_, _The +Westminster Gazette_, or _The Realm_, to the editors of which the writer +is indebted for kind permission to reprint. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prose Fancies (Second Series) +by Richard Le Gallienne + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSE FANCIES (SECOND SERIES) *** + +***** This file should be named 14103.txt or 14103.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/1/0/14103/ + +Produced by Brendan Lane, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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