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diff --git a/14535-h/14535-h.htm b/14535-h/14535-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..16ca096 --- /dev/null +++ b/14535-h/14535-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,409 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Christmas Sermon, by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + hr.full { width: 100%; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red} + pre {font-size: 8pt;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14535 ***</div> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Christmas Sermon, by Robert Louis Stevenson</h1> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<br/><br/> +<h1>A CHRISTMAS SERMON</h1> +<br/> +<h3>BY</h3> +<br/> +<h2>Robert Louis Stevenson</h2> +<br/> +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> +<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="images/illus1.jpg" alt="Man by the fire"/></div> +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> +<h5>NEW YORK</h5> +<h5>1900</h5> + + +<hr style="width: 10%;" /> +<br/> +<h2>A CHRISTMAS SERMON</h2> + + +<p>By the time this paper appears, I shall have been talking for twelve +months;<a name="FNanchor_1" id="FNanchor_1" /><a href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> and it is thought I should take my leave in a formal and +seasonable manner. Valedictory eloquence is rare, and death-bed sayings +have not often hit the mark of the occasion. Charles Second, wit and +sceptic, a man whose life had been one long lesson in human incredulity, +an easy-going comrade, a manoeuvring king—remembered and embodied all +his wit and scepticism along with more than his usual good humour in the +famous "I am afraid, gentlemen, I am an unconscionable time a-dying."</p> + +<a name="Footnote_1" id="Footnote_1" /><a href="#FNanchor_1">[1]</a><div class="footnote"><p> i.e. <i>In the pages of</i> Scribner's Magazine <i>(1888)</i>.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<br/> +<h2>I</h2> + + +<p>An unconscionable time a-dying—there is the picture ("I am afraid, +gentlemen,") of your life and of mine. The sands run out, and the hours +are "numbered and imputed," and the days go by; and when the last of +these finds us, we have been a long time dying, and what else? The very +length is something, if we reach that hour of separation undishonoured; +and to have lived at all is doubtless (in the soldierly expression) to +have served. There is a tale in Tacitus of how the veterans mutinied in +the German wilderness; of how they mobbed Germanicus, clamouring to go +home; and of how, seizing their general's hand, these old, war-worn +exiles passed his finger along their toothless gums. <i>Sunt lacrymæ +rerum</i>: this was the most eloquent of the songs of Simeon. And when a +man has lived to a fair age, he bears his marks of service. He may have +never been remarked upon the breach at the head of the army; at least he +shall have lost his teeth on the camp bread.</p> + +<p>The idealism of serious people in this age of ours is of a noble +character. It never seems to them that they have served enough; they +have a fine impatience of their virtues. It were perhaps more modest to +be singly thankful that we are no worse. It is not only our enemies, +those desperate characters—it is we ourselves who know not what we +do;—thence springs the glimmering hope that perhaps we do better than +we think: that to scramble through this random business with hands +reasonably clean, to have played the part of a man or woman with some +reasonable fulness, to have often resisted the diabolic, and at the end +to be still resisting it, is for the poor human soldier to have done +right well. To ask to see some fruit of our endeavour is but a +transcendental way of serving for reward; and what we take to be +contempt of self is only greed of hire.</p> + +<p>And again if we require so much of ourselves, shall we not require much +of others? If we do not genially judge our own deficiencies, is it not +to be feared we shall be even stern to the trespasses of others? And he +who (looking back upon his own life) can see no more than that he has +been unconscionably long a-dying, will he not be tempted to think his +neighbour unconscionably long of getting hanged? It is probable that +nearly all who think of conduct at all, think of it too much; it is +certain we all think too much of sin. We are not damned for doing wrong, +but for not doing right; Christ would never hear of negative morality; +<i>thou shalt</i> was ever his word, with which he superseded <i>thou shalt +not</i>. To make our idea of morality centre on forbidden acts is to defile +the imagination and to introduce into our judgments of our fellow-men a +secret element of gusto. If a thing is wrong for us, we should not dwell +upon the thought of it; or we shall soon dwell upon it with inverted +pleasure. If we cannot drive it from our minds—one thing of two: either +our creed is in the wrong and we must more indulgently remodel it; or +else, if our morality be in the right, we are criminal lunatics and +should place our persons in restraint. A mark of such unwholesomely +divided minds is the passion for interference with others: the Fox +without the Tail was of this breed, but had (if his biographer is to be +trusted) a certain antique civility now out of date. A man may have a +flaw, a weakness, that unfits him for the duties of life, that spoils +his temper, that threatens his integrity, or that betrays him into +cruelty. It has to be conquered; but it must never be suffered to +engross his thoughts. The true duties lie all upon the farther side, and +must be attended to with a whole mind so soon as this preliminary +clearing of the decks has been effected. In order that he may be kind +and honest, it may be needful he should become a total abstainer; let +him become so then, and the next day let him forget the circumstance. +Trying to be kind and honest will require all his thoughts; a mortified +appetite is never a wise companion; in so far as he has had to mortify +an appetite, he will still be the worse man; and of such an one a great +deal of cheerfulness will be required in judging life, and a great deal +of humility in judging others.</p> + +<p>It may be argued again that dissatisfaction with our life's endeavour +springs in some degree from dulness. We require higher tasks, because we +do not recognise the height of those we have. Trying to be kind and +honest seems an affair too simple and too inconsequential for gentlemen +of our heroic mould; we had rather set ourselves to something bold, +arduous, and conclusive; we had rather found a schism or suppress a +heresy, cut off a hand or mortify an appetite. But the task before us, +which is to co-endure with our existence, is rather one of microscopic +fineness, and the heroism required is that of patience. There is no +cutting of the Gordian knots of life; each must be smilingly unravelled.</p> + +<p>To be honest, to be kind—to earn a little and to spend a little less, +to make upon the whole a family happier for his presence, to renounce +when that shall be necessary and not be embittered, to keep a few +friends but these without capitulation—above all, on the same grim +condition, to keep friends with himself—here is a task for all that a +man has of fortitude and delicacy. He has an ambitious soul who would +ask more; he has a hopeful spirit who should look in such an enterprise +to be successful. There is indeed one element in human destiny that not +blindness itself can controvert: whatever else we are intended to do, we +are not intended to succeed; failure is the fate allotted. It is so in +every art and study; it is so above all in the continent art of living +well. Here is a pleasant thought for the year's end or for the end of +life: Only self-deception will be satisfied, and there need be no +despair for the despairer.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<br/> +<h2>II</h2> + + +<p>But Christmas is not only the mile-mark of another year, moving us to +thoughts of self-examination: it is a season, from all its associations, +whether domestic or religious, suggesting thoughts of joy. A man +dissatisfied with his endeavours is a man tempted to sadness. And in the +midst of the winter, when his life runs lowest and he is reminded of the +empty chairs of his beloved, it is well he should be condemned to this +fashion of the smiling face. Noble disappointment, noble self-denial are +not to be admired, not even to be pardoned, if they bring bitterness. It +is one thing to enter the kingdom of heaven maim; another to maim +yourself and stay without. And the kingdom of heaven is of the +childlike, of those who are easy to please, who love and who give +pleasure. Mighty men of their hands, the smiters and the builders and +the judges, have lived long and done sternly and yet preserved this +lovely character; and among our carpet interests and twopenny concerns, +the shame were indelible if <i>we</i> should lose it. Gentleness and +cheerfulness, these come before all morality; they are the perfect +duties. And it is the trouble with moral men that they have neither one +nor other. It was the moral man, the Pharisee, whom Christ could not +away with. If your morals make you dreary, depend upon it they are +wrong. I do not say "give them up," for they may be all you have; but +conceal them like a vice, lest they should spoil the lives of better +and simpler people.</p> + +<p>A strange temptation attends upon man: to keep his eye on pleasures, +even when he will not share in them; to aim all his morals against them. +This very year a lady (singular iconoclast!) proclaimed a crusade +against dolls; and the racy sermon against lust is a feature of the age. +I venture to call such moralists insincere. At any excess or perversion +of a natural appetite, their lyre sounds of itself with relishing +denunciations; but for all displays of the truly diabolic—envy, malice, +the mean lie, the mean silence, the calumnious truth, the backbiter, the +petty tyrant, the peevish poisoner of family life—their standard is +quite different. These are wrong, they will admit, yet somehow not so +wrong; there is no zeal in their assault on them, no secret element of +gusto warms up the sermon; it is for things not wrong in themselves that +they reserve the choicest of their indignation. A man may naturally +disclaim all moral kinship with the Reverend Mr. Zola or the hobgoblin +old lady of the dolls; for these are gross and naked instances. And yet +in each of us some similar element resides. The sight of a pleasure in +which we cannot or else will not share moves us to a particular +impatience. It may be because we are envious, or because we are sad, or +because we dislike noise and romping—being so refined, or +because—being so philosophic—we have an overweighing sense of life's +gravity: at least, as we go on in years, we are all tempted to frown +upon our neighbour's pleasures. People are nowadays so fond of +resisting temptations; here is one to be resisted. They are fond of +self-denial; here is a propensity that cannot be too peremptorily +denied. There is an idea abroad among moral people that they should make +their neighbours good. One person I have to make good: myself. But my +duty to my neighbour is much more nearly expressed by saying that I have +to make him happy—if I may.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<br/> +<h2>III</h2> + + +<p>Happiness and goodness, according to canting moralists, stand in the +relation of effect and cause. There was never anything less proved or +less probable: our happiness is never in our own hands; we inherit our +constitution; we stand buffet among friends and enemies; we may be so +built as to feel a sneer or an aspersion with unusual keenness, and so +circumstanced as to be unusually exposed to them; we may have nerves +very sensitive to pain, and be afflicted with a disease very painful. +Virtue will not help us, and it is not meant to help us. It is not even +its own reward, except for the self-centred and—I had almost said—the +unamiable. No man can pacify his conscience; if quiet be what he want, +he shall do better to let that organ perish from disuse. And to avoid +the penalties of the law, and the minor <i>capitis diminutio</i> of social +ostracism, is an affair of wisdom—of cunning, if you will—and not of +virtue.</p> + +<p>In his own life, then, a man is not to expect happiness, only to profit +by it gladly when it shall arise; he is on duty here; he knows not how +or why, and does not need to know; he knows not for what hire, and must +not ask. Somehow or other, though he does not know what goodness is, he +must try to be good; somehow or other, though he cannot tell what will +do it, he must try to give happiness to others. And no doubt there comes +in here a frequent clash of duties. How far is he to make his neighbour +happy? How far must he respect that smiling face, so easy to cloud, so +hard to brighten again? And how far, on the other side, is he bound to +be his brother's keeper and the prophet of his own morality? How far +must he resent evil?</p> + +<p>The difficulty is that we have little guidance; Christ's sayings on the +point being hard to reconcile with each other, and (the most of them) +hard to accept. But the truth of his teaching would seem to be this: in +our own person and fortune, we should be ready to accept and to pardon +all; it is <i>our</i> cheek we are to turn, <i>our</i> coat that we are to give +away to the man who has taken <i>our</i> cloak. But when another's face is +buffeted, perhaps a little of the lion will become us best. That we are +to suffer others to be injured, and stand by, is not conceivable and +surely not desirable. Revenge, says Bacon, is a kind of wild justice; +its judgments at least are delivered by an insane judge; and in our own +quarrel we can see nothing truly and do nothing wisely. But in the +quarrel of our neighbour, let us be more bold. One person's happiness is +as sacred as another's; when we cannot defend both, let us defend one +with a stout heart. It is only in so far as we are doing this, that we +have any right to interfere: the defence of B is our only ground of +action against A. A has as good a right to go to the devil, as we to go +to glory; and neither knows what he does.</p> + +<p>The truth is that all these interventions and denunciations and militant +mongerings of moral half-truths, though they be sometimes needful, +though they are often enjoyable, do yet belong to an inferior grade of +duties. Ill-temper and envy and revenge find here an arsenal of pious +disguises; this is the playground of inverted lusts. With a little more +patience and a little less temper, a gentler and wiser method might be +found in almost every case; and the knot that we cut by some fine heady +quarrel-scene in private life, or, in public affairs, by some +denunciatory act against what we are pleased to call our neighbour's +vices, might yet have been unwoven by the hand of sympathy.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<br/> +<h2>IV</h2> + + +<p>To look back upon the past year, and see how little we have striven and +to what small purpose: and how often we have been cowardly and hung +back, or temerarious and rushed unwisely in; and how every day and all +day long we have transgressed the law of kindness;—it may seem a +paradox, but in the bitterness of these discoveries, a certain +consolation resides. Life is not designed to minister to a man's vanity. +He goes upon his long business most of the time with a hanging head, and +all the time like a blind child. Full of rewards and pleasures as it +is—so that to see the day break or the moon rise, or to meet a friend, +or to hear the dinner-call when he is hungry, fills him with surprising +joys—this world is yet for him no abiding city. Friendships fall +through, health fails, weariness assails him; year after year, he must +thumb the hardly varying record of his own weakness and folly. It is a +friendly process of detachment. When the time comes that he should go, +there need be few illusions left about himself. <i>Here lies one who meant +well, tried a little, failed much</i>:—surely that may be his epitaph, of +which he need not be ashamed. Nor will he complain at the summons which +calls a defeated soldier from the field: defeated, ay, if he were Paul +or Marcus Aurelius!—but if there is still one inch of fight in his old +spirit, undishonoured. The faith which sustained him in his life-long +blindness and life-long disappointment will scarce even be required in +this last formality of laying down his arms. Give him a march with his +old bones; there, out of the glorious sun-coloured earth, out of the day +and the dust and the ecstasy—there goes another Faithful Failure!</p> + +<p>From a recent book of verse, where there is more than one such beautiful +and manly poem, I take this memorial piece: it says better than I can, +what I love to think; let it be our parting word.</p> + +<p> +<i> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And from the west,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Where the sun, his day's work ended,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lingers as in content,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">There falls on the old, gray city</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">An influence luminous and serene,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">A shining peace.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"The smoke ascends</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shine, and are changed. In the valley</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Closing his benediction,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sinks, and the darkening air</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Night, with her train of stars</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And her great gift of sleep.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"So be my passing!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My task accomplished and the long day done,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My wages taken, and in my heart</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Some late lark singing,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Let me be gathered to the quiet west,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The sundown splendid and serene,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Death."</span></i><a name="FNanchor_2" id="FNanchor_2" /><a href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a><br /> +</p> + +<p>[1888.]</p> + +<a name="Footnote_2" id="Footnote_2" /><a href="#FNanchor_2">[2]</a><div class="footnote"><p> <i>From</i> A Book of Verses <i>by William Ernest Henley. D. Nutt, +1888.</i></p></div> + +<p> </p> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14535 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/14535-h/images/illus1.jpg b/14535-h/images/illus1.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a24f91a --- /dev/null +++ b/14535-h/images/illus1.jpg |
