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diff --git a/1463-h/1463-h.htm b/1463-h/1463-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..26f253a --- /dev/null +++ b/1463-h/1463-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5776 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft, by George Gissing</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft, by +George Gissing + + +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: The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft + + +Author: George Gissing + +Release Date: March 27, 2005 [eBook #1463] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRIVATE PAPERS OF HENRY +RYECROFT*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1903 Archibald Constable & Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>THE PRIVATE PAPERS OF HENRY RYECROFT</h1> +<h2>PREFACE</h2> +<p>The name of Henry Ryecroft never became familiar to what is called +the reading public. A year ago obituary paragraphs in the literary +papers gave such account of him as was thought needful: the date and +place of his birth, the names of certain books he had written, an allusion +to his work in the periodicals, the manner of his death. At the +time it sufficed. Even those few who knew the man, and in a measure +understood him, must have felt that his name called for no further celebration; +like other mortals, he had lived and laboured; like other mortals, he +had entered into his rest. To me, however, fell the duty of examining +Ryecroft’s papers; and having, in the exercise of my discretion, +decided to print this little volume, I feel that it requires a word +or two of biographical complement, just so much personal detail as may +point the significance of the self-revelation here made.</p> +<p>When first I knew him, Ryecroft had reached his fortieth year; for +twenty years he had lived by the pen. He was a struggling man, +beset by poverty and other circumstances very unpropitious to mental +work. Many forms of literature had he tried; in none had he been +conspicuously successful; yet now and then he had managed to earn a +little more money than his actual needs demanded, and thus was enabled +to see something of foreign countries. Naturally a man of independent +and rather scornful outlook, he had suffered much from defeated ambition, +from disillusions of many kinds, from subjection to grim necessity; +the result of it, at the time of which I am speaking, was, certainly +not a broken spirit, but a mind and temper so sternly disciplined, that, +in ordinary intercourse with him, one did not know but that he led a +calm, contented life. Only after several years of friendship was +I able to form a just idea of what the man had gone through, or of his +actual existence. Little by little Ryecroft had subdued himself +to a modestly industrious routine. He did a great deal of mere +hack-work; he reviewed, he translated, he wrote articles; at long intervals +a volume appeared under his name. There were times, I have no +doubt, when bitterness took hold upon him; not seldom he suffered in +health, and probably as much from moral as from physical over-strain; +but, on the whole, he earned his living very much as other men do, taking +the day’s toil as a matter of course, and rarely grumbling over +it.</p> +<p>Time went on; things happened; but Ryecroft was still laborious and +poor. In moments of depression he spoke of his declining energies, +and evidently suffered under a haunting fear of the future. The +thought of dependence had always been intolerable to him; perhaps the +only boast I at any time heard from his lips was that he had never incurred +debt. It was a bitter thought that, after so long and hard a struggle +with unkindly circumstance, he might end his life as one of the defeated.</p> +<p>A happier lot was in store for him. At the age of fifty, just +when his health had begun to fail and his energies to show abatement, +Ryecroft had the rare good fortune to find himself suddenly released +from toil, and to enter upon a period of such tranquillity of mind and +condition as he had never dared to hope. On the death of an acquaintance, +more his friend than he imagined, the wayworn man of letters learnt +with astonishment that there was bequeathed to him a life annuity of +three hundred pounds. Having only himself to support (he had been +a widower for several years, and his daughter, an only child, was married), +Ryecroft saw in this income something more than a competency. +In a few weeks he quitted the London suburb where of late he had been +living, and, turning to the part of England which he loved best, he +presently established himself in a cottage near Exeter, where, with +a rustic housekeeper to look after him, he was soon thoroughly at home. +Now and then some friend went down into Devon to see him; those who +had that pleasure will not forget the plain little house amid its half-wild +garden, the cosy book-room with its fine view across the valley of the +Exe to Haldon, the host’s cordial, gleeful hospitality, rambles +with him in lanes and meadows, long talks amid the stillness of the +rural night. We hoped it would all last for many a year; it seemed, +indeed, as though Ryecroft had only need of rest and calm to become +a hale man. But already, though he did not know it, he was suffering +from a disease of the heart, which cut short his life after little more +than a lustrum of quiet contentment. It had always been his wish +to die suddenly; he dreaded the thought of illness, chiefly because +of the trouble it gave to others. On a summer evening, after a +long walk in very hot weather, he lay down upon the sofa in his study, +and there—as his calm face declared—passed from slumber +into the great silence.</p> +<p>When he left London, Ryecroft bade farewell to authorship. +He told me that he hoped never to write another line for publication. +But, among the papers which I looked through after his death, I came +upon three manuscript books which at first glance seemed to be a diary; +a date on the opening page of one of them showed that it had been begun +not very long after the writer’s settling in Devon. When +I had read a little in these pages, I saw that they were no mere record +of day-to-day life; evidently finding himself unable to forego altogether +the use of the pen, the veteran had set down, as humour bade him, a +thought, a reminiscence, a bit of reverie, a description of his state +of mind, and so on, dating such passage merely with the month in which +it was written. Sitting in the room where I had often been his +companion, I turned page after page, and at moments it was as though +my friend’s voice sounded to me once more. I saw his worn +visage, grave or smiling; recalled his familiar pose or gesture. +But in this written gossip he revealed himself more intimately than +in our conversation of the days gone by. Ryecroft had never erred +by lack of reticence; as was natural in a sensitive man who had suffered +much, he inclined to gentle acquiescence, shrank from argument, from +self-assertion. Here he spoke to me without restraint, and, when +I had read it all through, I knew the man better than before.</p> +<p>Assuredly, this writing was not intended for the public, and yet, +in many a passage, I seemed to perceive the literary purpose—something +more than the turn of phrase, and so on, which results from long habit +of composition. Certain of his reminiscences, in particular, Ryecroft +could hardly have troubled to write down had he not, however vaguely, +entertained the thought of putting them to some use. I suspect +that, in his happy leisure, there grew upon him a desire to write one +more book, a book which should be written merely for his own satisfaction. +Plainly, it would have been the best he had it in him to do. But +he seems never to have attempted the arrangement of these fragmentary +pieces, and probably because he could not decide upon the form they +should take. I imagine him shrinking from the thought of a first-person +volume; he would feel it too pretentious; he would bid himself wait +for the day of riper wisdom. And so the pen fell from his hand.</p> +<p>Conjecturing thus, I wondered whether the irregular diary might not +have wider interest than at first appeared. To me, its personal +appeal was very strong; might it not be possible to cull from it the +substance of a small volume which, at least for its sincerity’s +sake, would not be without value for those who read, not with the eye +alone, but with the mind? I turned the pages again. Here +was a man who, having his desire, and that a very modest one, not only +felt satisfied, but enjoyed great happiness. He talked of many +different things, saying exactly what he thought; he spoke of himself, +and told the truth as far as mortal can tell it. It seemed to +me that the thing had human interest. I decided to print.</p> +<p>The question of arrangement had to be considered; I did not like +to offer a mere incondite miscellany. To supply each of the disconnected +passages with a title, or even to group them under subject headings, +would have interfered with the spontaneity which, above all, I wished +to preserve. In reading through the matter I had selected, it +struck me how often the aspects of nature were referred to, and how +suitable many of the reflections were to the month with which they were +dated. Ryecroft, I knew, had ever been much influenced by the +mood of the sky, and by the procession of the year. So I hit upon +the thought of dividing the little book into four chapters, named after +the seasons. Like all classifications, it is imperfect, but ’twill +serve.</p> +<p>G. G.</p> +<h2>SPRING</h2> +<h3>I.</h3> +<p>For more than a week my pen has lain untouched. I have written +nothing for seven whole days, not even a letter. Except during +one or two bouts of illness, such a thing never happened in my life +before. In my life; the life, that is, which had to be supported +by anxious toil; the life which was not lived for living’s sake, +as all life should be, but under the goad of fear. The earning +of money should be a means to an end; for more than thirty years—I +began to support myself at sixteen—I had to regard it as the end +itself.</p> +<p>I could imagine that my old penholder feels reproachfully towards +me. Has it not served me well? Why do I, in my happiness, +let it lie there neglected, gathering dust? The same penholder +that has lain against my forefinger day after day, for—how many +years? Twenty, at least; I remember buying it at a shop in Tottenham +Court Road. By the same token I bought that day a paper-weight, +which cost me a whole shilling—an extravagance which made me tremble. +The penholder shone with its new varnish, now it is plain brown wood +from end to end. On my forefinger it has made a callosity.</p> +<p>Old companion, yet old enemy! How many a time have I taken +it up, loathing the necessity, heavy in head and heart, my hand shaking, +my eyes sick-dazzled! How I dreaded the white page I had to foul +with ink! Above all, on days such as this, when the blue eyes +of Spring laughed from between rosy clouds, when the sunlight shimmered +upon my table and made me long, long all but to madness, for the scent +of the flowering earth, for the green of hillside larches, for the singing +of the skylark above the downs. There was a time—it seems +further away than childhood—when I took up my pen with eagerness; +if my hand trembled it was with hope. But a hope that fooled me, +for never a page of my writing deserved to live. I can say that +now without bitterness. It was youthful error, and only the force +of circumstance prolonged it. The world has done me no injustice; +thank Heaven I have grown wise enough not to rail at it for this! +And why should any man who writes, even if he write things immortal, +nurse anger at the world’s neglect? Who asked him to publish? +Who promised him a hearing? Who has broken faith with him? +If my shoemaker turn me out an excellent pair of boots, and I, in some +mood of cantankerous unreason, throw them back upon his hands, the man +has just cause of complaint. But your poem, your novel, who bargained +with you for it? If it is honest journeywork, yet lacks purchasers, +at most you may call yourself a hapless tradesman. If it come +from on high, with what decency do you fret and fume because it is not +paid for in heavy cash? For the work of man’s mind there +is one test, and one alone, the judgment of generations yet unborn. +If you have written a great book, the world to come will know of it. +But you don’t care for posthumous glory. You want to enjoy +fame in a comfortable armchair. Ah, that is quite another thing. +Have the courage of your desire. Admit yourself a merchant, and +protest to gods and men that the merchandise you offer is of better +quality than much which sells for a high price. You may be right, +and indeed it is hard upon you that Fashion does not turn to your stall.</p> +<h3>II.</h3> +<p>The exquisite quiet of this room! I have been sitting in utter +idleness, watching the sky, viewing the shape of golden sunlight upon +the carpet, which changes as the minutes pass, letting my eye wander +from one framed print to another, and along the ranks of my beloved +books. Within the house nothing stirs. In the garden I can +hear singing of birds, I can hear the rustle of their wings. And +thus, if it please me, I may sit all day long, and into the profounder +quiet of the night.</p> +<p>My house is perfect. By great good fortune I have found a housekeeper +no less to my mind, a low-voiced, light-footed woman of discreet age, +strong and deft enough to render me all the service I require, and not +afraid of solitude. She rises very early. By my breakfast-time +there remains little to be done under the roof save dressing of meals. +Very rarely do I hear even a clink of crockery; never the closing of +a door or window. Oh, blessed silence!</p> +<p>There is not the remotest possibility of any one’s calling +upon me, and that I should call upon any one else is a thing undreamt +of. I owe a letter to a friend; perhaps I shall write it before +bedtime; perhaps I shall leave it till to-morrow morning. A letter +of friendship should never be written save when the spirit prompts. +I have not yet looked at the newspaper. Generally I leave it till +I come back tired from my walk; it amuses me then to see what the noisy +world is doing, what new self-torments men have discovered, what new +forms of vain toil, what new occasions of peril and of strife. +I grudge to give the first freshness of the morning mind to things so +sad and foolish.</p> +<p>My house is perfect. Just large enough to allow the grace of +order in domestic circumstance; just that superfluity of intramural +space, to lack which is to be less than at one’s ease. The +fabric is sound; the work in wood and plaster tells of a more leisurely +and a more honest age than ours. The stairs do not creak under +my step; I am waylaid by no unkindly draught; I can open or close a +window without muscle-ache. As to such trifles as the tint and +device of wall-paper, I confess my indifference; be the walls only unobtrusive, +and I am satisfied. The first thing in one’s home is comfort; +let beauty of detail be added if one has the means, the patience, the +eye.</p> +<p>To me, this little book-room is beautiful, and chiefly because it +is home. Through the greater part of life I was homeless. +Many places have I inhabited, some which my soul loathed, and some which +pleased me well; but never till now with that sense of security which +makes a home. At any moment I might have been driven forth by +evil hap, by nagging necessity. For all that time did I say within +myself: Some day, perchance, I shall have a home; yet the “perchance” +had more and more of emphasis as life went on, and at the moment when +fate was secretly smiling on me, I had all but abandoned hope. +I have my home at last. When I place a new volume on my shelves, +I say: Stand there whilst I have eyes to see you; and a joyous tremor +thrills me. This house is mine on a lease of a score of years. +So long I certainly shall not live; but, if I did, even so long should +I have the wherewithal to pay my rent and buy my food.</p> +<p>I think with compassion of the unhappy mortals for whom no such sun +will ever rise. I should like to add to the Litany a new petition: +“For all inhabitants of great towns, and especially for all such +as dwell in lodgings, boarding-houses, flats, or any other sordid substitute +for Home which need or foolishness may have contrived.”</p> +<p>In vain I have pondered the Stoic virtues. I know that it is +folly to fret about the spot of one’s abode on this little earth.</p> +<blockquote><p>All places that the eye of heaven visits<br /> +Are to the wise man ports and happy havens.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But I have always worshipped wisdom afar off. In the sonorous +period of the philosopher, in the golden measure of the poet, I find +it of all things lovely. To its possession I shall never attain. +What will it serve me to pretend a virtue of which I am incapable? +To me the place and manner of my abode is of supreme import; let it +be confessed, and there an end of it. I am no cosmopolite. +Were I to think that I should die away from England, the thought would +be dreadful to me. And in England, this is the dwelling of my +choice; this is my home.</p> +<h3>III.</h3> +<p>I am no botanist, but I have long found pleasure in herb-gathering. +I love to come upon a plant which is unknown to me, to identify it with +the help of my book, to greet it by name when next it shines beside +my path. If the plant be rare, its discovery gives me joy. +Nature, the great Artist, makes her common flowers in the common view; +no word in human language can express the marvel and the loveliness +even of what we call the vulgarest weed, but these are fashioned under +the gaze of every passer-by. The rare flower is shaped apart, +in places secret, in the Artist’s subtler mood; to find it is +to enjoy the sense of admission to a holier precinct. Even in +my gladness I am awed.</p> +<p>To-day I have walked far, and at the end of my walk I found the little +white-flowered wood-ruff. It grew in a copse of young ash. +When I had looked long at the flower, I delighted myself with the grace +of the slim trees about it—their shining smoothness, their olive +hue. Hard by stood a bush of wych elm; its tettered bark, overlined +as if with the character of some unknown tongue, made the young ashes +yet more beautiful.</p> +<p>It matters not how long I wander. There is no task to bring +me back; no one will be vexed or uneasy, linger I ever so late. +Spring is shining upon these lanes and meadows; I feel as if I must +follow every winding track that opens by my way. Spring has restored +to me something of the long-forgotten vigour of youth; I walk without +weariness; I sing to myself like a boy, and the song is one I knew in +boyhood.</p> +<p>That reminds me of an incident. Near a hamlet, in a lonely +spot by a woodside, I came upon a little lad of perhaps ten years old, +who, his head hidden in his arms against a tree trunk, was crying bitterly. +I asked him what was the matter, and, after a little trouble—he +was better than a mere bumpkin—I learnt that, having been sent +with sixpence to pay a debt, he had lost the money. The poor little +fellow was in a state of mind which in a grave man would be called the +anguish of despair; he must have been crying for a long time; every +muscle in his face quivered as if under torture, his limbs shook; his +eyes, his voice, uttered such misery as only the vilest criminal should +be made to suffer. And it was because he had lost sixpence!</p> +<p>I could have shed tears with him—tears of pity and of rage +at all this spectacle implied. On a day of indescribable glory, +when earth and heaven shed benedictions upon the soul of man, a child, +whose nature would have bidden him rejoice as only childhood may, wept +his heart out because his hand had dropped a sixpenny piece! The +loss was a very serious one, and he knew it; he was less afraid to face +his parents, than overcome by misery at the thought of the harm he had +done them. Sixpence dropped by the wayside, and a whole family +made wretched! What are the due descriptive terms for a state +of “civilization” in which such a thing as this is possible?</p> +<p>I put my hand into my pocket, and wrought sixpennyworth of miracle.</p> +<p>It took me half an hour to recover my quiet mind. After all, +it is as idle to rage against man’s fatuity as to hope that he +will ever be less a fool. For me, the great thing was my sixpenny +miracle. Why, I have known the day when it would have been beyond +my power altogether, or else would have cost me a meal. Wherefore, +let me again be glad and thankful.</p> +<h3>IV.</h3> +<p>There was a time in my life when, if I had suddenly been set in the +position I now enjoy, conscience would have lain in ambush for me. +What! An income sufficient to support three or four working-class +families—a house all to myself—things beautiful wherever +I turn—and absolutely nothing to do for it all! I should +have been hard put to it to defend myself. In those days I was +feelingly reminded, hour by hour, with what a struggle the obscure multitudes +manage to keep alive. Nobody knows better than I do <i>quam parvo +liceat producere vitam</i>. I have hungered in the streets; I +have laid my head in the poorest shelter; I know what it is to feel +the heart burn with wrath and envy of “the privileged classes.” +Yes, but all that time I was one of “the privileged” myself, +and now I can accept a recognized standing among them without shadow +of self-reproach.</p> +<p>It does not mean that my larger sympathies are blunted. By +going to certain places, looking upon certain scenes, I could most effectually +destroy all the calm that life has brought me. If I hold apart +and purposely refuse to look that way, it is because I believe that +the world is better, not worse, for having one more inhabitant who lives +as becomes a civilized being. Let him whose soul prompts him to +assail the iniquity of things, cry and spare not; let him who has the +vocation go forth and combat. In me it would be to err from Nature’s +guidance. I know, if I know anything, that I am made for the life +of tranquillity and meditation. I know that only thus can such +virtue as I possess find scope. More than half a century of existence +has taught me that most of the wrong and folly which darken earth is +due to those who cannot possess their souls in quiet; that most of the +good which saves mankind from destruction comes of life that is led +in thoughtful stillness. Every day the world grows noisier; I, +for one, will have no part in that increasing clamour, and, were it +only by my silence, I confer a boon on all.</p> +<p>How well would the revenues of a country be expended, if, by mere +pensioning, one-fifth of its population could be induced to live as +I do!</p> +<h3>V.</h3> +<p>“Sir,” said Johnson, “all the arguments which are +brought to represent poverty as no evil, show it to be evidently a great +evil. You never find people labouring to convince you that you +may live very happily upon a plentiful fortune.”</p> +<p>He knew what he was talking of, that rugged old master of common +sense. Poverty is of course a relative thing; the term has reference, +above all, to one’s standing as an intellectual being. If +I am to believe the newspapers, there are title-bearing men and women +in England who, had they an assured income of five-and-twenty, shillings +per week, would have no right to call themselves poor, for their intellectual +needs are those of a stable-boy or scullery wench. Give me the +same income and I can live, but I am poor indeed.</p> +<p>You tell me that money cannot buy the things most precious. +Your commonplace proves that you have never known the lack of it. +When I think of all the sorrow and the barrenness that has been wrought +in my life by want of a few more pounds per annum than I was able to +earn, I stand aghast at money’s significance. What kindly +joys have I lost, those simple forms of happiness to which every heart +has claim, because of poverty! Meetings with those I loved made +impossible year after year; sadness, misunderstanding, nay, cruel alienation, +arising from inability to do the things I wished, and which I might +have done had a little money helped me; endless instances of homely +pleasure and contentment curtailed or forbidden by narrow means. +I have lost friends merely through the constraints of my position; friends +I might have made have remained strangers to me; solitude of the bitter +kind, the solitude which is enforced at times when mind or heart longs +for companionship, often cursed my life solely because I was poor. +I think it would scarce be an exaggeration to say that there is no moral +good which has not to be paid for in coin of the realm.</p> +<p>“Poverty,” said Johnson again, “is so great an +evil, and pregnant with so much temptation, so much misery, that I cannot +but earnestly enjoin you to avoid it.”</p> +<p>For my own part, I needed no injunction to that effort of avoidance. +Many a London garret knows how I struggled with the unwelcome chamber-fellow. +I marvel she did not abide with me to the end; it is a sort of inconsequence +in Nature, and sometimes makes me vaguely uneasy through nights of broken +sleep.</p> +<h3>VI.</h3> +<p>How many more springs can I hope to see? A sanguine temper +would say ten or twelve; let me dare to hope humbly for five or six. +That is a great many. Five or six spring-times, welcomed joyously, +lovingly watched from the first celandine to the budding of the rose; +who shall dare to call it a stinted boon? Five or six times the +miracle of earth reclad, the vision of splendour and loveliness which +tongue has never yet described, set before my gazing. To think +of it is to fear that I ask too much.</p> +<h3>VII.</h3> +<p>“Homo animal querulum cupide suis incumbens miseriis.” +I wonder where that comes from. I found it once in Charron, quoted +without reference, and it has often been in my mind—a dreary truth, +well worded. At least, it was a truth for me during many a long +year. Life, I fancy, would very often be insupportable, but for +the luxury of self-compassion; in cases numberless, this it must be +that saves from suicide. For some there is great relief in talking +about their miseries, but such gossips lack the profound solace of misery +nursed in silent brooding. Happily, the trick with me has never +been retrospective; indeed, it was never, even with regard to instant +suffering, a habit so deeply rooted as to become a mastering vice. +I knew my own weakness when I yielded to it; I despised myself when +it brought me comfort; I could laugh scornfully, even “cupide +meis incumbens miseriis.” And now, thanks be to the unknown +power which rules us, my past has buried its dead. More than that; +I can accept with sober cheerfulness the necessity of all I lived through. +So it was to be; so it was. For this did Nature shape me; with +what purpose, I shall never know; but, in the sequence of things eternal, +this was my place.</p> +<p>Could I have achieved so much philosophy if, as I ever feared, the +closing years of my life had passed in helpless indigence? Should +I not have sunk into lowest depths of querulous self-pity, grovelling +there with eyes obstinately averted from the light above?</p> +<h3>VIII.</h3> +<p>The early coming of spring in this happy Devon gladdens my heart. +I think with chill discomfort of those parts of England where the primrose +shivers beneath a sky of threat rather than of solace. Honest +winter, snow-clad and with the frosted beard, I can welcome not uncordially; +but that long deferment of the calendar’s promise, that weeping +gloom of March and April, that bitter blast outraging the honour of +May—how often has it robbed me of heart and hope. Here, +scarce have I assured myself that the last leaf has fallen, scarce have +I watched the glistening of hoar-frost upon the evergreens, when a breath +from the west thrills me with anticipation of bud and bloom. Even +under this grey-billowing sky, which tells that February is still in +rule:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Mild winds shake the elder brake,<br /> +And the wandering herdsmen know<br /> +That the whitethorn soon will blow.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I have been thinking of those early years of mine in London, when +the seasons passed over me unobserved, when I seldom turned a glance +towards the heavens, and felt no hardship in the imprisonment of boundless +streets. It is strange now to remember that for some six or seven +years I never looked upon a meadow, never travelled even so far as to +the tree-bordered suburbs. I was battling for dear life; on most +days I could not feel certain that in a week’s time I should have +food and shelter. It would happen, to be sure, that in hot noons +of August my thoughts wandered to the sea; but so impossible was the +gratification of such desire that it never greatly troubled me. +At times, indeed, I seem all but to have forgotten that people went +away for holiday. In those poor parts of the town where I dwelt, +season made no perceptible difference; there were no luggage-laden cabs +to remind me of joyous journeys; the folk about me went daily to their +toil as usual, and so did I. I remember afternoons of languor, +when books were a weariness, and no thought could be squeezed out of +the drowsy brain; then would I betake myself to one of the parks, and +find refreshment without any enjoyable sense of change. Heavens, +how I laboured in those days! And how far I was from thinking +of myself as a subject for compassion! That came later, when my +health had begun to suffer from excess of toil, from bad air, bad food +and many miseries; then awoke the maddening desire for countryside and +sea-beach—and for other things yet more remote. But in the +years when I toiled hardest and underwent what now appear to me hideous +privations, of a truth I could not be said to suffer at all. I +did not suffer, for I had no sense of weakness. My health was +proof against everything, and my energies defied all malice of circumstance. +With however little encouragement, I had infinite hope. Sound +sleep (often in places I now dread to think of) sent me fresh to the +battle each morning, my breakfast, sometimes, no more than a slice of +bread and a cup of water. As human happiness goes, I am not sure +that I was not then happy.</p> +<p>Most men who go through a hard time in their youth are supported +by companionship. London has no <i>pays latin</i>, but hungry +beginners in literature have generally their suitable comrades, garreteers +in the Tottenham Court Road district, or in unredeemed Chelsea; they +make their little <i>vie de Bohème</i>, and are consciously proud +of it. Of my position, the peculiarity was that I never belonged +to any cluster; I shrank from casual acquaintance, and, through the +grim years, had but one friend with whom I held converse. It was +never my instinct to look for help, to seek favour for advancement; +whatever step I gained was gained by my own strength. Even as +I disregarded favour so did I scorn advice; no counsel would I ever +take but that of my own brain and heart. More than once I was +driven by necessity to beg from strangers the means of earning bread, +and this of all my experiences was the bitterest; yet I think I should +have found it worse still to incur a debt to some friend or comrade. +The truth is that I have never learnt to regard myself as a “member +of society.” For me, there have always been two entities—myself +and the world, and the normal relation between these two has been hostile. +Am I not still a lonely man, as far as ever from forming part of the +social order?</p> +<p>This, of which I once was scornfully proud, seems to me now, if not +a calamity, something I would not choose if life were to live again.</p> +<h3>IX.</h3> +<p>For more than six years I trod the pavement, never stepping once +upon mother earth—for the parks are but pavement disguised with +a growth of grass. Then the worst was over. Say I the worst? +No, no; things far worse were to come; the struggle against starvation +has its cheery side when one is young and vigorous. But at all +events I had begun to earn a living; I held assurance of food and clothing +for half a year at a time; granted health, I might hope to draw my not +insufficient wages for many a twelvemonth. And they were the wages +of work done independently, when and where I would. I thought +with horror of lives spent in an office, with an employer to obey. +The glory of the career of letters was its freedom, its dignity!</p> +<p>The fact of the matter was, of course, that I served, not one master, +but a whole crowd of them. Independence, forsooth! If my +writing failed to please editor, publisher, public, where was my daily +bread? The greater my success, the more numerous my employers. +I was the slave of a multitude. By heaven’s grace I had +succeeded in pleasing (that is to say, in making myself a source of +profit to) certain persons who represented this vague throng; for the +time, they were gracious to me; but what justified me in the faith that +I should hold the ground I had gained? Could the position of any +toiling man be more precarious than mine? I tremble now as I think +of it, tremble as I should in watching some one who walked carelessly +on the edge of an abyss. I marvel at the recollection that for +a good score of years this pen and a scrap of paper clothed and fed +me and my household, kept me in physical comfort, held at bay all those +hostile forces of the world ranged against one who has no resource save +in his own right hand.</p> +<p>But I was thinking of the year which saw my first exodus from London. +On an irresistible impulse, I suddenly made up my mind to go into Devon, +a part of England I had never seen. At the end of March I escaped +from my grim lodgings, and, before I had time to reflect on the details +of my undertaking, I found myself sitting in sunshine at a spot very +near to where I now dwell—before me the green valley of the broadening +Exe and the pine-clad ridge of Haldon. That was one of the moments +of my life when I have tasted exquisite joy. My state of mind +was very strange. Though as boy and youth I had been familiar +with the country, had seen much of England’s beauties, it was +as though I found myself for the first time before a natural landscape. +Those years of London had obscured all my earlier life; I was like a +man town-born and bred, who scarce knows anything but street vistas. +The light, the air, had for me something of the supernatural—affected +me, indeed, only less than at a later time did the atmosphere of Italy. +It was glorious spring weather; a few white clouds floated amid the +blue, and the earth had an intoxicating fragrance. Then first +did I know myself for a sun-worshipper. How had I lived so long +without asking whether there was a sun in the heavens or not? +Under that radiant firmament, I could have thrown myself upon my knees +in adoration. As I walked, I found myself avoiding every strip +of shadow; were it but that of a birch trunk, I felt as if it robbed +me of the day’s delight. I went bare-headed, that the golden +beams might shed upon me their unstinted blessing. That day I +must have walked some thirty miles, yet I knew not fatigue. Could +I but have once more the strength which then supported me!</p> +<p>I had stepped into a new life. Between the man I had been and +that which I now became there was a very notable difference. In +a single day I had matured astonishingly; which means, no doubt, that +I suddenly entered into conscious enjoyment of powers and sensibilities +which had been developing unknown to me. To instance only one +point: till then I had cared very little about plants and flowers, but +now I found myself eagerly interested in every blossom, in every growth +of the wayside. As I walked I gathered a quantity of plants, promising +myself to buy a book on the morrow and identify them all. Nor +was it a passing humour; never since have I lost my pleasure in the +flowers of the field, and my desire to know them all. My ignorance +at the time of which I speak seems to me now very shameful; but I was +merely in the case of ordinary people, whether living in town or country. +How many could give the familiar name of half a dozen plants plucked +at random from beneath the hedge in springtime? To me the flowers +became symbolical of a great release, of a wonderful awakening. +My eyes had all at once been opened; till then I had walked in darkness, +yet knew it not.</p> +<p>Well do I remember the rambles of that springtide. I had a +lodging in one of those outer streets of Exeter which savour more of +country than of town, and every morning I set forth to make discoveries. +The weather could not have been more kindly; I felt the influences of +a climate I had never known; there was a balm in the air which soothed +no less than it exhilarated me. Now inland, now seaward, I followed +the windings of the Exe. One day I wandered in rich, warm valleys, +by orchards bursting into bloom, from farmhouse to farmhouse, each more +beautiful than the other, and from hamlet to hamlet bowered amid dark +evergreens; the next, I was on pine-clad heights, gazing over moorland +brown with last year’s heather, feeling upon my face a wind from +the white-flecked Channel. So intense was my delight in the beautiful +world about me that I forgot even myself; I enjoyed without retrospect +or forecast; I, the egoist in grain, forgot to scrutinize my own emotions, +or to trouble my happiness by comparison with others’ happier +fortune. It was a healthful time; it gave me a new lease of life, +and taught me—in so far as I was teachable—how to make use +of it.</p> +<h3>X.</h3> +<p>Mentally and physically, I must be much older than my years. +At three-and-fifty a man ought not to be brooding constantly on his +vanished youth. These days of spring which I should be enjoying +for their own sake, do but turn me to reminiscence, and my memories +are of the springs that were lost.</p> +<p>Some day I will go to London and revisit all the places where I housed +in the time of my greatest poverty. I have not seen them for a +quarter of a century or so. Not long ago, had any one asked me +how I felt about these memories, I should have said that there were +certain street names, certain mental images of obscure London, which +made me wretched as often as they came before me; but, in truth, it +is a very long time since I was moved to any sort of bitterness by that +retrospect of things hard and squalid. Now, owning all the misery +of it in comparison with what should have been, I find that part of +life interesting and pleasant to look back upon—greatly more so +than many subsequent times, when I lived amid decencies and had enough +to eat. Some day I will go to London, and spend a day or two amid +the dear old horrors. Some of the places, I know, have disappeared. +I see the winding way by which I went from Oxford Street, at the foot +of Tottenham Court Road, to Leicester Square, and, somewhere in the +labyrinth (I think of it as always foggy and gas-lit) was a shop which +had pies and puddings in the window, puddings and pies kept hot by steam +rising through perforated metal. How many a time have I stood +there, raging with hunger, unable to purchase even one pennyworth of +food! The shop and the street have long since vanished; does any +man remember them so feelingly as I? But I think most of my haunts +are still in existence: to tread again those pavements, to look at those +grimy doorways and purblind windows, would affect me strangely.</p> +<p>I see that alley hidden on the west side of Tottenham Court Road, +where, after living in a back bedroom on the top floor, I had to exchange +for the front cellar; there was a difference, if I remember rightly, +of sixpence a week, and sixpence, in those days, was a very great consideration—why, +it meant a couple of meals. (I once <i>found</i> sixpence in the +street, and had an exultation which is vivid in me at this moment.) +The front cellar was stone-floored; its furniture was a table, a chair, +a wash-stand, and a bed; the window, which of course had never been +cleaned since it was put in, received light through a flat grating in +the alley above. Here I lived; here <i>I wrote</i>. Yes, +“literary work” was done at that filthy deal table, on which, +by the bye, lay my Homer, my Shakespeare, and the few other books I +then possessed. At night, as I lay in bed, I used to hear the +tramp, tramp of a <i>posse</i> of policemen who passed along the alley +on their way to relieve guard; their heavy feet sometimes sounded on +the grating above my window.</p> +<p>I recall a tragi-comical incident of life at the British Museum. +Once, on going down into the lavatory to wash my hands, I became aware +of a notice newly set up above the row of basins. It ran somehow +thus: “Readers are requested to bear in mind that these basins +are to be used only for casual ablutions.” Oh, the significance +of that inscription! Had I not myself, more than once, been glad +to use this soap and water more largely than the sense of the authorities +contemplated? And there were poor fellows working under the great +dome whose need, in this respect, was greater than mine. I laughed +heartily at the notice, but it meant so much.</p> +<p>Some of my abodes I have utterly forgotten; for one reason or another, +I was always moving—an easy matter when all my possessions lay +in one small trunk. Sometimes the people of the house were intolerable. +In those days I was not fastidious, and I seldom had any but the slightest +intercourse with those who dwelt under the same roof, yet it happened +now and then that I was driven away by human proximity which passed +my endurance. In other cases I had to flee from pestilential conditions. +How I escaped mortal illness in some of those places (miserably fed +as I always was, and always over-working myself) is a great mystery. +The worst that befell me was a slight attack of diphtheria—traceable, +I imagine, to the existence of a dust-bin <i>under the staircase</i>. +When I spoke of the matter to my landlady, she was at first astonished, +then wrathful, and my departure was expedited with many insults.</p> +<p>On the whole, however, I had nothing much to complain of except my +poverty. You cannot expect great comfort in London for four-and-sixpence +a week—the most I ever could pay for a “furnished room with +attendance” in those days of pretty stern apprenticeship. +And I was easily satisfied; I wanted only a little walled space in which +I could seclude myself, free from external annoyance. Certain +comforts of civilized life I ceased even to regret; a stair-carpet I +regarded as rather extravagant, and a carpet on the floor of my room +was luxury undreamt of. My sleep was sound; I have passed nights +of dreamless repose on beds which it would now make my bones ache only +to look at. A door that locked, a fire in winter, a pipe of tobacco—these +were things essential; and, granted these, I have been often richly +contented in the squalidest garret. One such lodging is often +in my memory; it was at Islington, not far from the City Road; my window +looked upon the Regent’s Canal. As often as I think of it, +I recall what was perhaps the worst London fog I ever knew; for three +successive days, at least, my lamp had to be kept burning; when I looked +through the window, I saw, at moments, a few blurred lights in the street +beyond the Canal, but for the most part nothing but a yellowish darkness, +which caused the glass to reflect the firelight and my own face. +Did I feel miserable? Not a bit of it. The enveloping gloom +seemed to make my chimney-corner only the more cosy. I had coals, +oil, tobacco in sufficient quantity; I had a book to read; I had work +which interested me; so I went forth only to get my meals at a City +Road coffee-shop, and hastened back to the fireside. Oh, my ambitions, +my hopes! How surprised and indignant I should have felt had I +known of any one who pitied me!</p> +<p>Nature took revenge now and then. In winter time I had fierce +sore throats, sometimes accompanied by long and savage headaches. +Doctoring, of course, never occurred to me; I just locked my door, and, +if I felt very bad indeed, went to bed—to lie there, without food +or drink, till I was able to look after myself again. I could +never ask from a landlady anything which was not in our bond, and only +once or twice did I receive spontaneous offer of help. Oh, it +is wonderful to think of all that youth can endure! What a poor +feeble wretch I now seem to myself, when I remember thirty years ago!</p> +<h3>XI.</h3> +<p>Would I live it over again, that life of the garret and the cellar? +Not with the assurance of fifty years’ contentment such as I now +enjoy to follow upon it! With man’s infinitely pathetic +power of resignation, one sees the thing on its better side, forgets +all the worst of it, makes out a case for the resolute optimist. +Oh, but the waste of energy, of zeal, of youth! In another mood, +I could shed tears over that spectacle of rare vitality condemned to +sordid strife. The pity of it! And—if our conscience +mean anything at all—the bitter wrong!</p> +<p>Without seeking for Utopia, think what a man’s youth might +be. I suppose not one in every thousand uses half the possibilities +of natural joy and delightful effort which lie in those years between +seventeen and seven-and-twenty. All but all men have to look back +upon beginnings of life deformed and discoloured by necessity, accident, +wantonness. If a young man avoid the grosser pitfalls, if he keep +his eye fixed steadily on what is called the main chance, if, without +flagrant selfishness, he prudently subdue every interest to his own +(by “interest” understanding only material good), he is +putting his youth to profit, he is an exemplar and a subject of pride. +I doubt whether, in our civilization, any other ideal is easy of pursuit +by the youngster face to face with life. It is the only course +altogether safe. Yet compare it with what might be, if men respected +manhood, if human reason were at the service of human happiness. +Some few there are who can look back upon a boyhood of natural delights, +followed by a decade or so of fine energies honourably put to use, blended +therewith, perhaps, a memory of joy so exquisite that it tunes all life +unto the end; they are almost as rare as poets. The vast majority +think not of their youth at all, or, glancing backward, are unconscious +of lost opportunity, unaware of degradation suffered. Only by +contrast with this thick-witted multitude can I pride myself upon my +youth of endurance and of combat. I had a goal before me, and +not the goal of the average man. Even when pinched with hunger, +I did not abandon my purposes, which were of the mind. But contrast +that starved lad in his slum lodging with any fair conception of intelligent +and zealous youth, and one feels that a dose of swift poison would have +been the right remedy for such squalid ills.</p> +<h3>XII.</h3> +<p>As often as I survey my bookshelves I am reminded of Lamb’s +“ragged veterans.” Not that all my volumes came from +the second-hand stall; many of them were neat enough in new covers, +some were even stately in fragrant bindings, when they passed into my +hands. But so often have I removed, so rough has been the treatment +of my little library at each change of place, and, to tell the truth, +so little care have I given to its well-being at normal times (for in +all practical matters I am idle and inept), that even the comeliest +of my books show the results of unfair usage. More than one has +been foully injured by a great nail driven into a packing-case—this +but the extreme instance of the wrongs they have undergone. Now +that I have leisure and peace of mind, I find myself growing more careful—an +illustration of the great truth that virtue is made easy by circumstance. +But I confess that, so long as a volume hold together, I am not much +troubled as to its outer appearance.</p> +<p>I know men who say they had as lief read any book in a library copy +as in one from their own shelf. To me that is unintelligible. +For one thing, I know every book of mine by its <i>scent</i>, and I +have but to put my nose between the pages to be reminded of all sorts +of things. My Gibbon, for example, my well-bound eight-volume +Milman edition, which I have read and read and read again for more than +thirty years—never do I open it but the scent of the noble page +restores to me all the exultant happiness of that moment when I received +it as a prize. Or my Shakespeare, the great Cambridge Shakespeare—it +has an odour which carries me yet further back in life; for these volumes +belonged to my father, and before I was old enough to read them with +understanding, it was often permitted me, as a treat, to take down one +of them from the bookcase, and reverently to turn the leaves. +The volumes smell exactly as they did in that old time, and what a strange +tenderness comes upon me when I hold one of them in hand. For +that reason I do not often read Shakespeare in this edition. My +eyes being good as ever, I take the Globe volume, which I bought in +days when such a purchase was something more than an extravagance; wherefore +I regard the book with that peculiar affection which results from sacrifice.</p> +<p>Sacrifice—in no drawing-room sense of the word. Dozens +of my books were purchased with money which ought to have been spent +upon what are called the necessaries of life. Many a time I have +stood before a stall, or a bookseller’s window, torn by conflict +of intellectual desire and bodily need. At the very hour of dinner, +when my stomach clamoured for food, I have been stopped by sight of +a volume so long coveted, and marked at so advantageous a price, that +I <i>could</i> not let it go; yet to buy it meant pangs of famine. +My Heyne’s <i>Tibullus</i> was grasped at such a moment. +It lay on the stall of the old book-shop in Goodge Street—a stall +where now and then one found an excellent thing among quantities of +rubbish. Sixpence was the price—sixpence! At that +time I used to eat my mid-day meal (of course my dinner) at a coffee-shop +in Oxford Street, one of the real old coffee-shops, such as now, I suppose, +can hardly be found. Sixpence was all I had—yes, all I had +in the world; it would purchase a plate of meat and vegetables. +But I did not dare to hope that the <i>Tibullus</i> would wait until +the morrow, when a certain small sum fell due to me. I paced the +pavement, fingering the coppers in my pocket, eyeing the stall, two +appetites at combat within me. The book was bought and I went +home with it, and as I made a dinner of bread and butter I gloated over +the pages.</p> +<p>In this <i>Tibullus</i> I found pencilled on the last page: “Perlegi, +Oct. 4, 1792.” Who was that possessor of the book, nearly +a hundred years ago? There was no other inscription. I like +to imagine some poor scholar, poor and eager as I myself, who bought +the volume with drops of his blood, and enjoyed the reading of it even +as I did. How much <i>that</i> was I could not easily say. +Gentle-hearted Tibullus!—of whom there remains to us a poet’s +portrait more delightful, I think, than anything of the kind in Roman +literature.</p> +<blockquote><p>An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres,<br /> +Curantem quidquid dignum sapiente bonoque est?</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So with many another book on the thronged shelves. To take +them down is to recall, how vividly, a struggle and a triumph. +In those days money represented nothing to me, nothing I cared to think +about, but the acquisition of books. There were books of which +I had passionate need, books more necessary to me than bodily nourishment. +I could see them, of course, at the British Museum, but that was not +at all the same thing as having and holding them, my own property, on +my own shelf. Now and then I have bought a volume of the raggedest +and wretchedest aspect, dishonoured with foolish scribbling, torn, blotted—no +matter, I liked better to read out of that than out of a copy that was +not mine. But I was guilty at times of mere self-indulgence; a +book tempted me, a book which was not one of those for which I really +craved, a luxury which prudence might bid me forego. As, for instance, +my <i>Jung-Stilling</i>. It caught my eye in Holywell Street; +the name was familiar to me in <i>Wahrheit und Dichtung</i>, and curiosity +grew as I glanced over the pages. But that day I resisted; in +truth, I could not afford the eighteen-pence, which means that just +then I was poor indeed. Twice again did I pass, each time assuring +myself that <i>Jung-Stilling</i> had found no purchaser. There +came a day when I was in funds. I see myself hastening to Holywell +Street (in those days my habitual pace was five miles an hour), I see +the little grey old man with whom I transacted my business—what +was his name?—the bookseller who had been, I believe, a Catholic +priest, and still had a certain priestly dignity about him. He +took the volume, opened it, mused for a moment, then, with a glance +at me, said, as if thinking aloud: “Yes, I wish I had time to +read it.”</p> +<p>Sometimes I added the labour of a porter to my fasting endured for +the sake of books. At the little shop near Portland Road Station +I came upon a first edition of Gibbon, the price an absurdity—I +think it was a shilling a volume. To possess those clean-paged +quartos I would have sold my coat. As it happened, I had not money +enough with me, but sufficient at home. I was living at Islington. +Having spoken with the bookseller, I walked home, took the cash, walked +back again, and—carried the tomes from the west end of Euston +Road to a street in Islington far beyond the <i>Angel</i>. I did +it in two journeys—this being the only time in my life when I +thought of Gibbon in avoirdupois. Twice—three times, reckoning +the walk for the money—did I descend Euston Road and climb Pentonville +on that occasion. Of the season and the weather I have no recollection; +my joy in the purchase I had made drove out every other thought. +Except, indeed, of the weight. I had infinite energy, but not +much muscular strength, and the end of the last journey saw me upon +a chair, perspiring, flaccid, aching—exultant!</p> +<p>The well-to-do person would hear this story with astonishment. +Why did I not get the bookseller to send me the volumes? Or, if +I could not wait, was there no omnibus along that London highway? +How could I make the well-to-do person understand that I did not feel +able to afford, that day, one penny more than I had spent on the book? +No, no, such labour-saving expenditure did not come within my scope; +whatever I enjoyed I earned it, literally, by the sweat of my brow. +In those days I hardly knew what it was to travel by omnibus. +I have walked London streets for twelve and fifteen hours together without +ever a thought of saving my legs, or my time, by paying for waftage. +Being poor as poor can be, there were certain things I had to renounce, +and this was one of them.</p> +<p>Years after, I sold my first edition of Gibbon for even less than +it cost me; it went with a great many other fine books in folio and +quarto, which I could not drag about with me in my constant removals; +the man who bought them spoke of them as “tomb-stones.” +Why has Gibbon no market value? Often has my heart ached with +regret for those quartos. The joy of reading the Decline and Fall +in that fine type! The page was appropriate to the dignity of +the subject; the mere sight of it tuned one’s mind. I suppose +I could easily get another copy now; but it would not be to me what +that other was, with its memory of dust and toil.</p> +<h3>XIII.</h3> +<p>There must be several men of spirit and experiences akin to mine +who remember that little book-shop opposite Portland Road Station. +It had a peculiar character; the books were of a solid kind—chiefly +theology and classics—and for the most part those old editions +which are called worthless, which have no bibliopolic value, and have +been supplanted for practical use by modern issues. The bookseller +was very much a gentleman, and this singular fact, together with the +extremely low prices at which his volumes were marked, sometimes inclined +me to think that he kept the shop for mere love of letters. Things +in my eyes inestimable I have purchased there for a few pence, and I +don’t think I ever gave more than a shilling for any volume. +As I once had the opportunity of perceiving, a young man fresh from +class-rooms could only look with wondering contempt on the antiquated +stuff which it rejoiced me to gather from that kindly stall, or from +the richer shelves within. My <i>Cicero’s Letters</i> for +instance: podgy volumes in parchment, with all the notes of Graevius, +Gronovius, and I know not how many other old scholars. Pooh! +Hopelessly out of date. But I could never feel that. I have +a deep affection for Graevius and Gronovius and the rest, and if I knew +as much as they did, I should be well satisfied to rest under the young +man’s disdain. The zeal of learning is never out of date; +the example—were there no more—burns before one as a sacred +fire, for ever unquenchable. In what modern editor shall I find +such love and enthusiasm as glows in the annotations of old scholars?</p> +<p>Even the best editions of our day have so much of the mere school-book; +you feel so often that the man does not regard his author as literature, +but simply as text. Pedant for pedant, the old is better than +the new.</p> +<h3>XIV.</h3> +<p>To-day’s newspaper contains a yard or so of reading about a +spring horse-race. The sight of it fills me with loathing. +It brings to my mind that placard I saw at a station in Surrey a year +or two ago, advertising certain races in the neighbourhood. Here +is the poster, as I copied it into my note-book:</p> +<blockquote><p>“Engaged by the Executive to ensure order and comfort +to the public attending this meeting:—</p> +<p>14 detectives (racing),<br /> +15 detectives (Scotland Yard),<br /> +7 police inspectors,<br /> +9 police sergeants,<br /> +76 police, and a supernumerary contingent of specially selected men +from the Army Reserve and the Corps of Commissionaires.</p> +<p>The above force will be employed solely for the purpose of maintaining +order and excluding bad characters, etc. They will have the assistance +also of a strong force of the Surrey Constabulary.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I remember, once, when I let fall a remark on the subject of horse-racing +among friends chatting together, I was voted “morose.” +Is it really morose to object to public gatherings which their own promoters +declare to be dangerous for all decent folk? Every one knows that +horse-racing is carried on mainly for the delight and profit of fools, +ruffians, and thieves. That intelligent men allow themselves to +take part in the affair, and defend their conduct by declaring that +their presence “maintains the character of a sport essentially +noble,” merely shows that intelligence can easily enough divest +itself of sense and decency.</p> +<h3>XV.</h3> +<p>Midway in my long walk yesterday, I lunched at a wayside inn. +On the table lay a copy of a popular magazine. Glancing over this +miscellany, I found an article, by a woman, on “Lion Hunting,” +and in this article I came upon a passage which seemed worth copying.</p> +<p>“As I woke my husband, the lion—which was then about +forty yards off—charged straight towards us, and with my .303 +I hit him full in the chest, as we afterwards discovered, tearing his +windpipe to pieces and breaking his spine. He charged a second +time, and the next shot hit him through the shoulder, tearing his heart +to ribbons.”</p> +<p>It would interest me to look upon this heroine of gun and pen. +She is presumably quite a young woman; probably, when at home, a graceful +figure in drawing-rooms. I should like to hear her talk, to exchange +thoughts with her. She would give one a very good idea of the +matron of old Rome who had her seat in the amphitheatre. Many +of those ladies, in private life, must have been bright and gracious, +high-bred and full of agreeable sentiment; they talked of art and of +letters; they could drop a tear over Lesbia’s sparrow; at the +same time, they were connoisseurs in torn windpipes, shattered spines +and viscera rent open. It is not likely that many of them would +have cared to turn their own hands to butchery, and, for the matter +of that, I must suppose that our Lion Huntress of the popular magazine +is rather an exceptional dame; but no doubt she and the Roman ladies +would get on very well together, finding only a few superficial differences. +The fact that her gory reminiscences are welcomed by an editor with +the popular taste in view is perhaps more significant than appears either +to editor or public. Were this lady to write a novel (the chances +are she will) it would have the true note of modern vigour. Of +course her style has been formed by her favourite reading; more than +probably, her ways of thinking and feeling owe much to the same source. +If not so already, this will soon, I daresay, be the typical Englishwoman. +Certainly, there is “no nonsense about her.” Such +women should breed a remarkable race.</p> +<p>I left the inn in rather a turbid humour. Moving homeward by +a new way, I presently found myself on the side of a little valley, +in which lay a farm and an orchard. The apple trees were in full +bloom, and, as I stood gazing, the sun, which had all that day been +niggard of its beams, burst forth gloriously. For what I then +saw, I have no words; I can but dream of the still loveliness of that +blossomed valley. Near me, a bee was humming; not far away, a +cuckoo called; from the pasture of the farm below came a bleating of +lambs.</p> +<h3>XVI.</h3> +<p>I am no friend of the people. As a force, by which the tenor +of the time is conditioned, they inspire me with distrust, with fear; +as a visible multitude, they make me shrink aloof, and often move me +to abhorrence. For the greater part of my life, the people signified +to me the London crowd, and no phrase of temperate meaning would utter +my thoughts of them under that aspect. The people as country-folk +are little known to me; such glimpses as I have had of them do not invite +to nearer acquaintance. Every instinct of my being is anti-democratic, +and I dread to think of what our England may become when Demos rules +irresistibly.</p> +<p>Right or wrong, this is my temper. But he who should argue +from it that I am intolerant of all persons belonging to a lower social +rank than my own would go far astray. Nothing is more rooted in +my mind than the vast distinction between the individual and the class. +Take a man by himself, and there is generally some reason to be found +in him, some disposition for good; mass him with his fellows in the +social organism, and ten to one he becomes a blatant creature, without +a thought of his own, ready for any evil to which contagion prompts +him. It is because nations tend to stupidity and baseness that +mankind moves so slowly; it is because individuals have a capacity for +better things that it moves at all.</p> +<p>In my youth, looking at this man and that, I marvelled that humanity +had made so little progress. Now, looking at men in the multitude, +I marvel that they have advanced so far.</p> +<p>Foolishly arrogant as I was, I used to judge the worth of a person +by his intellectual power and attainment. I could see no good +where there was no logic, no charm where there was no learning. +Now I think that one has to distinguish between two forms of intelligence, +that of the brain, and that of the heart, and I have come to regard +the second as by far the more important. I guard myself against +saying that intelligence does not matter; the fool is ever as noxious +as he is wearisome. But assuredly the best people I have known +were saved from folly not by the intellect but by the heart. They +come before me, and I see them greatly ignorant, strongly prejudiced, +capable of the absurdest mis-reasoning; yet their faces shine with the +supreme virtues, kindness, sweetness, modesty, generosity. Possessing +these qualities, they at the same time understand how to use them; they +have the intelligence of the heart.</p> +<p>This poor woman who labours for me in my house is even such a one. +From the first I thought her an unusually good servant; after three +years of acquaintance, I find her one of the few women I have known +who merit the term of excellent. She can read and write—that +is all. More instruction would, I am sure, have harmed her, for +it would have confused her natural motives, without supplying any clear +ray of mental guidance. She is fulfilling the offices for which +she was born, and that with a grace of contentment, a joy of conscientiousness, +which puts her high among civilized beings. Her delight is in +order and in peace; what greater praise can be given to any of the children +of men?</p> +<p>The other day she told me a story of the days gone by. Her +mother, at the age of twelve, went into domestic service; but on what +conditions, think you? The girl’s father, an honest labouring +man, <i>paid</i> the person whose house she entered one shilling a week +for her instruction in the duties she wished to undertake. What +a grinning stare would come to the face of any labourer nowadays, who +should be asked to do the like! I no longer wonder that my housekeeper +so little resembles the average of her kind.</p> +<h3>XVII.</h3> +<p>A day of almost continuous rain, yet for me a day of delight. +I had breakfasted, and was poring over the map of Devon (how I love +a good map!) to trace an expedition that I have in view, when a knock +came at my door, and Mrs. M. bore in a great brown-paper parcel, which +I saw at a glance must contain books. The order was sent to London +a few days ago; I had not expected to have my books so soon. With +throbbing heart I set the parcel on a clear table; eyed it whilst I +mended the fire; then took my pen-knife, and gravely, deliberately, +though with hand that trembled, began to unpack.</p> +<p>It is a joy to go through booksellers’ catalogues, ticking +here and there a possible purchase. Formerly, when I could seldom +spare money, I kept catalogues as much as possible out of sight; now +I savour them page by page, and make a pleasant virtue of the discretion +I must needs impose upon myself. But greater still is the happiness +of unpacking volumes which one has bought without seeing them. +I am no hunter of rarities; I care nothing for first editions and for +tall copies; what I buy is literature, food for the soul of man. +The first glimpse of bindings when the inmost protective wrapper has +been folded back! The first scent of <i>books</i>! The first +gleam of a gilded title! Here is a work the name of which has +been known to me for half a lifetime, but which I never yet saw; I take +it reverently in my hand, gently I open it; my eyes are dim with excitement +as I glance over chapter-headings, and anticipate the treat which awaits +me. Who, more than I, has taken to heart that sentence of the +<i>Imitatio</i>—“In omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam +inveni nisi in angulo cum libro”?</p> +<p>I had in me the making of a scholar. With leisure and tranquillity +of mind, I should have amassed learning. Within the walls of a +college, I should have lived so happily, so harmlessly, my imagination +ever busy with the old world. In the introduction to his History +of France, Michelet says: “J’ai passé à côté +du monde, et j’ai pris l’histoire pour la vie.” +That, as I can see now, was my true ideal; through all my battlings +and miseries I have always lived more in the past than in the present. +At the time when I was literally starving in London, when it seemed +impossible that I should ever gain a living by my pen, how many days +have I spent at the British Museum, reading as disinterestedly as if +I had been without a care! It astounds me to remember that, having +breakfasted on dry bread, and carrying in my pocket another piece of +bread to serve for dinner, I settled myself at a desk in the great Reading-Room +with books before me which by no possibility could be a source of immediate +profit. At such a time, I worked through German tomes on Ancient +Philosophy. At such a time, I read Appuleius and Lucian, Petronius +and the Greek Anthology, Diogenes Laertius and—heaven knows what! +My hunger was forgotten; the garret to which I must return to pass the +night never perturbed my thoughts. On the whole, it seems to me +something to be rather proud of; I smile approvingly at that thin, white-faced +youth. Me? My very self? No, no! He has been +dead these thirty years.</p> +<p>Scholarship in the high sense was denied me, and now it is too late. +Yet here am I gloating over Pausanias, and promising myself to read +every word of him. Who that has any tincture of old letters would +not like to read Pausanias, instead of mere quotations from him and +references to him? Here are the volumes of Dahn’s <i>Die +Könige der Germanen</i>: who would not like to know all he can +about the Teutonic conquerors of Rome? And so on, and so on. +To the end I shall be reading—and forgetting. Ah, that’s +the worst of it! Had I at command all the knowledge I have at +any time possessed, I might call myself a learned man. Nothing +surely is so bad for the memory as long-enduring worry, agitation, fear. +I cannot preserve more than a few fragments of what I read, yet read +I shall, persistently, rejoicingly. Would I gather erudition for +a future life? Indeed, it no longer troubles me that I forget. +I have the happiness of the passing moment, and what more can mortal +ask?</p> +<h3>XVIII.</h3> +<p>Is it I, Henry Ryecroft, who, after a night of untroubled rest, rise +unhurriedly, dress with the deliberation of an oldish man, and go downstairs +happy in the thought that I can sit reading, quietly reading, all day +long? Is it I, Henry Ryecroft, the harassed toiler of so many +a long year?</p> +<p>I dare not think of those I have left behind me, there in the ink-stained +world. It would make me miserable, and to what purpose? +Yet, having once looked that way, think of them I must. Oh, you +heavy-laden, who at this hour sit down to the cursed travail of the +pen; writing, not because there is something in your mind, in your heart, +which must needs be uttered, but because the pen is the only tool you +can handle, your only means of earning bread! Year after year +the number of you is multiplied; you crowd the doors of publishers and +editors, hustling, grappling, exchanging maledictions. Oh, sorry +spectacle, grotesque and heart-breaking!</p> +<p>Innumerable are the men and women now writing for bread, who have +not the least chance of finding in such work a permanent livelihood. +They took to writing because they knew not what else to do, or because +the literary calling tempted them by its independence and its dazzling +prizes. They will hang on to the squalid profession, their earnings +eked out by begging and borrowing, until it is too late for them to +do anything else—and then? With a lifetime of dread experience +behind me, I say that he who encourages any young man or woman to look +for his living to “literature,” commits no less than a crime. +If my voice had any authority, I would cry this truth aloud wherever +men could hear. Hateful as is the struggle for life in every form, +this rough-and-tumble of the literary arena seems to me sordid and degrading +beyond all others. Oh, your prices per thousand words! Oh, +your paragraphings and your interviewings! And oh, the black despair +that awaits those down-trodden in the fray.</p> +<p>Last midsummer I received a circular from a typewriting person, soliciting +my custom; some one who had somehow got hold of my name, and fancied +me to be still in purgatory. This person wrote: “If you +should be in need of any extra assistance in the pressure of your Christmas +work, I hope,” etc.</p> +<p>How otherwise could one write if addressing a shopkeeper? “The +pressure of your Christmas work”! Nay, I am too sick to +laugh.</p> +<h3>XIX.</h3> +<p>Some one, I see, is lifting up his sweet voice in praise of Conscription. +It is only at long intervals that one reads this kind of thing in our +reviews or newspapers, and I am happy in believing that most English +people are affected by it even as I am, with the sickness of dread and +of disgust. That the thing is impossible in England, who would +venture to say? Every one who can think at all sees how slight +are our safeguards against that barbaric force in man which the privileged +races have so slowly and painfully brought into check. Democracy +is full of menace to all the finer hopes of civilization, and the revival, +in not unnatural companionship with it, of monarchic power based on +militarism, makes the prospect dubious enough. There has but to +arise some Lord of Slaughter, and the nations will be tearing at each +other’s throats. Let England be imperilled, and Englishmen +will fight; in such extremity there is no choice. But what a dreary +change must come upon our islanders if, without instant danger, they +bend beneath the curse of universal soldiering! I like to think +that they will guard the liberty of their manhood even beyond the point +of prudence.</p> +<p>A lettered German, speaking to me once of his year of military service, +told me that, had it lasted but a month or two longer, he must have +sought release in suicide. I know very well that my own courage +would not have borne me to the end of the twelvemonth; humiliation, +resentment, loathing, would have goaded me to madness. At school +we used to be “drilled” in the playground once a week; I +have but to think of it, even after forty years, and there comes back +upon me that tremor of passionate misery which, at the time, often made +me ill. The senseless routine of mechanic exercise was in itself +all but unendurable to me; I hated the standing in line, the thrusting-out +of arms and legs at a signal, the thud of feet stamping in constrained +unison. The loss of individuality seemed to me sheer disgrace. +And when, as often happened, the drill-sergeant rebuked me for some +inefficiency as I stood in line, when he addressed me as “Number +Seven!” I burned with shame and rage. I was no longer +a human being; I had become part of a machine, and my name was “Number +Seven.” It used to astonish me when I had a neighbour who +went through the drill with amusement, with zealous energy; I would +gaze at the boy, and ask myself how it was possible that he and I should +feel so differently. To be sure, nearly all my schoolfellows either +enjoyed the thing, or at all events went through it with indifference; +they made friends with the sergeant, and some were proud of walking +with him “out of bounds.” Left, right! Left, +right! For my own part, I think I have never hated man as I hated +that broad-shouldered, hard-visaged, brassy-voiced fellow. Every +word he spoke to me, I felt as an insult. Seeing him in the distance, +I have turned and fled, to escape the necessity of saluting, and, still +more, a quiver of the nerves which affected me so painfully. If +ever a man did me harm, it was he; harm physical and moral. In +all seriousness I believe that something of the nervous instability +from which I have suffered since boyhood is traceable to those accursed +hours of drill, and I am very sure that I can date from the same wretched +moments a fierceness of personal pride which has been one of my most +troublesome characteristics. The disposition, of course, was there; +it should have been modified, not exacerbated.</p> +<p>In younger manhood it would have flattered me to think that I alone +on the school drill-ground had sensibility enough to suffer acutely. +Now I had much rather feel assured that many of my schoolfellows were +in the same mind of subdued revolt. Even of those who, boylike, +enjoyed their drill, scarce one or two, I trust, would have welcomed +in their prime of life the imposition of military servitude upon them +and their countrymen. From a certain point of view, it would be +better far that England should bleed under conquest than that she should +be saved by eager, or careless, acceptance of Conscription. That +view will not be held by the English people; but it would be a sorry +thing for England if the day came when no one of those who love her +harboured such a thought.</p> +<h3>XX.</h3> +<p>It has occurred to me that one might define Art as: an expression, +satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life. This is applicable +to every form of Art devised by man, for, in his creative moment, whether +he produce a great drama or carve a piece of foliage in wood, the artist +is moved and inspired by supreme enjoyment of some aspect of the world +about him; an enjoyment in itself keener than that experienced by another +man, and intensified, prolonged, by the power—which comes to him +we know not how—of recording in visible or audible form that emotion +of rare vitality. Art, in some degree, is within the scope of +every human being, were he but the ploughman who utters a few would-be +melodious notes, the mere outcome of health and strength, in the field +at sunrise; he sings, or tries to, prompted by an unusual gusto in being, +and the rude stave is all his own. Another was he, who also at +the plough, sang of the daisy, of the field-mouse, or shaped the rhythmic +tale of Tam o’ Shanter. Not only had life a zest for him +incalculably stronger and subtler than that which stirs the soul of +Hodge, but he uttered it in word and music such as go to the heart of +mankind, and hold a magic power for ages.</p> +<p>For some years there has been a great deal of talk about Art in our +country. It began, I suspect, when the veritable artistic impulse +of the Victorian time had flagged, when the energy of a great time was +all but exhausted. Principles always become a matter of vehement +discussion when practice is at ebb. Not by taking thought does +one become an artist, or grow even an inch in that direction—which +is not at all the same as saying that he who <i>is</i> an artist cannot +profit by conscious effort. Goethe (the example so often urged +by imitators unlike him in every feature of humanity) took thought enough +about his Faust; but what of those youthtime lyrics, not the least precious +of his achievements, which were scribbled as fast as pen could go, thwartwise +on the paper, because he could not stop to set it straight? Dare +I pen, even for my own eyes, the venerable truth that an artist is born +and not made? It seems not superfluous, in times which have heard +disdainful criticism of Scott, on the ground that he had no artistic +conscience, that he scribbled without a thought of style, that he never +elaborated his scheme before beginning—as Flaubert, of course +you know, invariably did. Why, after all, has one not heard that +a certain William Shakespeare turned out his so-called works of art +with something like criminal carelessness? Is it not a fact that +a bungler named Cervantes was so little in earnest about his Art that, +having in one chapter described the stealing of Sancho’s donkey, +he presently, in mere forgetfulness, shows us Sancho riding on Dapple, +as if nothing had happened? Does not one Thackeray shamelessly +avow on the last page of a grossly “subjective” novel that +he had killed Lord Farintosh’s mother at one page and brought +her to life again at another? These sinners against Art are none +the less among the world’s supreme artists, for they <i>lived</i>, +in a sense, in a degree, unintelligible to these critics of theirs, +and their work is an expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest +of life.</p> +<p>Some one, no doubt, hit upon this definition of mine long ago. +It doesn’t matter; is it the less original with me? Not +long since I should have fretted over the possibility, for my living +depended on an avoidance of even seeming plagiarism. Now I am +at one with Lord Foppington, and much disposed to take pleasure in the +natural sprouts of my own wit—without troubling whether the same +idea has occurred to others. Suppose me, in total ignorance of +Euclid, to have discovered even the simplest of his geometrical demonstrations, +shall I be crestfallen when some one draws attention to the book? +These natural sprouts are, after all, the best products of our life; +it is a mere accident that they may have no value in the world’s +market. One of my conscious efforts, in these days of freedom, +is to live intellectually for myself. Formerly, when in reading +I came upon anything that impressed or delighted me, down it went in +my note-book, for “use.” I could not read a striking +verse, or sentence of prose, without thinking of it as an apt quotation +in something I might write—one of the evil results of a literary +life. Now that I strive to repel this habit of thought, I find +myself asking: To what end, then, do I read and remember? Surely +as foolish a question as ever man put to himself. You read for +your own pleasure, for your solace and strengthening. Pleasure, +then, purely selfish? Solace which endures for an hour, and strengthening +for no combat? Ay, but I know, I know. With what heart should +I live here in my cottage, waiting for life’s end, were it not +for those hours of seeming idle reading?</p> +<p>I think sometimes, how good it were had I some one by me to listen +when I am tempted to read a passage aloud. Yes, but is there any +mortal in the whole world upon whom I could invariably depend for sympathetic +understanding?—nay, who would even generally be at one with me +in my appreciation. Such harmony of intelligences is the rarest +thing. All through life we long for it: the desire drives us, +like a demon, into waste places; too often ends by plunging us into +mud and morass. And, after all, we learn that the vision was illusory. +To every man is it decreed: thou shalt live alone. Happy they +who imagine that they have escaped the common lot; happy, whilst they +imagine it. Those to whom no such happiness has ever been granted +at least avoid the bitterest of disillusions. And is it not always +good to face a truth, however discomfortable? The mind which renounces, +once and for ever, a futile hope, has its compensation in ever-growing +calm.</p> +<h3>XXI.</h3> +<p>All about my garden to-day the birds are loud. To say that +the air is filled with their song gives no idea of the ceaseless piping, +whistling, trilling, which at moments rings to heaven in a triumphant +unison, a wild accord. Now and then I notice one of the smaller +songsters who seems to strain his throat in a madly joyous endeavour +to out-carol all the rest. It is a chorus of praise such as none +other of earth’s children have the voice or the heart to utter. +As I listen, I am carried away by its glorious rapture; my being melts +in the tenderness of an impassioned joy; my eyes are dim with I know +not what profound humility.</p> +<h3>XXII.</h3> +<p>Were one to look at the literary journals only, and thereafter judge +of the time, it would be easy to persuade oneself that civilization +had indeed made great and solid progress, and that the world stood at +a very hopeful stage of enlightenment. Week after week, I glance +over these pages of crowded advertisement; I see a great many publishing-houses +zealously active in putting forth every kind of book, new and old; I +see names innumerable of workers in every branch of literature. +Much that is announced declares itself at once of merely ephemeral import, +or even of no import at all; but what masses of print which invite the +attention of thoughtful or studious folk! To the multitude is +offered a long succession of classic authors, in beautiful form, at +a minimum cost; never were such treasures so cheaply and so gracefully +set before all who can prize them. For the wealthy, there are +volumes magnificent; lordly editions; works of art whereon have been +lavished care and skill and expense incalculable. Here is exhibited +the learning of the whole world and of all the ages; be a man’s +study what it will, in these columns, at one time or another he shall +find that which appeals to him. Here are labours of the erudite, +exercised on every subject that falls within learning’s scope. +Science brings forth its newest discoveries in earth and heaven; it +speaks to the philosopher in his solitude, and to the crowd in the market-place. +Curious pursuits of the mind at leisure are represented in publications +numberless; trifles and oddities of intellectual savour; gatherings +from every byway of human interest. For other moods there are +the fabulists; to tell truth, they commonly hold the place of honour +in these varied lists. Who shall count them? Who shall calculate +their readers? Builders of verse are many; yet the observer will +note that contemporary poets have but an inconspicuous standing in this +index of the public taste. Travel, on the other hand, is largely +represented; the general appetite for information about lands remote +would appear to be only less keen than for the adventures of romance.</p> +<p>With these pages before one’s eyes, must one not needs believe +that things of the mind are a prime concern of our day? Who are +the purchasers of these volumes ever pouring from the press? How +is it possible for so great a commerce to flourish save as a consequence +of national eagerness in this intellectual domain? Surely one +must take for granted that throughout the land, in town and country, +private libraries are growing apace; that by the people at large a great +deal of time is devoted to reading; that literary ambition is one of +the commonest spurs to effort?</p> +<p>It is the truth. All this may be said of contemporary England. +But is it enough to set one’s mind at ease regarding the outlook +of our civilization?</p> +<p>Two things must be remembered. However considerable this literary +traffic, regarded by itself, it is relatively of small extent. +And, in the second place, literary activity is by no means an invariable +proof of that mental attitude which marks the truly civilized man.</p> +<p>Lay aside the “literary organ,” which appears once a +week, and take up the newspaper, which comes forth every day, morning +and evening. Here you get the true proportion of things. +Read your daily news-sheet—that which costs threepence or that +which costs a halfpenny—and muse upon the impression it leaves. +It may be that a few books are “noticed”; granting that +the “notice” is in any way noticeable, compare the space +it occupies with that devoted to the material interests of life: you +have a gauge of the real importance of intellectual endeavour to the +people at large. No, the public which reads, in any sense of the +word worth considering, is very, very small; the public which would +feel no lack if all book-printing ceased to-morrow, is enormous. +These announcements of learned works which strike one as so encouraging, +are addressed, as a matter of fact, to a few thousand persons, scattered +all over the English-speaking world. Many of the most valuable +books slowly achieve the sale of a few hundred copies. Gather +from all the ends of the British Empire the men and women who purchase +grave literature as a matter of course, who habitually seek it in public +libraries, in short who regard it as a necessity of life, and I am much +mistaken if they could not comfortably assemble in the Albert Hall.</p> +<p>But even granting this, is it not an obvious fact that our age tends +to the civilized habit of mind, as displayed in a love for intellectual +things? Was there ever a time which saw the literature of knowledge +and of the emotions so widely distributed? Does not the minority +of the truly intelligent exercise a vast and profound influence? +Does it not in truth lead the way, however slowly and irregularly the +multitude may follow?</p> +<p>I should like to believe it. When gloomy evidence is thrust +upon me, I often say to myself: Think of the frequency of the reasonable +man; think of him everywhere labouring to spread the light; how is it +possible that such efforts should be overborne by forces of blind brutality, +now that the human race has got so far?—Yes, yes; but this mortal +whom I caress as reasonable, as enlightened and enlightening, this author, +investigator, lecturer, or studious gentleman, to whose coat-tails I +cling, does he always represent justice and peace, sweetness of manners, +purity of life—all the things which makes for true civilization? +Here is a fallacy of bookish thought. Experience offers proof +on every hand that vigorous mental life may be but one side of a personality, +of which the other is moral barbarism. A man may be a fine archaeologist, +and yet have no sympathy with human ideals. The historian, the +biographer, even the poet, may be a money-market gambler, a social toady, +a clamorous Chauvinist, or an unscrupulous wire-puller. As for +“leaders of science,” what optimist will dare to proclaim +them on the side of the gentle virtues? And if one must needs +think in this way of those who stand forth, professed instructors and +inspirers, what of those who merely listen? The reading-public—oh, +the reading-public! Hardly will a prudent statistician venture +to declare that one in every score of those who actually read sterling +books do so with comprehension of their author. These dainty series +of noble and delightful works, which have so seemingly wide an acceptance, +think you they vouch for true appreciation in all who buy them? +Remember those who purchase to follow the fashion, to impose upon their +neighbour, or even to flatter themselves; think of those who wish to +make cheap presents, and those who are merely pleased by the outer aspect +of the volume. Above all, bear in mind that busy throng whose +zeal is according neither to knowledge nor to conviction, the host of +the half-educated, characteristic and peril of our time. They, +indeed, purchase and purchase largely. Heaven forbid that I should +not recognize the few among them whose bent of brain and of conscience +justifies their fervour; to such—the ten in ten thousand—be +all aid and brotherly solace! But the glib many, the perky mispronouncers +of titles and of authors’ names, the twanging murderers of rhythm, +the maulers of the uncut edge at sixpence extra, the ready-reckoners +of bibliopolic discount—am I to see in these a witness of my hope +for the century to come?</p> +<p>I am told that their semi-education will be integrated. We +are in a transition stage, between the bad old time when only a few +had academic privileges, and that happy future which will see all men +liberally instructed. Unfortunately for this argument, education +is a thing of which only the few are capable; teach as you will, only +a small percentage will profit by your most zealous energy. On +an ungenerous soil it is vain to look for rich crops. Your average +mortal will be your average mortal still: and if he grow conscious of +power, if he becomes vocal and self-assertive, if he get into his hands +all the material resources of the country, why, you have a state of +things such as at present looms menacingly before every Englishman blessed—or +cursed—with an unpopular spirit.</p> +<h3>XXIII.</h3> +<p>Every morning when I awake, I thank heaven for silence. This +is my orison. I remember the London days when sleep was broken +by clash and clang, by roar and shriek, and when my first sense on returning +to consciousness was hatred of the life about me. Noises of wood +and metal, clattering of wheels, banging of implements, jangling of +bells—all such things are bad enough, but worse still is the clamorous +human voice. Nothing on earth is more irritating to me than a +bellow or scream of idiot mirth, nothing more hateful than a shout or +yell of brutal anger. Were it possible, I would never again hear +the utterance of a human tongue, save from those few who are dear to +me.</p> +<p>Here, wake at what hour I may, early or late, I lie amid gracious +stillness. Perchance a horse’s hoof rings rhythmically upon +the road; perhaps a dog barks from a neighbour farm; it may be that +there comes the far, soft murmur of a train from the other side of Exe; +but these are almost the only sounds that could force themselves upon +my ear. A voice, at any time of the day, is the rarest thing.</p> +<p>But there is the rustle of branches in the morning breeze; there +is the music of a sunny shower against the window; there is the matin +song of birds. Several times lately I have lain wakeful when there +sounded the first note of the earliest lark; it makes me almost glad +of my restless nights. The only trouble that touches me in these +moments is the thought of my long life wasted amid the senseless noises +of man’s world. Year after year this spot has known the +same tranquillity; with ever so little of good fortune, with ever so +little wisdom, beyond what was granted me, I might have blessed my manhood +with calm, might have made for myself in later life a long retrospect +of bowered peace. As it is, I enjoy with something of sadness, +remembering that this melodious silence is but the prelude of that deeper +stillness which waits to enfold us all.</p> +<h3>XXIV.</h3> +<p>Morning after morning, of late, I have taken my walk in the same +direction, my purpose being to look at a plantation of young larches. +There is no lovelier colour on earth than that in which they are now +clad; it seems to refresh as well as gladden my eyes, and its influence +sinks deep into my heart. Too soon it will change; already I think +the first radiant verdure has begun to pass into summer’s soberness. +The larch has its moment of unmatched beauty—and well for him +whose chance permits him to enjoy it, spring after spring.</p> +<p>Could anything be more wonderful than the fact that here am I, day +by day, not only at leisure to walk forth and gaze at the larches, but +blessed with the tranquillity of mind needful for such enjoyment? +On any morning of spring sunshine, how many mortals find themselves +so much at peace that they are able to give themselves wholly to delight +in the glory of heaven and of earth? Is it the case with one man +in every fifty thousand? Consider what extraordinary kindness +of fate must tend upon one, that not a care, not a preoccupation, should +interfere with his contemplative thought for five or six days successively! +So rooted in the human mind (and so reasonably rooted) is the belief +in an Envious Power, that I ask myself whether I shall not have to pay, +by some disaster, for this period of sacred calm. For a week or +so I have been one of a small number, chosen out of the whole human +race by fate’s supreme benediction. It may be that this +comes to every one in turn; to most, it can only be once in a lifetime, +and so briefly. That my own lot seems so much better than that +of ordinary men, sometimes makes me fearful.</p> +<h3>XXV.</h3> +<p>Walking in a favourite lane to-day, I found it covered with shed +blossoms of the hawthorn. Creamy white, fragrant even in ruin, +lay scattered the glory of the May. It told me that spring is +over.</p> +<p>Have I enjoyed it as I should? Since the day that brought me +freedom, four times have I seen the year’s new birth, and always, +as the violet yielded to the rose, I have known a fear that I had not +sufficiently prized this boon of heaven whilst it was with me. +Many hours I have spent shut up among my books, when I might have been +in the meadows. Was the gain equivalent? Doubtfully, diffidently, +I hearken what the mind can plead.</p> +<p>I recall my moments of delight, the recognition of each flower that +unfolded, the surprise of budding branches clothed in a night with green. +The first snowy gleam upon the blackthorn did not escape me. By +its familiar bank, I watched for the earliest primrose, and in its copse +I found the anemone. Meadows shining with buttercups, hollows +sunned with the marsh marigold held me long at gaze. I saw the +sallow glistening with its cones of silvery fur, and splendid with dust +of gold. These common things touch me with more of admiration +and of wonder each time I behold them. They are once more gone. +As I turn to summer, a misgiving mingles with my joy.</p> +<h2>SUMMER</h2> +<h3>I.</h3> +<p>To-day, as I was reading in the garden, a waft of summer perfume—some +hidden link of association in what I read—I know not what it may +have been—took me back to school-boy holidays; I recovered with +strange intensity that lightsome mood of long release from tasks, of +going away to the seaside, which is one of childhood’s blessings. +I was in the train; no rushing express, such as bears you great distances; +the sober train which goes to no place of importance, which lets you +see the white steam of the engine float and fall upon a meadow ere you +pass. Thanks to a good and wise father, we youngsters saw nothing +of seaside places where crowds assemble; I am speaking, too, of a time +more than forty years ago, when it was still possible to find on the +coasts of northern England, east or west, spots known only to those +who loved the shore for its beauty and its solitude. At every +station the train stopped; little stations, decked with beds of flowers, +smelling warm in the sunshine where country-folk got in with baskets, +and talked in an unfamiliar dialect, an English which to us sounded +almost like a foreign tongue. Then the first glimpse of the sea; +the excitement of noting whether tide was high or low—stretches +of sand and weedy pools, or halcyon wavelets frothing at their furthest +reach, under the sea-banks starred with convolvulus. Of a sudden, +<i>our</i> station!</p> +<p>Ah, that taste of the brine on a child’s lips! Nowadays, +I can take holiday when I will, and go whithersoever it pleases me; +but that salt kiss of the sea air I shall never know again. My +senses are dulled; I cannot get so near to Nature; I have a sorry dread +of her clouds, her winds, and must walk with tedious circumspection +where once I ran and leapt exultingly. Were it possible, but for +one half-hour, to plunge and bask in the sunny surf, to roll on the +silvery sand-hills, to leap from rock to rock on shining sea-ferns, +laughing if I slipped into the shallows among starfish and anemones! +I am much older in body than in mind; I can but look at what I once +enjoyed.</p> +<h3>II.</h3> +<p>I have been spending a week in Somerset. The right June weather +put me in the mind for rambling, and my thoughts turned to the Severn +Sea. I went to Glastonbury and Wells, and on to Cheddar, and so +to the shore of the Channel at Clevedon, remembering my holiday of fifteen +years ago, and too often losing myself in a contrast of the man I was +then and what I am now. Beautiful beyond all words of description +that nook of oldest England; but that I feared the moist and misty winter +climate, I should have chosen some spot below the Mendips for my home +and resting-place. Unspeakable the charm to my ear of those old +names; exquisite the quiet of those little towns, lost amid tilth and +pasture, untouched as yet by the fury of modern life, their ancient +sanctuaries guarded, as it were, by noble trees and hedges overrun with +flowers. In all England there is no sweeter and more varied prospect +than that from the hill of the Holy Thorn at Glastonbury; in all England +there is no lovelier musing place than the leafy walk beside the Palace +Moat at Wells. As I think of the golden hours I spent there, a +passion to which I can give no name takes hold upon me; my heart trembles +with an indefinable ecstasy.</p> +<p>There was a time of my life when I was consumed with a desire for +foreign travel; an impatience of everything familiar fretted me through +all the changing year. If I had not at length found the opportunity +to escape, if I had not seen the landscapes for which my soul longed, +I think I must have moped to death. Few men, assuredly, have enjoyed +such wanderings more than I, and few men revive them in memory with +a richer delight or deeper longing. But—whatever temptation +comes to me in mellow autumn, when I think of the grape and of the olive—I +do not believe I shall ever again cross the sea. What remains +to me of life and of energy is far too little for the enjoyment of all +I know, and all I wish to know, of this dear island.</p> +<p>As a child I used to sleep in a room hung round with prints after +English landscape painters—those steel engravings so common half +a century ago, which bore the legend, “From the picture in the +Vernon Gallery.” Far more than I knew at the time, these +pictures impressed me; I gazed and gazed at them, with that fixed attention +of a child which is half curiosity, half reverie, till every line of +them was fixed in my mind; at this moment I see the black-and-white +landscapes as if they were hanging on the wall before me, and I have +often thought that this early training of the imagination—for +such it was—has much to do with the passionate love of rural scenery +which lurked within me even when I did not recognize it, and which now +for many a year has been one of the emotions directing my life. +Perhaps, too, that early memory explains why I love a good black-and-white +print even more than a good painting. And—to draw yet another +inference—here may be a reason for the fact that, through my youth +and early manhood, I found more pleasure in Nature as represented by +art than in Nature herself. Even during that strange time when +hardships and passions held me captive far from any glimpse of the flowering +earth, I could be moved, and moved deeply, by a picture of the simplest +rustic scene. At rare moments, when a happy chance led me into +the National Gallery, I used to stand long before such pictures as “The +Valley Farm,” “The Cornfield,” “Mousehold Heath.” +In the murk confusion of my heart these visions of the world of peace +and beauty from which I was excluded—to which, indeed, I hardly +ever gave a thought—touched me to deep emotion. But it did +not need—nor does it now—the magic of a master to awake +that mood in me. Let me but come upon the poorest little woodcut, +the cheapest “process” illustration, representing a thatched +cottage, a lane, a field, and I hear that music begin to murmur. +It is a passion—Heaven be thanked—that grows with my advancing +years. The last thought of my brain as I lie dying will be that +of sunshine upon an English meadow.</p> +<h3>III.</h3> +<p>Sitting in my garden amid the evening scent of roses, I have read +through Walton’s <i>Life of Hooker</i>; could any place and time +have been more appropriate? Almost within sight is the tower of +Heavitree church—Heavitree, which was Hooker’s birthplace. +In other parts of England he must often have thought of these meadows +falling to the green valley of the Exe, and of the sun setting behind +the pines of Haldon. Hooker loved the country. Delightful +to me, and infinitely touching, is that request of his to be transferred +from London to a rural living—“where I can see God’s +blessing spring out of the earth.” And that glimpse of him +where he was found tending sheep, with a Horace in his hand. It +was in rural solitudes that he conceived the rhythm of mighty prose. +What music of the spheres sang to that poor, vixen-haunted, pimply-faced +man!</p> +<p>The last few pages I read by the light of the full moon, that of +afterglow having till then sufficed me. Oh, why has it not been +granted me in all my long years of pen-labour to write something small +and perfect, even as one of these lives of honest Izaak! Here +is literature, look you—not “literary work.” +Let me be thankful that I have the mind to enjoy it; not only to understand, +but to savour, its great goodness.</p> +<h3>IV.</h3> +<p>It is Sunday morning, and above earth’s beauty shines the purest, +softest sky this summer has yet gladdened us withal. My window +is thrown open; I see the sunny gleam upon garden leaves and flowers; +I hear the birds whose wont it is to sing to me; ever and anon the martins +that have their home beneath my eaves sweep past in silence. Church +bells have begun to chime; I know the music of their voices, near and +far.</p> +<p>There was a time when it delighted me to flash my satire on the English +Sunday; I could see nothing but antiquated foolishness and modern hypocrisy +in this weekly pause from labour and from bustle. Now I prize +it as an inestimable boon, and dread every encroachment upon its restful +stillness. Scoff as I might at “Sabbatarianism,” was +I not always glad when Sunday came? The bells of London churches +and chapels are not soothing to the ear, but when I remember their sound—even +that of the most aggressively pharisaic conventicle, with its one dire +clapper—I find it associated with a sense of repose, of liberty. +This day of the seven I granted to my better genius; work was put aside, +and, when Heaven permitted, trouble forgotten.</p> +<p>When out of England I have always missed this Sunday quietude, this +difference from ordinary days which seems to affect the very atmosphere. +It is not enough that people should go to church, that shops should +be closed and workyards silent; these holiday notes do not make a Sunday. +Think as one may of its significance, our Day of Rest has a peculiar +sanctity, felt, I imagine, in a more or less vague way, even by those +who wish to see the village lads at cricket and theatres open in the +town. The idea is surely as good a one as ever came to heavy-laden +mortals; let one whole day in every week be removed from the common +life of the world, lifted above common pleasures as above common cares. +With all the abuses of fanaticism, this thought remained rich in blessings; +Sunday has always brought large good to the generality, and to a chosen +number has been the very life of the soul, however heretically some +of them understood the words. If its ancient use perish from among +us, so much the worse for our country. And perish no doubt it +will; only here in rustic solitude can one forget the changes that have +already made the day less sacred to multitudes. With it will vanish +that habit of periodic calm, which, even when it has become so largely +void of conscious meaning, is, one may safely say, the best spiritual +boon ever bestowed upon a people. The most difficult of all things +to attain, the most difficult of all to preserve, the supreme benediction +of the noblest mind, this calm was once breathed over the whole land +as often as sounded the last stroke of weekly toil; on Saturday at even +began the quiet and the solace. With the decline of old faith, +Sunday cannot but lose its sanction, and no loss among the innumerable +that we are suffering will work so effectually for popular vulgarization. +What hope is there of guarding the moral beauty of the day when the +authority which set it apart is no longer recognized?—Imagine +a bank-holiday once a week!</p> +<h3>V.</h3> +<p>On Sunday I come down later than usual; I make a change of dress, +for it is fitting that the day of spiritual rest should lay aside the +livery of the laborious week. For me, indeed, there is no labour +at any time, but nevertheless does Sunday bring me repose. I share +in the common tranquillity; my thought escapes the workaday world more +completely than on other days.</p> +<p>It is not easy to see how this house of mine can make to itself a +Sunday quiet, for at all times it is well-nigh soundless; yet I find +a difference. My housekeeper comes into the room with her Sunday +smile; she is happier for the day, and the sight of her happiness gives +me pleasure. She speaks, if possible, in a softer voice; she wears +a garment which reminds me that there is only the lightest and cleanest +housework to be done. She will go to church, morning and evening, +and I know that she is better for it. During her absence I sometimes +look into rooms which on other days I never enter; it is merely to gladden +my eyes with the shining cleanliness, the perfect order, I am sure to +find in the good woman’s domain. But for that spotless and +sweet-smelling kitchen, what would it avail me to range my books and +hang my pictures? All the tranquillity of my life depends upon +the honest care of this woman who lives and works unseen. And +I am sure that the money I pay her is the least part of her reward. +She is such an old-fashioned person that the mere discharge of what +she deems a duty is in itself an end to her, and the work of her hands +in itself a satisfaction, a pride.</p> +<p>When a child, I was permitted to handle on Sunday certain books which +could not be exposed to the more careless usage of common days; volumes +finely illustrated, or the more handsome editions of familiar authors, +or works which, merely by their bulk, demanded special care. Happily, +these books were all of the higher rank in literature, and so there +came to be established in my mind an association between the day of +rest and names which are the greatest in verse and prose. Through +my life this habit has remained with me; I have always wished to spend +some part of the Sunday quiet with books which, at most times, it is +fatally easy to leave aside, one’s very knowledge and love of +them serving as an excuse for their neglect in favour of print which +has the attraction of newness. Homer and Virgil, Milton and Shakespeare; +not many Sundays have gone by without my opening one or other of these. +Not many Sundays? Nay, that is to exaggerate, as one has the habit +of doing. Let me say rather that, on many a rest-day I have found +mind and opportunity for such reading. Nowadays mind and opportunity +fail me never. I may take down my Homer or my Shakespeare when +I choose, but it is still on Sunday that I feel it most becoming to +seek the privilege of their companionship. For these great ones, +crowned with immortality, do not respond to him who approaches them +as though hurried by temporal care. There befits the garment of +solemn leisure, the thought attuned to peace. I open the volume +somewhat formally; is it not sacred, if the word have any meaning at +all? And, as I read, no interruption can befall me. The +note of a linnet, the humming of a bee, these are the sounds about my +sanctuary. The page scarce rustles as it turns.</p> +<h3>VI.</h3> +<p>Of how many dwellings can it be said that no word of anger is ever +heard beneath its roof, and that no unkindly feeling ever exists between +the inmates? Most men’s experience would seem to justify +them in declaring that, throughout the inhabited world, no such house +exists. I, knowing at all events of one, admit the possibility +that there may be more; yet I feel that it is to hazard a conjecture; +I cannot point with certainty to any other instance, nor in all my secular +life (I speak as one who has quitted the world) could I have named a +single example.</p> +<p>It is so difficult for human beings to live together; nay, it is +so difficult for them to associate, however transitorily, and even under +the most favourable conditions, without some shadow of mutual offence. +Consider the differences of task and of habit, the conflict of prejudices, +the divergence of opinions (though that is probably the same thing), +which quickly reveal themselves between any two persons brought into +more than casual contact, and think how much self-subdual is implicit +whenever, for more than an hour or two, they co-exist in seeming harmony. +Man is not made for peaceful intercourse with his fellows; he is by +nature self-assertive, commonly aggressive, always critical in a more +or less hostile spirit of any characteristic which seems strange to +him. That he is capable of profound affections merely modifies +here and there his natural contentiousness, and subdues its expression. +Even love, in the largest and purest sense of the word, is no safeguard +against perilous irritation and sensibilities inborn. And what +were the durability of love without the powerful alliance of habit?</p> +<p>Suppose yourself endowed with such power of hearing that all the +talk going on at any moment beneath the domestic roofs of any town became +clearly audible to you; the dominant note would be that of moods, tempers, +opinions at jar. Who but the most amiable dreamer can doubt it? +This, mind you, is not the same thing as saying that angry emotion is +the ruling force in human life; the facts of our civilization prove +the contrary. Just because, and only because, the natural spirit +of conflict finds such frequent scope, does human society hold together, +and, on the whole, present a pacific aspect. In the course of +ages (one would like to know how many) man has attained a remarkable +degree of self-control; dire experience has forced upon him the necessity +of compromise, and habit has inclined him (the individual) to prefer +a quiet, orderly life. But by instinct he is still a quarrelsome +creature, and he gives vent to the impulse as far as it is compatible +with his reasoned interests—often, to be sure, without regard +for that limit. The average man or woman is always at open discord +with some one; the great majority could not live without oft-recurrent +squabble. Speak in confidence with any one you like, and get him +to tell you how many cases of coldness, alienation, or downright enmity, +between friends and kinsfolk, his memory registers; the number will +be considerable, and what a vastly greater number of everyday “misunderstandings” +may be thence inferred! Verbal contention is, of course, commoner +among the poor and the vulgar than in the class of well-bred people +living at their ease, but I doubt whether the lower ranks of society +find personal association much more difficult than the refined minority +above them. High cultivation may help to self-command, but it +multiplies the chances of irritative contact. In mansion, as in +hovel, the strain of life is perpetually felt—between the married, +between parents and children, between relatives of every degree, between +employers and employed. They debate, they dispute, they wrangle, +they explode—then nerves are relieved, and they are ready to begin +over again. Quit the home and quarrelling is less obvious, but +it goes on all about one. What proportion of the letters delivered +any morning would be found to be written in displeasure, in petulance, +in wrath? The postbag shrieks insults or bursts with suppressed +malice. Is it not wonderful—nay, is it not the marvel of +marvels—that human life has reached such a high point of public +and private organization?</p> +<p>And gentle idealists utter their indignant wonder at the continuance +of war! Why, it passes the wit of man to explain how it is that +nations are ever at peace! For, if only by the rarest good fortune +do individuals associate harmoniously, there would seem to be much less +likelihood of mutual understanding and good-will between the peoples +of alien lands. As a matter of fact, no two nations are ever friendly, +in the sense of truly liking each other; with the reciprocal criticism +of countries there always mingles a sentiment of animosity. The +original meaning of <i>hostis</i> is merely stranger, and a stranger +who is likewise a foreigner will only by curious exception fail to stir +antipathy in the average human being. Add to this that a great +number of persons in every country find their delight and their business +in exasperating international disrelish, and with what vestige of common +sense can one feel surprise that war is ceaselessly talked of, often +enough declared. In days gone by, distance and rarity of communication +assured peace between many realms. Now that every country is in +proximity to every other, what need is there to elaborate explanations +of the distrust, the fear, the hatred, which are a perpetual theme of +journalists and statesmen? By approximation, all countries have +entered the sphere of natural quarrel. That they find plenty of +things to quarrel about is no cause for astonishment. A hundred +years hence there will be some possibility of perceiving whether international +relations are likely to obey the law which has acted with such beneficence +in the life of each civilized people; whether this country and that +will be content to ease their tempers with bloodless squabbling, subduing +the more violent promptings for the common good. Yet I suspect +that a century is a very short time to allow for even justifiable surmise +of such an outcome. If by any chance newspapers ceased to exist +. . .</p> +<p>Talk of war, and one gets involved in such utopian musings!</p> +<h3>VII.</h3> +<p>I have been reading one of those prognostic articles on international +politics which every now and then appear in the reviews. Why I +should so waste my time it would be hard to say; I suppose the fascination +of disgust and fear gets the better of me in a moment’s idleness. +This writer, who is horribly perspicacious and vigorous, demonstrates +the certainty of a great European war, and regards it with the peculiar +satisfaction excited by such things in a certain order of mind. +His phrases about “dire calamity” and so on mean nothing; +the whole tenor of his writing proves that he represents, and consciously, +one of the forces which go to bring war about; his part in the business +is a fluent irresponsibility, which casts scorn on all who reluct at +the “inevitable.” Persistent prophecy is a familiar +way of assuring the event.</p> +<p>But I will read no more such writing. This resolution I make +and will keep. Why set my nerves quivering with rage, and spoil +the calm of a whole day, when no good of any sort can come of it? +What is it to me if nations fall a-slaughtering each other? Let +the fools go to it! Why should they not please themselves? +Peace, after all, is the aspiration of the few; so it always; was, and +ever will be. But have done with the nauseous cant about “dire +calamity.” The leaders and the multitude hold no such view; +either they see in war a direct and tangible profit, or they are driven +to it, with heads down, by the brute that is in them. Let them +rend and be rent; let them paddle in blood and viscera till—if +that would ever happen—their stomachs turn. Let them blast +the cornfield and the orchard, fire the home. For all that, there +will yet be found some silent few, who go their way amid the still meadows, +who bend to the flower and watch the sunset; and these alone are worth +a thought.</p> +<h3>VIII.</h3> +<p>In this hot weather I like to walk at times amid the full glow of +the sun. Our island sun is never hot beyond endurance, and there +is a magnificence in the triumph of high summer which exalts one’s +mind. Among streets it is hard to bear, yet even there, for those +who have eyes to see it, the splendour of the sky lends beauty to things +in themselves mean or hideous. I remember an August bank-holiday, +when, having for some reason to walk all across London, I unexpectedly +found myself enjoying the strange desertion of great streets, and from +that passed to surprise in the sense of something beautiful, a charm +in the vulgar vista, in the dull architecture, which I had never known. +Deep and clear-marked shadows, such as one only sees on a few days of +summer, are in themselves very impressive, and become more so when they +fall upon highways devoid of folk. I remember observing, as something +new, the shape of familiar edifices, of spires, monuments. And +when at length I sat down, somewhere on the Embankment, it was rather +to gaze at leisure than to rest, for I felt no weariness, and the sun, +still pouring upon me its noontide radiance, seemed to fill my veins +with life.</p> +<p>That sense I shall never know again. For me Nature has comforts, +raptures, but no more invigoration. The sun keeps me alive, but +cannot, as in the old days, renew my being. I would fain learn +to enjoy without reflecting.</p> +<p>My walk in the golden hours leads me to a great horse-chestnut, whose +root offers a convenient seat in the shadow of its foliage. At +that resting-place I have no wide view before me, but what I see is +enough—a corner of waste land, over-flowered with poppies and +charlock, on the edge of a field of corn. The brilliant red and +yellow harmonize with the glory of the day. Near by, too, is a +hedge covered with great white blooms of the bindweed. My eyes +do not soon grow weary.</p> +<p>A little plant of which I am very fond is the rest-harrow. +When the sun is hot upon it, the flower gives forth a strangely aromatic +scent, very delightful to me. I know the cause of this peculiar +pleasure. The rest-harrow sometimes grows in sandy ground above +the seashore. In my childhood I have many a time lain in such +a spot under the glowing sky, and, though I scarce thought of it, perceived +the odour of the little rose-pink flower when it touched my face. +Now I have but to smell it, and those hours come back again. I +see the shore of Cumberland, running north to St. Bee’s Head; +on the sea horizon a faint shape which is the Isle of Man; inland, the +mountains, which for me at that time guarded a region of unknown wonder. +Ah, how long ago!</p> +<h3>IX.</h3> +<p>I read much less than I used to do; I think much more. Yet +what is the use of thought which can no longer serve to direct life? +Better, perhaps, to read and read incessantly, losing one’s futile +self in the activity of other minds.</p> +<p>This summer I have taken up no new book, but have renewed my acquaintance +with several old ones which I had not opened for many a year. +One or two have been books such as mature men rarely read at all—books +which it is one’s habit to “take as read”; to presume +sufficiently known to speak of, but never to open. Thus, one day +my hand fell upon the <i>Anabasis</i>, the little Oxford edition which +I used at school, with its boyish sign-manual on the fly-leaf, its blots +and underlinings and marginal scrawls. To my shame I possess no +other edition; yet this is a book one would like to have in beautiful +form. I opened it, I began to read—a ghost of boyhood stirring +in my heart—and from chapter to chapter was led on, until after +a few days I had read the whole.</p> +<p>I am glad this happened in the summer-time, I like to link childhood +with these latter days, and no better way could I have found than this +return to a school-book, which, even as a school-book, was my great +delight.</p> +<p>By some trick of memory I always associate school-boy work on the +classics with a sense of warm and sunny days; rain and gloom and a chilly +atmosphere must have been far the more frequent conditions, but these +things are forgotten. My old Liddell and Scott still serves me, +and if, in opening it, I bend close enough to catch the <i>scent</i> +of the leaves, I am back again at that day of boyhood (noted on the +fly-leaf by the hand of one long dead) when the book was new and I used +it for the first time. It was a day of summer, and perhaps there +fell upon the unfamiliar page, viewed with childish tremor, half apprehension +and half delight, a mellow sunshine, which was to linger for ever in +my mind.</p> +<p>But I am thinking of the <i>Anabasis</i>. Were this the sole +book existing in Greek, it would be abundantly worth while to learn +the language in order to read it. The <i>Anabasis</i> is an admirable +work of art, unique in its combination of concise and rapid narrative +with colour and picturesqueness. Herodotus wrote a prose epic, +in which the author’s personality is ever before us. Xenophon, +with curiosity and love of adventure which mark him of the same race, +but self-forgetful in the pursuit of a new artistic virtue, created +the historical romance. What a world of wonders in this little +book, all aglow with ambitions and conflicts, with marvels of strange +lands; full of perils and rescues, fresh with the air of mountain and +of sea! Think of it for a moment by the side of Caesar’s +Commentaries; not to compare things incomparable, but in order to appreciate +the perfect art which shines through Xenophon’s mastery of language, +his brevity achieving a result so different from that of the like characteristic +in the Roman writer. Caesar’s conciseness comes of strength +and pride; Xenophon’s, of a vivid imagination. Many a single +line of the <i>Anabasis</i> presents a picture which deeply stirs the +emotions. A good instance occurs in the fourth book, where a delightful +passage of unsurpassable narrative tells how the Greeks rewarded and +dismissed a guide who had led them through dangerous country. +The man himself was in peril of his life; laden with valuable things +which the soldiers had given him in their gratitude, he turned to make +his way through the hostile region. ’Επει +εσπερα εyενετο, +ωχετο της νυκτος. +“When evening came he took leave of us, and went his way by night.” +To my mind, words of wonderful suggestiveness. You see the wild, +eastern landscape, upon which the sun has set. There are the Hellenes, +safe for the moment on their long march, and there the mountain tribesman, +the serviceable barbarian, going away, alone, with his tempting guerdon, +into the hazards of the darkness.</p> +<p>Also in the fourth book, another picture moves one in another way. +Among the Carduchian Hills two men were seized, and information was +sought from them about the track to be followed. “One of +them would say nothing, and kept silence in spite of every threat; so, +in the presence of his companion, he was slain. Thereupon that +other made known the man’s reason for refusing to point out the +way; in the direction the Greeks must take there dwelt a daughter of +his, who was married.”</p> +<p>It would not be easy to express more pathos than is conveyed in these +few words. Xenophon himself, one may be sure, did not feel it +quite as we do, but he preserved the incident for its own sake, and +there, in a line or two, shines something of human love and sacrifice, +significant for all time.</p> +<h3>X.</h3> +<p>I sometimes think I will go and spend the sunny half of a twelvemonth +in wandering about the British Isles. There is so much of beauty +and interest that I have not seen, and I grudge to close my eyes on +this beloved home of ours, leaving any corner of it unvisited. +Often I wander in fancy over all the parts I know, and grow restless +with desire at familiar names which bring no picture to memory. +My array of county guide-books (they have always been irresistible to +me on the stalls) sets me roaming; the only dull pages in them are those +that treat of manufacturing towns. Yet I shall never start on +that pilgrimage. I am too old, too fixed in habits. I dislike +the railway; I dislike hotels. I should grow homesick for my library, +my garden, the view from my windows. And then—I have such +a fear of dying anywhere but under my own roof.</p> +<p>As a rule, it is better to revisit only in imagination the places +which have greatly charmed us, or which, in the retrospect, seem to +have done so. Seem to have charmed us, I say; for the memory we +form, after a certain lapse of time, of places where we lingered, often +bears but a faint resemblance to the impression received at the time; +what in truth may have been very moderate enjoyment, or enjoyment greatly +disturbed by inner or outer circumstances, shows in the distance as +a keen delight, or as deep, still happiness. On the other hand, +if memory creates no illusion, and the name of a certain place is associated +with one of the golden moments of life, it were rash to hope that another +visit would repeat the experience of a bygone day. For it was +not merely the sights that one beheld which were the cause of joy and +peace; however lovely the spot, however gracious the sky, these things +external would not have availed, but for contributory movements of mind +and heart and blood, the essentials of the man as then he was.</p> +<p>Whilst I was reading this afternoon my thoughts strayed, and I found +myself recalling a hillside in Suffolk, where, after a long walk I rested +drowsily one midsummer day twenty years ago. A great longing seized +me; I was tempted to set off at once, and find again that spot under +the high elm trees, where, as I smoked a delicious pipe, I heard about +me the crack, crack, crack of broom-pods bursting in the glorious heat +of the noontide sun. Had I acted upon the impulse, what chance +was there of my enjoying such another hour as that which my memory cherished? +No, no; it is not the <i>place</i> that I remember; it is the time of +life, the circumstances, the mood, which at that moment fell so happily +together. Can I dream that a pipe smoked on that same hillside, +under the same glowing sky, would taste as it then did, or bring me +the same solace? Would the turf be so soft beneath me? Would +the great elm-branches temper so delightfully the noontide rays beating +upon them? And, when the hour of rest was over, should I spring +to my feet as then I did, eager to put forth my strength again? +No, no; what I remember is just one moment of my earlier life, linked +by accident with that picture of the Suffolk landscape. The place +no longer exists; it never existed save for me. For it is the +mind which creates the world about us, and, even though we stand side +by side in the same meadow, my eyes will never see what is beheld by +yours, my heart will never stir to the emotions with which yours is +touched.</p> +<h3>XI.</h3> +<p>I awoke a little after four o’clock. There was sunlight +upon the blind, that pure gold of the earliest beam which always makes +me think of Dante’s angels. I had slept unusually well, +without a dream, and felt the blessing of rest through all my frame; +my head was clear, my pulse beat temperately. And, when I had +lain thus for a few minutes, asking myself what book I should reach +from the shelf that hangs near my pillow, there came upon me a desire +to rise and go forth into the early morning. On the moment I bestirred +myself. The drawing up of the blind, the opening of the window, +only increased my zeal, and I was soon in the garden, then out in the +road, walking light-heartedly I cared not whither.</p> +<p>How long is it since I went forth at the hour of summer sunrise? +It is one of the greatest pleasures, physical and mental, that any man +in moderate health can grant himself; yet hardly once in a year do mood +and circumstance combine to put it within one’s reach. The +habit of lying in bed hours after broad daylight is strange enough, +if one thinks of it; a habit entirely evil; one of the most foolish +changes made by modern system in the healthier life of the old time. +But that my energies are not equal to such great innovation, I would +begin going to bed at sunset and rising with the beam of day; ten to +one, it would vastly improve my health, and undoubtedly it would add +to the pleasures of my existence.</p> +<p>When travelling, I have now and then watched the sunrise, and always +with an exultation unlike anything produced in me by other aspects of +nature. I remember daybreak on the Mediterranean; the shapes of +islands growing in hue after hue of tenderest light, until they floated +amid a sea of glory. And among the mountains—that crowning +height, one moment a cold pallor, the next soft-glowing under the touch +of the rosy-fingered goddess. These are the things I shall never +see again; things, indeed, so perfect in memory that I should dread +to blur them by a newer experience. My senses are so much duller; +they do not show me what once they did.</p> +<p>How far away is that school-boy time, when I found a pleasure in +getting up and escaping from the dormitory whilst all the others were +still asleep. My purpose was innocent enough; I got up early only +to do my lessons. I can see the long school-room, lighted by the +early sun; I can smell the school-room odour—a blend of books +and slates and wall-maps and I know not what. It was a mental +peculiarity of mine that at five o’clock in the morning I could +apply myself with gusto to mathematics, a subject loathsome to me at +any other time of the day. Opening the book at some section which +was wont to scare me, I used to say to myself: “Come now, I’m +going to tackle this this morning! If other boys can understand +it, why shouldn’t I?” And in a measure I succeeded. +In a measure only; there was always a limit at which my powers failed +me, strive as I would.</p> +<p>In my garret-days it was seldom that I rose early: with the exception +of one year—or the greater part of a twelvemonth—during +which I was regularly up at half-past five for a special reason. +I had undertaken to “coach” a man for the London matriculation; +he was in business, and the only time he could conveniently give to +his studies was before breakfast. I, just then, had my lodgings +near Hampstead Road; my pupil lived at Knightsbridge; I engaged to be +with him every morning at half-past six, and the walk, at a brisk pace, +took me just about an hour. At that time I saw no severity in +the arrangement, and I was delighted to earn the modest fee which enabled +me to write all day long without fear of hunger; but one inconvenience +attached to it. I had no watch, and my only means of knowing the +time was to hear the striking of a clock in the neighbourhood. +As a rule, I awoke just when I should have done; the clock struck five, +and up I sprang. But occasionally—and this when the mornings +had grown dark—my punctual habit failed me; I would hear the clock +chime some fraction of the hour, and could not know whether I had awoke +too soon or slept too long. The horror of unpunctuality, which +has always been a craze with me, made it impossible to lie waiting; +more than once I dressed and went out into the street to discover as +best I could what time it was, and one such expedition, I well remember, +took place between two and three o’clock on a morning of foggy +rain.</p> +<p>It happened now and then that, on reaching the house at Knightsbridge, +I was informed that Mr. --- felt too tired to rise. This concerned +me little, for it meant no deduction of fee; I had the two hours’ +walk, and was all the better for it. Then the appetite with which +I sat down to breakfast, whether I had done my coaching or not! +Bread and butter and coffee—such coffee!—made the meal, +and I ate like a navvy. I was in magnificent spirits. All +the way home I had been thinking of my day’s work, and the morning +brain, clarified and whipped to vigour by that brisk exercise, by that +wholesome hunger, wrought its best. The last mouthful swallowed, +I was seated at my writing-table; aye, and there I sat for seven or +eight hours, with a short munching interval, working as only few men +worked in all London, with pleasure, zeal, hope. . . .</p> +<p>Yes, yes, those were the good days. They did not last long; +before and after them were cares, miseries, endurance multiform. +I have always felt grateful to Mr. --- of Knightsbridge; he gave me +a year of health, and almost of peace.</p> +<h3>XII.</h3> +<p>A whole day’s walk yesterday with no plan; just a long ramble +of hour after hour, entirely enjoyable. It ended at Topsham, where +I sat on the little churchyard terrace, and watched the evening tide +come up the broad estuary. I have a great liking for Topsham, +and that churchyard, overlooking what is not quite sea, yet more than +river, is one of the most restful spots I know. Of course the +association with old Chaucer, who speaks of Topsham sailors, helps my +mood. I came home very tired; but I am not yet decrepit, and for +that I must be thankful.</p> +<p>The unspeakable blessedness of having a <i>home</i>! Much as +my imagination has dwelt upon it for thirty years, I never knew how +deep and exquisite a joy could lie in the assurance that one is <i>at +home</i> for ever. Again and again I come back upon this thought; +nothing but Death can oust me from my abiding place. And Death +I would fain learn to regard as a friend, who will but intensify the +peace I now relish.</p> +<p>When one is at home, how one’s affections grow about everything +in the neighbourhood! I always thought with fondness of this corner +of Devon, but what was that compared with the love which now strengthens +in me day by day! Beginning with my house, every stick and stone +of it is dear to me as my heart’s blood; I find myself laying +an affectionate hand on the door-post, giving a pat, as I go by, to +the garden gate. Every tree and shrub in the garden is my beloved +friend; I touch them, when need is, very tenderly, as though carelessness +might pain, or roughness injure them. If I pull up a weed in the +walk, I look at it with a certain sadness before throwing it away; it +belongs to my home.</p> +<p>And all the country round about. These villages, how delightful +are their names to my ear! I find myself reading with interest +all the local news in the Exeter paper. Not that I care about +the people; with barely one or two exceptions, the people are nothing +to me, and the less I see of them the better I am pleased. But +the <i>places</i> grow ever more dear to me. I like to know of +anything that has happened at Heavitree, or Brampford Speke, or Newton +St. Cyres. I begin to pride myself on knowing every road and lane, +every bridle path and foot-way for miles about. I like to learn +the names of farms and of fields. And all this because here is +my abiding place, because I am home for ever.</p> +<p>It seems to me that the very clouds that pass above my house are +more interesting and beautiful than clouds elsewhere.</p> +<p>And to think that at one time I called myself a socialist, communist, +anything you like of the revolutionary kind! Not for long, to +be sure, and I suspect that there was always something in me that scoffed +when my lips uttered such things. Why, no man living has a more +profound sense of property than I; no man ever lived, who was, in every +fibre, more vehemently an individualist.</p> +<h3>XIII.</h3> +<p>In this high summertide, I remember with a strange feeling that there +are people who, of their free choice, spend day and night in cities, +who throng to the gabble of drawing-rooms, make festival in public eating-houses, +sweat in the glare of the theatre. They call it life; they call +it enjoyment. Why, so it is, for them; they are so made. +The folly is mine, to wonder that they fulfil their destiny.</p> +<p>But with what deep and quiet thanksgiving do I remind myself that +never shall I mingle with that well-millinered and tailored herd! +Happily, I never saw much of them. Certain occasions I recall +when a supposed necessity took me into their dismal precincts; a sick +buzzing in the brain, a languor as of exhausted limbs, comes upon me +with the memory. The relief with which I stepped out into the +street again, when all was over! Dear to me then was poverty, +which for the moment seemed to make me a free man. Dear to me +was the labour at my desk, which, by comparison, enabled me to respect +myself.</p> +<p>Never again shall I shake hands with man or woman who is not in truth +my friend. Never again shall I go to see acquaintances with whom +I have no acquaintance. All men my brothers? Nay, thank +Heaven, that they are not! I will do harm, if I can help it, to +no one; I will wish good to all; but I will make no pretence of personal +kindliness where, in the nature of things, it cannot be felt. +I have grimaced a smile and pattered unmeaning words to many a person +whom I despised or from whom in heart I shrank; I did so because I had +not courage to do otherwise. For a man conscious of such weakness, +the best is to live apart from the world. Brave Samuel Johnson! +One such truth-teller is worth all the moralists and preachers who ever +laboured to humanise mankind. Had <i>he</i> withdrawn into solitude, +it would have been a national loss. Every one of his blunt, fearless +words had more value than a whole evangel on the lips of a timidly good +man. It is thus that the commonalty, however well clad, should +be treated. So seldom does the fool or the ruffian in broadcloth +hear his just designation; so seldom is the man found who has a right +to address him by it. By the bandying of insults we profit nothing; +there can be no useful rebuke which is exposed to a <i>tu quoque</i>. +But, as the world is, an honest and wise man should have a rough tongue. +Let him speak and spare not!</p> +<h3>XIV.</h3> +<p>Vituperation of the English climate is foolish. A better climate +does not exist—for healthy people; and it is always as regards +the average native in sound health that a climate must be judged. +Invalids have no right whatever to talk petulantly of the natural changes +of the sky; Nature has not <i>them</i> in view; let them (if they can) +seek exceptional conditions for their exceptional state, leaving behind +them many a million of sound, hearty men and women who take the seasons +as they come, and profit by each in turn. In its freedom from +extremes, in its common clemency, even in its caprice, which at the +worst time holds out hope, our island weather compares well with that +of other lands. Who enjoys the fine day of spring, summer, autumn, +or winter so much as an Englishman? His perpetual talk of the +weather is testimony to his keen relish for most of what it offers him; +in lands of blue monotony, even as where climatic conditions are plainly +evil, such talk does not go on. So, granting that we have bad +days not a few, that the east wind takes us by the throat, that the +mists get at our joints, that the sun hides his glory too often and +too long, it is plain that the result of all comes to good, that it +engenders a mood of zest under the most various aspects of heaven, keeps +an edge on our appetite for open-air life.</p> +<p>I, of course, am one of the weaklings who, in grumbling at the weather, +merely invite compassion. July, this year, is clouded and windy, +very cheerless even here in Devon; I fret and shiver and mutter to myself +something about southern skies. Pshaw! Were I the average +man of my years, I should be striding over Haldon, caring not a jot +for the heavy sky, finding a score of compensations for the lack of +sun. Can I not have patience? Do I not know that, some morning, +the east will open like a bursting bud into warmth and splendour, and +the azure depths above will have only the more solace for my starved +anatomy because of this protracted disappointment?</p> +<h3>XV.</h3> +<p>I have been at the seaside—enjoying it, yes, but in what a +doddering, senile sort of way! Is it I who used to drink the strong +wind like wine, who ran exultingly along the wet sands and leapt from +rock to rock, barefoot, on the slippery seaweed, who breasted the swelling +breaker, and shouted with joy as it buried me in gleaming foam? +At the seaside I knew no such thing as bad weather; there were but changes +of eager mood and full-blooded life. Now, if the breeze blow too +roughly, if there come a pelting shower, I must look for shelter, and +sit with my cloak about me. It is but a new reminder that I do +best to stay at home, travelling only in reminiscence.</p> +<p>At Weymouth I enjoyed a hearty laugh, one of the good things not +easy to get after middle age. There was a notice of steamboats +which ply along the coast, steamboats recommended to the public as being +“<i>replete with lavatories and a ladies’ saloon</i>.” +Think how many people read this without a chuckle!</p> +<h3>XVI.</h3> +<p>In the last ten years I have seen a good deal of English inns in +many parts of the country, and it astonishes me to find how bad they +are. Only once or twice have I chanced upon an inn (or, if you +like, hotel) where I enjoyed any sort of comfort. More often than +not, even the beds are unsatisfactory—either pretentiously huge +and choked with drapery, or hard and thinly accoutred. Furnishing +is uniformly hideous, and there is either no attempt at ornament (the +safest thing) or a villainous taste thrusts itself upon one at every +turn. The meals, in general, are coarse and poor in quality, and +served with gross slovenliness.</p> +<p>I have often heard it said that the touring cyclist has caused the +revival of wayside inns. It may be so, but the touring cyclist +seems to be very easily satisfied. Unless we are greatly deceived +by the old writers, an English inn used to be a delightful resort, abounding +in comfort, and supplied with the best of food; a place, too, where +one was sure of welcome at once hearty and courteous. The inns +of to-day, in country towns and villages, are not in that good old sense +inns at all; they are merely public-houses. The landlord’s +chief interest is the sale of liquor. Under his roof you may, +if you choose, eat and sleep, but what you are expected to do is to +drink. Yet, even for drinking, there is no decent accommodation. +You will find what is called a bar-parlour, a stuffy and dirty room, +with crazy chairs, where only the sodden dram-gulper could imagine himself +at ease. Should you wish to write a letter, only the worst pen +and the vilest ink is forthcoming; this, even in the “commercial +room” of many an inn which seems to depend upon the custom of +travelling tradesmen. Indeed, this whole business of innkeeping +is incredibly mismanaged. Most of all does the common ineptitude +or brutality enrage one when it has possession of an old and picturesque +house, such as reminds you of the best tradition, a house which might +be made as comfortable as house can be, a place of rest and mirth.</p> +<p>At a public-house you expect public-house manners, and nothing better +will meet you at most of the so-called inns or hotels. It surprises +me to think in how few instances I have found even the pretence of civility. +As a rule, the landlord and landlady are either contemptuously superior +or boorishly familiar; the waiters and chambermaids do their work with +an indifference which only softens to a condescending interest at the +moment of your departure, when, if the tip be thought insufficient, +a sneer or a muttered insult speeds you on your way. One inn I +remember, where, having to go in and out two or three times in a morning, +I always found the front door blocked by the portly forms of two women, +the landlady and the barmaid, who stood there chatting and surveying +the street. Coming from within the house, I had to call out a +request for passage; it was granted with all deliberation, and with +not a syllable of apology. This was the best “hotel” +in a Sussex market town.</p> +<p>And the food. Here, beyond doubt, there is grave degeneracy. +It is impossible to suppose that the old travellers by coach were contented +with entertainment such as one gets nowadays at the table of a country +hotel. The cooking is wont to be wretched; the quality of the +meat and vegetables worse than mediocre. What! Shall one +ask in vain at an English inn for an honest chop or steak? Again +and again has my appetite been frustrated with an offer of mere sinew +and scrag. At a hotel where the charge for lunch was five shillings, +I have been sickened with pulpy potatoes and stringy cabbage. +The very joint—ribs or sirloin, leg or shoulder—is commonly +a poor, underfed, sapless thing, scorched in an oven; and as for the +round of beef, it has as good as disappeared—probably because +it asks too much skill in the salting. Then again one’s +breakfast bacon; what intolerable stuff, smelling of saltpetre, has +been set before me when I paid the price of the best smoked Wiltshire! +It would be mere indulgence of the spirit of grumbling to talk about +poisonous tea and washy coffee; every one knows that these drinks cannot +be had at public tables; but what if there be real reason for discontent +with one’s pint of ale? Often, still, that draught from +the local brewery is sound and invigorating, but there are grievous +exceptions, and no doubt the tendency is here, as in other things—a +falling off, a carelessness, if not a calculating dishonesty. +I foresee the day when Englishmen will have forgotten how to brew beer; +when one’s only safety will lie in the draught imported from Munich.</p> +<h3>XVII.</h3> +<p>I was taking a meal once at a London restaurant—not one of +the great eating-places to which men most resort, but a small establishment +on the same model in a quiet neighbourhood—when there entered, +and sat down at the next table, a young man of the working class, whose +dress betokened holiday. A glance told me that he felt anything +but at ease; his mind misgave him as he looked about the long room and +at the table before him; and when a waiter came to offer him the card, +he stared blankly in sheepish confusion. Some strange windfall, +no doubt, had emboldened him to enter for the first time such a place +as this, and now that he was here, he heartily wished himself out in +the street again. However, aided by the waiter’s suggestions, +he gave an order for a beef-steak and vegetables. When the dish +was served, the poor fellow simply could not make a start upon it; he +was embarrassed by the display of knives and forks, by the arrangement +of the dishes, by the sauce bottles and the cruet-stand, above all, +no doubt, by the assembly of people not of his class, and the unwonted +experience of being waited upon by a man with a long shirt-front. +He grew red; he made the clumsiest and most futile efforts to transport +the meat to his plate; food was there before him, but, like a very Tantalus, +he was forbidden to enjoy it. Observing with all discretion, I +at length saw him pull out his pocket handkerchief, spread it on the +table, and, with a sudden effort, fork the meat off the dish into this +receptacle. The waiter, aware by this time of the customer’s +difficulty, came up and spoke a word to him. Abashed into anger, +the young man roughly asked what he had to pay. It ended in the +waiter’s bringing a newspaper, wherein he helped to wrap up meat +and vegetables. Money was flung down, and the victim of a mistaken +ambition hurriedly departed, to satisfy his hunger amid less unfamiliar +surroundings.</p> +<p>It was a striking and unpleasant illustration of social differences. +Could such a thing happen in any country but England? I doubt +it. The sufferer was of decent appearance, and, with ordinary +self-command, might have taken his meal in the restaurant like any one +else, quite unnoticed. But he belonged to a class which, among +all classes in the world, is distinguished by native clownishness and +by unpliability to novel circumstance. The English lower ranks +had need be marked by certain peculiar virtues to atone for their deficiencies +in other respects.</p> +<h3>XVIII.</h3> +<p>It is easy to understand that common judgment of foreigners regarding +the English people. Go about in England as a stranger, travel +by rail, live at hotels, see nothing but the broadly public aspect of +things, and the impression left upon you will be one of hard egoism, +of gruffness and sullenness; in a word, of everything that contrasts +most strongly with the ideal of social and civic life. And yet, +as a matter of fact, no nation possesses in so high a degree the social +and civic virtues. The unsociable Englishman, quotha? Why, +what country in the world can show such multifarious, vigorous and cordial +co-operation, in all ranks, but especially, of course, among the intelligent, +for ends which concern the common good? Unsociable! Why, +go where you will in England you can hardly find a man—nowadays, +indeed, scarce an educated woman—who does not belong to some alliance, +for study or sport, for municipal or national benefit, and who will +not be seen, in leisure time, doing his best as a social being. +Take the so-called sleepy market-town; it is bubbling with all manner +of associated activities, and these of the quite voluntary kind, forms +of zealously united effort such as are never dreamt of in the countries +supposed to be eminently “social.” Sociability does +not consist in a readiness to talk at large with the first comer. +It is not dependent upon natural grace and suavity; it is compatible, +indeed, with thoroughly awkward and all but brutal manners. The +English have never (at all events, for some two centuries past) inclined +to the purely ceremonial or mirthful forms of sociability; but as regards +every prime interest of the community—health and comfort, well-being +of body and of soul—their social instinct is supreme.</p> +<p>Yet it is so difficult to reconcile this indisputable fact with that +other fact, no less obvious, that your common Englishman seems to have +no geniality. From the one point of view, I admire and laud my +fellow countryman; from the other, I heartily dislike him and wish to +see as little of him as possible. One is wont to think of the +English as a genial folk. Have they lost in this respect? +Has the century of science and money-making sensibly affected the national +character? I think always of my experience at the English inn, +where it is impossible not to feel a brutal indifference to the humane +features of life; where food is bolted without attention, liquor swallowed +out of mere habit, where even good-natured accost is a thing so rare +as to be remarkable.</p> +<p>Two things have to be borne in mind: the extraordinary difference +of demeanour which exists between the refined and the vulgar English, +and the natural difficulty of an Englishman in revealing his true self +save under the most favourable circumstances.</p> +<p>So striking is the difference of manner between class and class that +the hasty observer might well imagine a corresponding and radical difference +of mind and character. In Russia, I suppose, the social extremities +are seen to be pretty far apart, but, with that possible exception, +I should think no European country can show such a gap as yawns to the +eye between the English gentleman and the English boor. The boor, +of course, is the multitude; the boor impresses himself upon the traveller. +When relieved from his presence, one can be just to him; one can remember +that his virtues—though elementary, and strictly in need of direction—are +the same, to a great extent, as those of the well-bred man. He +does not represent—though seeming to do so—a nation apart. +To understand this multitude, you must get below its insufferable manners, +and learn that very fine civic qualities can consist with a personal +bearing almost wholly repellent.</p> +<p>Then, as to the dogged reserve of the educated man, why, I have only +to look into myself. I, it is true, am not quite a representative +Englishman; my self-consciousness, my meditative habit of mind, rather +dim my national and social characteristics; but set me among a few specimens +of the multitude, and am I not at once aware of that instinctive antipathy, +that shrinking into myself, that something like unto scorn, of which +the Englishman is accused by foreigners who casually meet him? +Peculiar to me is the effort to overcome this first impulse—an +effort which often enough succeeds. If I know myself at all, I +am not an ungenial man; and yet I am quite sure that many people who +have known me casually would say that my fault is a lack of geniality. +To show my true self, I must be in the right mood and the right circumstances—which, +after all, is merely as much as saying that I am decidedly English.</p> +<h3>XIX.</h3> +<p>On my breakfast table there is a pot of honey. Not the manufactured +stuff sold under that name in shops, but honey of the hive, brought +to me by a neighbouring cottager whose bees often hum in my garden. +It gives, I confess, more pleasure to my eye than to my palate; but +I like to taste of it, because it is honey.</p> +<p>There is as much difference, said Johnson, between a lettered and +an unlettered man as between the living and the dead; and, in a way, +it was no extravagance. Think merely how one’s view of common +things is affected by literary association. What were honey to +me if I knew nothing of Hymettus and Hybla?—if my mind had no +stores of poetry, no memories of romance? Suppose me town-pent, +the name might bring with it some pleasantness of rustic odour; but +of what poor significance even that, if the country were to me mere +grass and corn and vegetables, as to the man who has never read nor +wished to read. For the Poet is indeed a Maker: above the world +of sense, trodden by hidebound humanity, he builds that world of his +own whereto is summoned the unfettered spirit. Why does it delight +me to see the bat flitting at dusk before my window, or to hear the +hoot of the owl when all the ways are dark? I might regard the +bat with disgust, and the owl either with vague superstition or not +heed it at all. But these have their place in the poet’s +world, and carry me above this idle present.</p> +<p>I once passed a night in a little market-town where I had arrived +tired and went to bed early. I slept forthwith, but was presently +awakened by I knew not what; in the darkness there sounded a sort of +music, and, as my brain cleared, I was aware of the soft chiming of +church bells. Why, what hour could it be? I struck a light +and looked at my watch. Midnight. Then a glow came over +me. “We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow!” +Never till then had <i>I</i> heard them. And the town in which +I slept was Evesham, but a few miles from Stratford-on-Avon. What +if those midnight bells had been to me but as any other, and I had reviled +them for breaking my sleep?—Johnson did not much exaggerate.</p> +<h3>XX.</h3> +<p>It is the second Jubilee. Bonfires blaze upon the hills, making +one think of the watchman on Agamemnon’s citadel. (It were +more germane to the matter to think of Queen Elizabeth and the Armada.) +Though wishing the uproar happily over, I can see the good in it as +well as another man. English monarchy, as we know it, is a triumph +of English common sense. Grant that men cannot do without an overlord; +how to make that over-lordship consist with the largest practical measure +of national and individual liberty? We, at all events, have for +a time solved the question. For a time only, of course; but consider +the history of Europe, and our jubilation is perhaps justified.</p> +<p>For sixty years has the British Republic held on its way under one +President. It is wide of the mark to object that other Republics, +which change their President more frequently, support the semblance +of over-lordship at considerably less cost to the people. Britons +are minded for the present that the Head of their State shall be called +King or Queen; the name is pleasant to them; it corresponds to a popular +sentiment, vaguely understood, but still operative, which is called +loyalty. The majority thinking thus, and the system being found +to work more than tolerably well, what purpose could be served by an +attempt at <i>novas res</i>? The nation is content to pay the +price; it is the nation’s affair. Moreover, who can feel +the least assurance that a change to one of the common forms of Republicanism +would be for the general advantage? Do we find that countries +which have made the experiment are so very much better off than our +own in point of stable, quiet government and of national welfare? +The theorist scoffs at forms which have survived their meaning, at privilege +which will bear no examination, at compromises which sound ludicrous, +at submissions which seem contemptible; but let him put forward his +practical scheme for making all men rational, consistent, just. +Englishmen, I imagine, are not endowed with these qualities in any extraordinary +degree. Their strength, politically speaking, lies in a recognition +of expediency, complemented by respect for the established fact. +One of the facts particularly clear to them is the suitability to their +minds, their tempers, their habits, of a system of polity which has +been established by the slow effort of generations within this sea-girt +realm. They have nothing to do with ideals: they never trouble +themselves to think about the Rights of Man. If you talk to them +(long enough) about the rights of the shopman, or the ploughman, or +the cat’s-meat-man, they will lend ear, and, when the facts of +any such case have been examined, they will find a way of dealing with +them. This characteristic of theirs they call Common Sense. +To them, all things considered, it has been of vast service; one may +even say that the rest of the world has profited by it not a little. +That Uncommon Sense might now and then have stood them even in better +stead is nothing to the point. The Englishman deals with things +as they are, and first and foremost accepts his own being.</p> +<p>This Jubilee declares a legitimate triumph of the average man. +Look back for threescore years, and who shall affect to doubt that the +time has been marked by many improvements in the material life of the +English people? Often have they been at loggerheads among themselves, +but they have never flown at each other’s throats, and from every +grave dispute has resulted some substantial gain. They are a cleaner +people and a more sober; in every class there is a diminution of brutality; +education—stand for what it may—has notably extended; certain +forms of tyranny have been abolished; certain forms of suffering, due +to heedlessness or ignorance, have been abated. True, these are +mere details; whether they indicate a solid advance in civilization +cannot yet be determined. But assuredly the average Briton has +cause to jubilate; for the progressive features of the epoch are such +as he can understand and approve, whereas the doubt which may be cast +upon its ethical complexion is for him either non-existent or unintelligible. +So let cressets flare into the night from all the hills! It is +no purchased exultation, no servile flattery. The People acclaims +itself, yet not without genuine gratitude and affection towards the +Representative of its glory and its power. The Constitutional +Compact has been well preserved. Review the record of kingdoms, +and say how often it has come to pass that sovereign and people rejoiced +together over bloodless victories.</p> +<h3>XXI.</h3> +<p>At an inn in the north I once heard three men talking at their breakfast +on the question of diet. They agreed that most people ate too +much meat, and one of them went so far as to declare that, for his part, +he rather preferred vegetables and fruit. “Why,” he +said, “will you believe me that I sometimes make a breakfast of +apples?” This announcement was received in silence; evidently +the two listeners didn’t quite know what to think of it. +Thereupon the speaker, in rather a blustering tone, cried out, “Yes, +I can make a very good breakfast on <i>two or three pounds of apples</i>.”</p> +<p>Wasn’t it amusing? And wasn’t it characteristic? +This honest Briton had gone too far in frankness. ’Tis all +very well to like vegetables and fruits up to a certain point; but to +breakfast on apples! His companions’ silence proved that +they were just a little ashamed of him; his confession savoured of poverty +or meanness; to right himself in their opinion, nothing better occurred +to the man than to protest that he ate apples, yes, but not merely one +or two; he ate them largely, <i>by the pound</i>! I laughed at +the fellow, but I thoroughly understood him; so would every Englishman; +for at the root of our being is a hatred of parsimony. This manifests +itself in all sorts of ludicrous or contemptible forms, but no less +is it the source of our finest qualities. An Englishman desires, +above all, to live largely; on that account he not only dreads, but +hates and despises, poverty. His virtues are those of the free-handed +and warm-hearted opulent man; his weaknesses come of the sense of inferiority +(intensely painful and humiliating) which attaches in his mind to one +who cannot spend and give; his vices, for the most part, originate in +loss of self-respect due to loss of secure position.</p> +<h3>XXII.</h3> +<p>For a nation of this temper, the movement towards democracy is fraught +with peculiar dangers. Profoundly aristocratic in his sympathies, +the Englishman has always seen in the patrician class not merely a social, +but a moral, superiority; the man of blue blood was to him a living +representative of those potencies and virtues which made his ideal of +the worthy life. Very significant is the cordial alliance from +old time between nobles and people; free, proud homage on one side answering +to gallant championship on the other; both classes working together +in the cause of liberty. However great the sacrifices of the common +folk for the maintenance of aristocratic power and splendour, they were +gladly made; this was the Englishman’s religion, his inborn <i>pietas</i>; +in the depths of the dullest soul moved a perception of the ethic meaning +attached to lordship. Your Lord was the privileged being endowed +by descent with generous instincts, and possessed of means to show them +forth in act. A poor noble was a contradiction in terms; if such +a person existed, he could only be spoken of with wondering sadness, +as though he were the victim of some freak of nature. The Lord +was Honourable, Right Honourable; his acts, his words virtually constituted +the code of honour whereby the nation lived.</p> +<p>In a new world, beyond the ocean, there grew up a new race, a scion +of England, which shaped its life without regard to the principle of +hereditary lordship; and in course of time this triumphant Republic +began to shake the ideals of the Motherland. Its civilization, +spite of superficial resemblances, is not English; let him who will +think it superior; all one cares to say is that it has already shown +in a broad picture the natural tendencies of English blood when emancipated +from the old cult. Easy to understand that some there are who +see nothing but evil in the influence of that vast commonwealth. +If it has done us good, assuredly the fact is not yet demonstrable. +In old England, democracy is a thing so alien to our traditions and +rooted sentiment that the line of its progress seems hitherto a mere +track of ruin. In the very word is something from which we shrink; +it seems to signify nothing less than a national apostasy, a denial +of the faith in which we won our glory. The democratic Englishman +is, by the laws of his own nature, in parlous case; he has lost the +ideal by which he guided his rude, prodigal, domineering instincts; +in place of the Right Honourable, born to noble things, he has set up +the mere Plebs, born, more likely than not, for all manner of baseness. +And, amid all his show of loud self-confidence, the man is haunted with +misgiving.</p> +<p>The task before us is no light one. Can we, whilst losing the +class, retain the idea it embodied? Can we English, ever so subject +to the material, liberate ourselves from that old association, yet guard +its meaning in the sphere of spiritual life? Can we, with eyes +which have ceased to look reverently on worn-out symbols, learn to select +from among the grey-coated multitude, and place in reverence even higher +him who “holds his patent of nobility straight from Almighty God”? +Upon that depends the future of England. In days gone by, our +very Snob bore testimony after his fashion to our scorn of meanness; +he at all events imagined himself to be imitating those who were incapable +of a sordid transaction, of a plebeian compliance. But the Snob, +one notes, is in the way of degeneracy; he has new exemplars; he speaks +a ruder language. Him, be sure, in one form or another, we shall +have always with us, and to observe his habits is to note the tenor +of the time. If he have at the back of his dim mind no living +ideal which lends his foolishness a generous significance, then indeed—<i>videant +consules</i>.</p> +<h3>XXIII.</h3> +<p>A visit from N-. He stayed with me two days, and I wish he +could have stayed a third. (Beyond the third day, I am not sure +that any man would be wholly welcome. My strength will bear but +a certain amount of conversation, even the pleasantest, and before long +I desire solitude, which is rest.)</p> +<p>The mere sight of N-, to say nothing of his talk, did me good. +If appearances can ever be trusted, there are few men who get more enjoyment +out of life. His hardships were never excessive; they did not +affect his health or touch his spirits; probably he is in every way +a better man for having—as he says—“gone through the +mill.” His recollection of the time when he had to work +hard for a five-pound note, and was not always sure of getting it, obviously +lends gusto to his present state of ease. I persuaded him to talk +about his successes, and to give me a glimpse of their meaning in solid +cash. Last Midsummer day, his receipts for the twelvemonth were +more than two thousand pounds. Nothing wonderful, of course, bearing +in mind what some men are making by their pen; but very good for a writer +who does not address the baser throng. Two thousand pounds in +a year! I gazed at him with wonder and admiration.</p> +<p>I have known very few prosperous men of letters; N--- represents +for me the best and brightest side of literary success. Say what +one will after a lifetime of disillusion, the author who earns largely +by honest and capable work is among the few enviable mortals. +Think of N---’s existence. No other man could do what he +is doing, and he does it with ease. Two, or at most three, hours’ +work a day—and that by no means every day—suffices to him. +Like all who write, he has his unfruitful times, his mental worries, +his disappointments, but these bear no proportion to the hours of happy +and effective labour. Every time I see him he looks in better +health, for of late years he has taken much more exercise, and he is +often travelling. He is happy in his wife and children; the thought +of all the comforts and pleasures he is able to give them must be a +constant joy to him; were he to die, his family is safe from want. +He has friends and acquaintances as many as he desires; congenial folk +gather at his table; he is welcome in pleasant houses near and far; +his praise is upon the lips of all whose praise is worth having. +With all this, he has the good sense to avoid manifest dangers; he has +not abandoned his privacy, and he seems to be in no danger of being +spoilt by good fortune. His work is more to him than a means of +earning money; he talks about a book he has in hand almost as freshly +and keenly as in the old days, when his annual income was barely a couple +of hundred. I note, too, that his leisure is not swamped with +the publications of the day; he reads as many old books as new, and +keeps many of his early enthusiasms.</p> +<p>He is one of the men I heartily like. That he greatly cares +for me I do not suppose, but this has nothing to do with the matter; +enough that he likes my society well enough to make a special journey +down into Devon. I represent to him, of course, the days gone +by, and for their sake he will always feel an interest in me. +Being ten years my junior, he must naturally regard me as an old buffer; +I notice, indeed, that he is just a little too deferential at moments. +He feels a certain respect for some of my work, but thinks, I am sure, +that I ceased writing none too soon—which is very true. +If I had not been such a lucky fellow—if at this moment I were +still toiling for bread—it is probable that he and I would see +each other very seldom; for N--- has delicacy, and would shrink from +bringing his high-spirited affluence face to face with Grub Street squalor +and gloom; whilst I, on the other hand, should hate to think that he +kept up my acquaintance from a sense of decency. As it is we are +very good friends, quite unembarrassed, and—for a couple of days—really +enjoy the sight and hearing of each other. That I am able to give +him a comfortable bedroom, and set before him an eatable dinner, flatters +my pride. If I chose at any time to accept his hearty invitation, +I can do so without moral twinges.</p> +<p>Two thousand pounds! If, at N---’s age, I had achieved +that income, what would have been the result upon me? Nothing +but good, I know; but what form would the good have taken? Should +I have become a social man, a giver of dinners, a member of clubs? +Or should I merely have begun, ten years sooner, the life I am living +now? That is more likely.</p> +<p>In my twenties I used to say to myself: what a splendid thing it +will be <i>when</i> I am the possessor of a thousand pounds! Well, +I have never possessed that sum—never anything like it—and +now never shall. Yet it was not an extravagant ambition, methinks, +however primitive.</p> +<p>As we sat in the garden dusk, the scent of our pipes mingling with +that of roses, N--- said to me in a laughing tone: “Come now, +tell me how you felt when you first heard of your legacy?” +And I could not tell him; I had nothing to say; no vivid recollection +of the moment would come back to me. I am afraid N--- thought +he had been indiscreet, for he passed quickly to another subject. +Thinking it over now, I see, of course, that it would be impossible +to put into words the feeling of that supreme moment of life. +It was not joy that possessed me; I did not exult; I did not lose control +of myself in any way. But I remember drawing one or two deep sighs, +as if all at once relieved of some distressing burden or constraint. +Only some hours after did I begin to feel any kind of agitation. +That night I did not close my eyes; the night after I slept longer and +more soundly than I remember to have done for a score of years. +Once or twice in the first week I had a hysterical feeling; I scarce +kept myself from shedding tears. And the strange thing is that +it seems to have happened so long ago; I seem to have been a free man +for many a twelvemonth, instead of only for two. Indeed, that +is what I have often thought about forms of true happiness; the brief +are quite as satisfying as those that last long. I wanted, before +my death, to enjoy liberty from care, and repose in a place I love. +That was granted me; and, had I known it only for one whole year, the +sum of my enjoyment would have been no whit less than if I live to savour +it for a decade.</p> +<h3>XXIV.</h3> +<p>The honest fellow who comes to dig in my garden is puzzled to account +for my peculiarities; I often catch a look of wondering speculation +in his eye when it turns upon me. It is all because I will not +let him lay out flower-beds in the usual way, and make the bit of ground +in front of the house really neat and ornamental. At first he +put it down to meanness, but he knows by now that that cannot be the +explanation. That I really prefer a garden so poor and plain that +every cottager would be ashamed of it, he cannot bring himself to believe, +and of course I have long since given up trying to explain myself. +The good man probably concludes that too many books and the habit of +solitude have somewhat affected what he would call my “reasons.”</p> +<p>The only garden flowers I care for are the quite old-fashioned roses, +sunflowers, hollyhocks, lilies and so on, and these I like to see growing +as much as possible as if they were wild. Trim and symmetrical +beds are my abhorrence, and most of the flowers which are put into them—hybrids +with some grotesque name—Jonesia, Snooksia—hurt my eyes. +On the other hand, a garden is a garden, and I would not try to introduce +into it the flowers which are my solace in lanes and fields. Foxgloves, +for instance—it would pain me to see them thus transplanted.</p> +<p>I think of foxgloves, for it is the moment of their glory. +Yesterday I went to the lane which I visit every year at this time, +the deep, rutty cart-track, descending between banks covered with giant +fronds of the polypodium, and overhung with wych-elm and hazel, to that +cool, grassy nook where the noble flowers hang on stems all but of my +own height. Nowhere have I seen finer foxgloves. I suppose +they rejoice me so because of early memories—to a child it is +the most impressive of wild flowers; I would walk miles any day to see +a fine cluster, as I would to see the shining of purple loosestrife +by the water edge, or white lilies floating upon the still depth.</p> +<p>But the gardener and I understand each other as soon as we go to +the back of the house, and get among the vegetables. On that ground +he finds me perfectly sane. And indeed I am not sure that the +kitchen garden does not give me more pleasure than the domain of flowers. +Every morning I step round before breakfast to see how things are “coming +on.” It is happiness to note the swelling of pods, the healthy +vigour of potato plants, aye, even the shooting up of radishes and cress. +This year I have a grove of Jerusalem artichokes; they are seven or +eight feet high, and I seem to get vigour as I look at the stems which +are all but trunks, at the great beautiful leaves. Delightful, +too, are the scarlet runners, which have to be propped again and again, +or they would break down under the abundance of their yield. It +is a treat to me to go among them with a basket, gathering; I feel as +though Nature herself showed kindness to me, in giving me such abundant +food. How fresh and wholesome are the odours—especially +if a shower has fallen not long ago!</p> +<p>I have some magnificent carrots this year—straight, clean, +tapering, the colour a joy to look upon.</p> +<h3>XXV.</h3> +<p>For two things do my thoughts turn now and then to London. +I should like to hear the long note of a master’s violin, or the +faultless cadence of an exquisite voice, and I should like to see pictures. +Music and painting have always meant much to me; here I can enjoy them +only in memory.</p> +<p>Of course there is the discomfort of concert-hall and exhibition-rooms. +My pleasure in the finest music would be greatly spoilt by having to +sit amid a crowd, with some idiot audible on right hand or left, and +the show of pictures would give me a headache in the first quarter of +an hour. <i>Non sum qualis eram</i> when I waited several hours +at the gallery door to hear Patti, and knew not a moment’s fatigue +to the end of the concert; or when, at the Academy, I was astonished +to find that it was four o’clock, and I had forgotten food since +breakfast. The truth is, I do not much enjoy anything nowadays +which I cannot enjoy <i>alone</i>. It sounds morose; I imagine +the comment of good people if they overheard such a confession. +Ought I, in truth, to be ashamed of it?</p> +<p>I always read the newspaper articles on exhibitions of pictures, +and with most pleasure when the pictures are landscapes. The mere +names of paintings often gladden me for a whole day—those names +which bring before the mind a bit of seashore, a riverside, a glimpse +of moorland or of woods. However feeble his criticism, the journalist +generally writes with appreciation of these subjects; his descriptions +carry me away to all sorts of places which I shall never see again with +the bodily eye, and I thank him for his unconscious magic. Much +better this, after all, than really going to London and seeing the pictures +themselves. They would not disappoint me; I love and honour even +the least of English landscape painters; but I should try to see too +many at once, and fall back into my old mood of tired grumbling at the +conditions of modern life. For a year or two I have grumbled little—all +the better for me.</p> +<h3>XXVI.</h3> +<p>Of late, I have been wishing for music. An odd chance gratified +my desire.</p> +<p>I had to go into Exeter yesterday. I got there about sunset, +transacted my business, and turned to walk home again through the warm +twilight. In Southernhay, as I was passing a house of which the +ground-floor windows stood open, there sounded the notes of a piano—chords +touched by a skilful hand. I checked my step, hoping, and in a +minute or two the musician began to play that nocturne of Chopin which +I love best—I don’t know how to name it. My heart +leapt. There I stood in the thickening dusk, the glorious sounds +floating about me; and I trembled with very ecstasy of enjoyment. +When silence came, I waited in the hope of another piece, but nothing +followed, and so I went my way.</p> +<p>It is well for me that I cannot hear music when I will; assuredly +I should not have such intense pleasure as comes to me now and then +by haphazard. As I walked on, forgetting all about the distance, +and reaching home before I knew I was half way there, I felt gratitude +to my unknown benefactor—a state of mind I have often experienced +in the days long gone by. It happened at times—not in my +barest days, but in those of decent poverty—that some one in the +house where I lodged played the piano—and how it rejoiced me when +this came to pass! I say “played the piano”—a +phrase that covers much. For my own part, I was very tolerant; +anything that could by the largest interpretation be called music, I +welcomed and was thankful; for even “five-finger exercises” +I found, at moments, better than nothing. For it was when I was +labouring at my desk that the notes of the instrument were grateful +and helpful to me. Some men, I believe, would have been driven +frantic under the circumstances; to me, anything like a musical sound +always came as a godsend; it tuned my thoughts; it made the words flow. +Even the street organs put me in a happy mood; I owe many a page to +them—written when I should else have been sunk in bilious gloom.</p> +<p>More than once, too, when I was walking London streets by night, +penniless and miserable, music from an open window has stayed my step, +even as yesterday. Very well can I remember such a moment in Eaton +Square, one night when I was going back to Chelsea, tired, hungry, racked +by frustrate passions. I had tramped miles and miles, in the hope +of wearying myself so that I could sleep and forget. Then came +the piano notes—I saw that there was festival in the house—and +for an hour or so I revelled as none of the bidden guests could possibly +be doing. And when I reached my poor lodgings, I was no longer +envious nor mad with desires, but as I fell asleep I thanked the unknown +mortal who had played for me, and given me peace.</p> +<h3>XXVII.</h3> +<p>To-day I have read <i>The Tempest</i>. It is perhaps the play +that I love best, and, because I seem to myself to know it so well, +I commonly pass it over in opening the book. Yet, as always in +regard to Shakespeare, having read it once more, I find that my knowledge +was less complete than I supposed. So it would be, live as long +as one might; so it would ever be, whilst one had strength to turn the +pages and a mind left to read them.</p> +<p>I like to believe that this was the poet’s last work, that +he wrote it in his home at Stratford, walking day by day in the fields +which had taught his boyhood to love rural England. It is ripe +fruit of the supreme imagination, perfect craft of the master hand. +For a man whose life’s business it has been to study the English +tongue, what joy can equal that of marking the happy ease wherewith +Shakespeare surpasses, in mere command of words, every achievement of +those even who, apart from him, are great? I could fancy that, +in <i>The Tempest</i>, he wrought with a peculiar consciousness of this +power, smiling as the word of inimitable felicity, the phrase of incomparable +cadence, was whispered to him by the Ariel that was his genius. +He seems to sport with language, to amuse himself with new discovery +of its resources. From king to beggar, men of every rank and every +order of mind have spoken with his lips; he has uttered the lore of +fairyland; now it pleases him to create a being neither man nor fairy, +a something between brute and human nature, and to endow its purposes +with words. These words, how they smack of the moist and spawning +earth, of the life of creatures that cannot rise above the soil! +We do not think of it enough; we stint our wonder because we fall short +in appreciation. A miracle is worked before us, and we scarce +give heed; it has become familiar to our minds as any other of nature’s +marvels, which we rarely pause to reflect upon.</p> +<p><i>The Tempest</i> contains the noblest meditative passage in all +the plays; that which embodies Shakespeare’s final view of life, +and is the inevitable quotation of all who would sum the teachings of +philosophy. It contains his most exquisite lyrics, his tenderest +love passages, and one glimpse of fairyland which—I cannot but +think—outshines the utmost beauty of <i>A Midsummer Night’s +Dream</i>: Prospero’s farewell to the “elves of hills, brooks, +standing lakes, and groves.” Again a miracle; these are +things which cannot be staled by repetition. Come to them often +as you will, they are ever fresh as though new minted from the brain +of the poet. Being perfect, they can never droop under that satiety +which arises from the perception of fault; their virtue can never be +so entirely savoured as to leave no pungency of gusto for the next approach.</p> +<p>Among the many reasons which make me glad to have been born in England, +one of the first is that I read Shakespeare in my mother tongue. +If I try to imagine myself as one who cannot know him face to face, +who hears him only speaking from afar, and that in accents which only +through the labouring intelligence can touch the living soul, there +comes upon me a sense of chill discouragement, of dreary deprivation. +I am wont to think that I can read Homer, and, assuredly, if any man +enjoys him, it is I; but can I for a moment dream that Homer yields +me all his music, that his word is to me as to him who walked by the +Hellenic shore when Hellas lived? I know that there reaches me +across the vast of time no more than a faint and broken echo; I know +that it would be fainter still, but for its blending with those memories +of youth which are as a glimmer of the world’s primeval glory. +Let every land have joy of its poet; for the poet is the land itself, +all its greatness and its sweetness, all that incommunicable heritage +for which men live and die. As I close the book, love and reverence +possess me. Whether does my full heart turn to the great Enchanter, +or to the Island upon which he has laid his spell? I know not. +I cannot think of them apart. In the love and reverence awakened +by that voice of voices, Shakespeare and England are but one.</p> +<h2>AUTUMN</h2> +<h3>I.</h3> +<p>This has been a year of long sunshine. Month has followed upon +month with little unkindness of the sky; I scarcely marked when July +passed into August, August into September. I should think it summer +still, but that I see the lanes yellow-purfled with flowers of autumn.</p> +<p>I am busy with the hawkweeds; that is to say, I am learning to distinguish +and to name as many as I can. For scientific classification I +have little mind; it does not happen to fall in with my habits of thought; +but I like to be able to give its name (the “trivial” by +choice) to every flower I meet in my walks. Why should I be content +to say, “Oh, it’s a hawkweed”? That is but one +degree less ungracious than if I dismissed all the yellow-rayed as “dandelions.” +I feel as if the flower were pleased by my recognition of its personality. +Seeing how much I owe them, one and all, the least I can do is to greet +them severally. For the same reason I had rather say “hawkweed” +than “hieracium”; the homelier word has more of kindly friendship.</p> +<h3>II.</h3> +<p>How the mood for a book sometimes rushes upon one, either one knows +not why, or in consequence, perhaps, of some most trifling suggestion. +Yesterday I was walking at dusk. I came to an old farmhouse; at +the garden gate a vehicle stood waiting, and I saw it was our doctor’s +gig. Having passed, I turned to look back. There was a faint +afterglow in the sky beyond the chimneys; a light twinkled at one of +the upper windows. I said to myself, “Tristram Shandy,” +and hurried home to plunge into a book which I have not opened for I +dare say twenty years.</p> +<p>Not long ago, I awoke one morning and suddenly thought of the Correspondence +between Goethe and Schiller; and so impatient did I become to open the +book that I got up an hour earlier than usual. A book worth rising +for; much better worth than old Burton, who pulled Johnson out of bed. +A book which helps one to forget the idle or venomous chatter going +on everywhere about us, and bids us cherish hope for a world “which +has such people in’t.”</p> +<p>These volumes I had at hand; I could reach them down from my shelves +at the moment when I hungered for them. But it often happens that +the book which comes into my mind could only be procured with trouble +and delay; I breathe regretfully and put aside the thought. Ah! +the books that one will never read again. They gave delight, perchance +something more; they left a perfume in the memory; but life has passed +them by for ever. I have but to muse, and one after another they +rise before me. Books gentle and quieting; books noble and inspiring; +books that well merit to be pored over, not once but many a time. +Yet never again shall I hold them in my hand; the years fly too quickly, +and are too few. Perhaps when I lie waiting for the end, some +of those lost books will come into my wandering thoughts, and I shall +remember them as friends to whom I owed a kindness—friends passed +upon the way. What regret in that last farewell!</p> +<h3>III.</h3> +<p>Every one, I suppose, is subject to a trick of mind which often puzzles +me. I am reading or thinking, and at a moment, without any association +or suggestion that I can discover, there rises before me the vision +of a place I know. Impossible to explain why that particular spot +should show itself to my mind’s eye; the cerebral impulse is so +subtle that no search may trace its origin. If I am reading, doubtless +a thought, a phrase, possibly a mere word, on the page before me serves +to awaken memory. If I am otherwise occupied, it must be an object +seen, an odour, a touch; perhaps even a posture of the body suffices +to recall something in the past. Sometimes the vision passes, +and there an end; sometimes, however, it has successors, the memory +working quite independently of my will, and no link appearing between +one scene and the next.</p> +<p>Ten minutes ago I was talking with my gardener. Our topic was +the nature of the soil, whether or not it would suit a certain kind +of vegetable. Of a sudden I found myself gazing at—the Bay +of Avlona. Quite certainly my thoughts had not strayed in that +direction. The picture that came before me caused me a shock of +surprise, and I am still vainly trying to discover how I came to behold +it.</p> +<p>A happy chance that I ever saw Avlona. I was on my way from +Corfu to Brindisi. The steamer sailed late in the afternoon; there +was a little wind, and as the December night became chilly, I soon turned +in. With the first daylight I was on deck, expecting to find that +we were near the Italian port; to my surprise, I saw a mountainous shore, +towards which the ship was making at full speed. On inquiry, I +learnt that this was the coast of Albania; our vessel not being very +seaworthy, and the wind still blowing a little (though not enough to +make any passenger uncomfortable), the captain had turned back when +nearly half across the Adriatic, and was seeking a haven in the shelter +of the snow-topped hills. Presently we steamed into a great bay, +in the narrow mouth of which lay an island. My map showed me where +we were, and with no small interest I discovered that the long line +of heights guarding the bay on its southern side formed the Acroceraunian +Promontory. A little town visible high up on the inner shore was +the ancient Aulon.</p> +<p>Here we anchored, and lay all day long. Provisions running +short, a boat had to be sent to land, and the sailors purchased, among +other things, some peculiarly detestable bread—according to them, +<i>cotto al sole</i>. There was not a cloud in the sky; till evening, +the wind whistled above our heads, but the sea about us was blue and +smooth. I sat in hot sunshine, feasting my eyes on the beautiful +cliffs and valleys of the thickly-wooded shore. Then came a noble +sunset; then night crept gently into the hollows of the hills, which +now were coloured the deepest, richest green. A little lighthouse +began to shine. In the perfect calm that had fallen, I heard breakers +murmuring softly upon the beach.</p> +<p>At sunrise we entered the port of Brindisi.</p> +<h3>IV.</h3> +<p>The characteristic motive of English poetry is love of nature, especially +of nature as seen in the English rural landscape. From the “Cuckoo +Song” of our language in its beginnings to the perfect loveliness +of Tennyson’s best verse, this note is ever sounding. It +is persistent even amid the triumph of the drama. Take away from +Shakespeare all his bits of natural description, all his casual allusions +to the life and aspects of the country, and what a loss were there! +The reign of the iambic couplet confined, but could not suppress, this +native music; Pope notwithstanding, there came the “Ode to Evening” +and that “Elegy” which, unsurpassed for beauty of thought +and nobility of utterance in all the treasury of our lyrics, remains +perhaps the most essentially English poem ever written.</p> +<p>This attribute of our national mind availed even to give rise to +an English school of painting. It came late; that it ever came +at all is remarkable enough. A people apparently less apt for +that kind of achievement never existed. So profound is the English +joy in meadow and stream and hill, that, unsatisfied at last with vocal +expression, it took up the brush, the pencil, the etching tool, and +created a new form of art. The National Gallery represents only +in a very imperfect way the richness and variety of our landscape work. +Were it possible to collect, and suitably to display, the very best +of such work in every vehicle, I know not which would be the stronger +emotion in an English heart, pride or rapture.</p> +<p>One obvious reason for the long neglect of Turner lies in the fact +that his genius does not seem to be truly English. Turner’s +landscape, even when it presents familiar scenes, does not show them +in the familiar light. Neither the artist nor the intelligent +layman is satisfied. He gives us glorious visions; we admit the +glory—but we miss something which we deem essential. I doubt +whether Turner tasted rural England; I doubt whether the spirit of English +poetry was in him; I doubt whether the essential significance of the +common things which we call beautiful was revealed to his soul. +Such doubt does not affect his greatness as a poet in colour and in +form, but I suspect that it has always been the cause why England could +not love him. If any man whom I knew to be a man of brains confessed +to me that he preferred Birket Foster, I should smile—but I should +understand.</p> +<h3>V.</h3> +<p>A long time since I wrote in this book. In September I caught +a cold, which meant three weeks’ illness.</p> +<p>I have not been suffering; merely feverish and weak and unable to +use my mind for anything but a daily hour or two of the lightest reading. +The weather has not favoured my recovery, wet winds often blowing, and +not much sun. Lying in bed, I have watched the sky, studied the +clouds, which—so long as they are clouds indeed, and not a mere +waste of grey vapour—always have their beauty. Inability +to read has always been my horror; once, a trouble of the eyes all but +drove me mad with fear of blindness; but I find that in my present circumstances, +in my own still house, with no intrusion to be dreaded, with no task +or care to worry me, I can fleet the time not unpleasantly even without +help of books. Reverie, unknown to me in the days of bondage, +has brought me solace; I hope it has a little advanced me in wisdom.</p> +<p>For not, surely, by deliberate effort of thought does a man grow +wise. The truths of life are not discovered by us. At moments +unforeseen, some gracious influence descends upon the soul, touching +it to an emotion which, we know not how, the mind transmutes into thought. +This can happen only in a calm of the senses, a surrender of the whole +being to passionless contemplation. I understand, now, the intellectual +mood of the quietist.</p> +<p>Of course my good housekeeper has tended me perfectly, with the minimum +of needless talk. Wonderful woman!</p> +<p>If the evidence of a well-spent life is necessarily seen in “honour, +love, obedience, troops of friends,” mine, it is clear, has fallen +short of a moderate ideal. Friends I have had, and have; but very +few. Honour and obedience—why, by a stretch, Mrs. M--- may +perchance represent these blessings. As for love—?</p> +<p>Let me tell myself the truth. Do I really believe that at any +time of my life I have been the kind of man who merits affection? +I think not. I have always been much too self-absorbed; too critical +of all about me; too unreasonably proud. Such men as I live and +die alone, however much in appearance accompanied. I do not repine +at it; nay, lying day after day in solitude and silence, I have felt +glad that it was so. At least I give no one trouble, and that +is much. Most solemnly do I hope that in the latter days no long +illness awaits me. May I pass quickly from this life of quiet +enjoyment to the final peace. So shall no one think of me with +pained sympathy or with weariness. One—two—even three +may possibly feel regret, come the end how it may, but I do not flatter +myself that to them I am more than an object of kindly thought at long +intervals. It is enough; it signifies that I have not erred wholly. +And when I think that my daily life testifies to an act of kindness +such as I could never have dreamt of meriting from the man who performed +it, may I not be much more than content?</p> +<h3>VI.</h3> +<p>How I envy those who become prudent without thwackings of experience! +Such men seem to be not uncommon. I don’t mean cold-blooded +calculators of profit and loss in life’s possibilities; nor yet +the plodding dull, who never have imagination enough to quit the beaten +track of security; but bright-witted and large-hearted fellows who seem +always to be led by common sense, who go steadily from stage to stage +of life, doing the right, the prudent things, guilty of no vagaries, +winning respect by natural progress, seldom needing aid themselves, +often helpful to others, and, through all, good-tempered, deliberate, +happy. How I envy them!</p> +<p>For of myself it might be said that whatever folly is possible to +a moneyless man, that folly I have at one time or another committed. +Within my nature there seemed to be no faculty of rational self-guidance. +Boy and man, I blundered into every ditch and bog which lay within sight +of my way. Never did silly mortal reap such harvest of experience; +never had any one so many bruises to show for it. Thwack, thwack! +No sooner had I recovered from one sound drubbing than I put myself +in the way of another. “Unpractical” I was called +by those who spoke mildly; “idiot”—I am sure—by +many a ruder tongue. And idiot I see myself, whenever I glance +back over the long, devious road. Something, obviously, I lacked +from the beginning, some balancing principle granted to most men in +one or another degree. I had brains, but they were no help to +me in the common circumstances of life. But for the good fortune +which plucked me out of my mazes and set me in paradise, I should no +doubt have blundered on to the end. The last thwack of experience +would have laid me low just when I was becoming really a prudent man.</p> +<h3>VII.</h3> +<p>This morning’s sunshine faded amid slow-gathering clouds, but +something of its light seems still to linger in the air, and to touch +the rain which is falling softly. I hear a pattering upon the +still leafage of the garden; it is a sound which lulls, and tunes the +mind to calm thoughtfulness.</p> +<p>I have a letter to-day from my old friend in Germany, E. B. +For many and many a year these letters have made a pleasant incident +in my life; more than that, they have often brought me help and comfort. +It must be a rare thing for friendly correspondence to go on during +the greater part of a lifetime between men of different nationalities +who see each other not twice in two decades. We were young men +when we first met in London, poor, struggling, full of hopes and ideals; +now we look back upon those far memories from the autumn of life. +B. writes to-day in a vein of quiet contentment, which does me good. +He quotes Goethe: “<i>Was man in der Jugend begehrt hat man im +Alter die Fülle</i>.”</p> +<p>These words of Goethe’s were once a hope to me; later, they +made me shake my head incredulously; now I smile to think how true they +have proved in my own case. But what, exactly, do they mean? +Are they merely an expression of the optimistic spirit? If so, +optimism has to content itself with rather doubtful generalities. +Can it truly be said that most men find the wishes of their youth satisfied +in later life? Ten years ago, I should have utterly denied it, +and could have brought what seemed to me abundant evidence in its disproof. +And as regards myself, is it not by mere happy accident that I pass +my latter years in such enjoyment of all I most desired? Accident—but +there is no such thing. I might just as well have called it an +accident had I succeeded in earning the money on which now I live.</p> +<p>From the beginning of my manhood, it is true, I longed for bookish +leisure; that, assuredly, is seldom even one of the desires in a young +man’s heart, but perhaps it is one of those which may most reasonably +look for gratification later on. What, however, of the multitudes +who aim only at wealth, for the power and the pride and the material +pleasures which it represents? We know very well that few indeed +are successful in that aim; and, missing it, do they not miss everything? +For them, are not Goethe’s words mere mockery?</p> +<p>Apply them to mankind at large, and perhaps, after all, they are +true. The fact of national prosperity and contentment implies, +necessarily, the prosperity and contentment of the greater number of +the individuals of which the nation consists. In other words, +the average man who is past middle life has obtained what he strove +for—success in his calling. As a young man, he would not, +perhaps, have set forth his aspirations so moderately, but do they not, +as a fact, amount to this? In defence of the optimistic view, +one may urge how rare it is to meet with an elderly man who harbours +a repining spirit. True; but I have always regarded as a fact +of infinite pathos the ability men have to subdue themselves to the +conditions of life. Contentment so often means resignation, abandonment +of the hope seen to be forbidden.</p> +<p>I cannot resolve this doubt.</p> +<h3>VIII.</h3> +<p>I have been reading Sainte-Beuve’s <i>Port Royal</i>, a book +I have often thought of reading, but its length, and my slight interest +in that period, always held me aloof. Happily, chance and mood +came together, and I am richer by a bit of knowledge well worth acquiring. +It is the kind of book which, one may reasonably say, tends to edification. +One is better for having lived a while with “Messieurs de Port-Royal”; +the best of them were, surely, not far from the Kingdom of Heaven.</p> +<p>Theirs is not, indeed, the Christianity of the first age; we are +among theologians, and the shadow of dogma has dimmed those divine hues +of the early morning, yet ever and anon there comes a cool, sweet air, +which seems not to have blown across man’s common world, which +bears no taint of mortality.</p> +<p>A gallery of impressive and touching portraits. The great-souled +M. de Saint-Cyran, with his vision of Christ restored; M. Le Maître, +who, at the summit of a brilliant career, turned from the world to meditation +and penitence; Pascal, with his genius and his triumphs, his conflicts +of soul and fleshly martyrdom; Lancelot, the good Lancelot, ideal schoolmaster, +who wrote grammar and edited classical books; the vigorous Arnauld, +doctoral rather than saintly, but long-suffering for the faith that +was in him; and all the smaller names—Walon de Beaupuis, Nicole, +Hamon—spirits of exquisite humility and sweetness—a perfume +rises from the page as one reads about them. But best of all I +like M. de Tillemont; I could have wished for myself even such a life +as his; wrapped in silence and calm, a life of gentle devotion and zealous +study. From the age of fourteen, he said, his intellect had occupied +itself with but one subject, that of ecclesiastical history. Rising +at four o’clock, he read and wrote until half-past nine in the +evening, interrupting his work only to say the Offices of the Church, +and for a couple of hours’ breathing at mid-day. Few were +his absences. When he had to make a journey, he set forth on foot, +staff in hand, and lightened the way by singing to himself a psalm or +canticle. This man of profound erudition had as pure and simple +a heart as ever dwelt in mortal. He loved to stop by the road +and talk with children, and knew how to hold their attention whilst +teaching them a lesson. Seeing boy or girl in charge of a cow, +he would ask: “How is it that you, a little child, are able to +control that animal, so much bigger and stronger?” And he +would show the reason, speaking of the human soul. All this about +Tillemont is new to me; well as I knew his name (from the pages of Gibbon), +I thought of him merely as the laborious and accurate compiler of historical +materials. Admirable as was his work, the spirit in which he performed +it is the thing to dwell upon; he studied for study’s sake, and +with no aim but truth; to him it was a matter of indifference whether +his learning ever became known among men, and at any moment he would +have given the fruits of his labour to any one capable of making use +of them.</p> +<p>Think of the world in which the Jansenists were living; the world +of the Fronde, of Richelieu and Mazarin, of his refulgent Majesty Louis +XIV. Contrast Port-Royal with Versailles, and—whatever one’s +judgment of their religious and ecclesiastical aims—one must needs +say that these men lived with dignity. The Great Monarch is, in +comparison, a poor, sordid creature. One thinks of Molière +refused burial—the king’s contemptuous indifference for +one who could do no more to amuse him being a true measure of the royal +greatness. Face to face with even the least of these grave and +pious men, how paltry and unclean are all those courtly figures; not +<i>there</i> was dignity, in the palace chambers and the stately gardens, +but in the poor rooms where the solitaries of Port-Royal prayed and +studied and taught. Whether or not the ideal for mankind, their +life was worthy of man. And what is rarer than a life to which +that praise can be given?</p> +<h3>IX.</h3> +<p>It is amusing to note the superficial forms of reaction against scientific +positivism. The triumph of Darwin was signalized by the invention +of that happy word Agnostic, which had great vogue. But agnosticism, +as a fashion, was far too reasonable to endure. There came a rumour +of Oriental magic, (how the world repeats itself!) and presently every +one who had nothing better to do gossipped about “esoteric Buddhism”—the +saving adjective sounded well in a drawing-room. It did not hold +very long, even with the novelists; for the English taste this esotericism +was too exotic. Somebody suggested that the old table-turning +and spirit-rapping, which had homely associations, might be re-considered +in a scientific light, and the idea was seized upon. Superstition +pranked in the professor’s spectacles, it set up a laboratory, +and printed grave reports. Day by day its sphere widened. +Hypnotism brought matter for the marvel-mongers, and there followed +a long procession of words in limping Greek—a little difficult +till practice had made perfect. Another fortunate terminologist +hit upon the word “psychical”—the <i>p</i> might be +sounded or not, according to the taste and fancy of the pronouncer—and +the fashionable children of a scientific age were thoroughly at ease. +“There <i>must</i> be something, you know; one always felt that +there <i>must</i> be something.” And now, if one may judge +from what one reads, psychical “science” is comfortably +joining hands with the sorcery of the Middle Ages. It is said +to be a lucrative moment for wizards that peep and that mutter. +If the law against fortune-telling were as strictly enforced in the +polite world as it occasionally is in slums and hamlets, we should have +a merry time. But it is difficult to prosecute a Professor of +Telepathy—and how he would welcome the advertisement!</p> +<p>Of course I know very well that all that make use of these words +are not in one and the same category. There is a study of the +human mind, in health and in disease, which calls for as much respect +as any other study conscientiously and capably pursued; that it lends +occasion to fribbles and knaves is no argument against any honest tendency +of thought. Men whom one cannot but esteem are deeply engaged +in psychical investigations, and have convinced themselves that they +are brought into touch with phenomena inexplicable by the commonly accepted +laws of life. Be it so. They may be on the point of making +discoveries in the world beyond sense. For my own part, everything +of this kind not only does not interest me; I turn from it with the +strongest distaste. If every wonder-story examined by the Psychical +Society were set before me with irresistible evidence of its truth, +my feeling (call it my prejudice) would undergo no change whatever. +No whit the less should I yawn over the next batch, and lay the narratives +aside with—yes, with a sort of disgust. “An ounce +of civet, good apothecary!” Why it should be so with me +I cannot say. I am as indifferent to the facts or fancies of spiritualism +as I am, for instance, to the latest mechanical application of electricity. +Edisons and Marconis may thrill the world with astounding novelties; +they astound me, as every one else, but straightway I forget my astonishment, +and am in every respect the man I was before. The thing has simply +no concern for me, and I care not a <i>volt</i> if to-morrow the proclaimed +discovery be proved a journalist’s mistake or invention.</p> +<p>Am I, then, a hidebound materialist? If I know myself, hardly +that. Once, in conversation with G. A., I referred to his position +as that of the agnostic. He corrected me. “The agnostic +grants that there <i>may</i> be something beyond the sphere of man’s +knowledge; I can make no such admission. For me, what is called +the unknowable is simply the non-existent. We see what is, and +we see all.” Now this gave me a sort of shock; it seemed +incredible to me that a man of so much intelligence could hold such +a view. So far am I from feeling satisfied with any explanation, +scientific or other, of myself and of the world about me, that not a +day goes by but I fall a-marvelling before the mystery of the universe. +To trumpet the triumphs of human knowledge seems to me worse than childishness; +now, as of old, we know but one thing—that we know nothing. +What! Can I pluck the flower by the wayside, and, as I gaze at +it, feel that, if I knew all the teachings of histology, morphology, +and so on, with regard to it, I should have exhausted its meanings? +What is all this but words, words, words? Interesting, yes, as +observation; but, the more interesting, so much the more provocative +of wonder and of hopeless questioning. One may gaze and think +till the brain whirls—till the little blossom in one’s hand +becomes as overwhelming a miracle as the very sun in heaven. Nothing +to be known? The flower simply a flower, and there an end on’t? +The man simply a product of evolutionary law, his senses and his intellect +merely availing him to take account of the natural mechanism of which +he forms a part? I find it very hard to believe that this is the +conviction of any human mind. Rather I would think that despair +at an insoluble problem, and perhaps impatience with those who pretend +to solve it, bring about a resolute disregard of everything beyond the +physical fact, and so at length a self-deception which seems obtuseness.</p> +<h3>X.</h3> +<p>It may well be that what we call the unknowable will be for ever +the unknown. In that thought is there not a pathos beyond words? +It may be that the human race will live and pass away; all mankind, +from him who in the world’s dawn first shaped to his fearful mind +an image of the Lord of Life, to him who, in the dusking twilight of +the last age, shall crouch before a deity of stone or wood; and never +one of that long lineage have learnt the wherefore of his being. +The prophets, the martyrs, their noble anguish vain and meaningless; +the wise whose thought strove to eternity, and was but an idle dream; +the pure in heart whose life was a vision of the living God, the suffering +and the mourners whose solace was in a world to come, the victims of +injustice who cried to the Judge Supreme—all gone down into silence, +and the globe that bare them circling dead and cold through soundless +space. The most tragic aspect of such a tragedy is that it is +not unthinkable. The soul revolts, but dare not see in this revolt +the assurance of its higher destiny. Viewing our life thus, is +it not easier to believe that the tragedy is played with no spectator? +And of a truth, of a truth, what spectator can there be? The day +may come when, to all who live, the Name of Names will be but an empty +symbol, rejected by reason and by faith. Yet the tragedy will +be played on.</p> +<p>It is not, I say, unthinkable; but that is not the same thing as +to declare that life has no meaning beyond the sense it bears to human +intelligence. The intelligence itself rejects such a supposition; +in my case, with impatience and scorn. No theory of the world +which ever came to my knowledge is to me for one moment acceptable; +the possibility of an explanation which would set my mind at rest is +to me inconceivable; no whit the less am I convinced that there is a +Reason of the All; one which transcends my understanding, one no glimmer +of which will ever touch my apprehension; a Reason which must imply +a creative power, and therefore, even whilst a necessity of my thought, +is by the same criticized into nothing. A like antinomy with that +which affects our conception of the infinite in time and space. +Whether the rational processes have reached their final development, +who shall say? Perhaps what seem to us the impassable limits of +thought are but the conditions of a yet early stage in the history of +man. Those who make them a proof of a “future state” +must necessarily suppose gradations in that futurity; does the savage, +scarce risen above the brute, enter upon the same “new life” +as the man of highest civilization? Such gropings of the mind +certify our ignorance; the strange thing is that they can be held by +any one to demonstrate that our ignorance is final knowledge.</p> +<h3>XI.</h3> +<p>Yet that, perhaps, will be the mind of coming man; if not the final +attainment of his intellectual progress, at all events a long period +of self-satisfaction, assumed as finality. We talk of the “ever +aspiring soul”; we take for granted that if one religion passes +away, another must arise. But what if man presently find himself +without spiritual needs? Such modification of his being cannot +be deemed impossible; many signs of our life to-day seem to point towards +it. If the habits of thought favoured by physical science do but +sink deep enough, and no vast calamity come to check mankind in its +advance to material contentment, the age of true positivism may arise. +Then it will be the common privilege, “rerum cognoscere causas”; +the word supernatural will have no sense; superstition will be a dimly +understood trait of the early race; and where now we perceive an appalling +Mystery, everything will be lucid and serene as a geometric demonstration. +Such an epoch of Reason might be the happiest the world could know. +Indeed, it would either be that, or it would never come about at all. +For suffering and sorrow are the great Doctors of Metaphysic; and, remembering +this, one cannot count very surely upon the rationalist millennium.</p> +<h3>XII.</h3> +<p>The free man, says Spinoza, thinks of nothing less often than of +death. Free, in his sense of the word, I may not call myself. +I think of death very often; the thought, indeed, is ever in the background +of my mind; yet free in another sense I assuredly am, for death inspires +me with no fear. There was a time when I dreaded it; but that, +merely because it meant disaster to others who depended upon my labour; +the cessation of being has never in itself had power to afflict me. +Pain I cannot well endure, and I do indeed think with apprehension of +being subjected to the trial of long deathbed torments. It is +a sorry thing that the man who has fronted destiny with something of +manly calm throughout a life of stress and of striving, may, when he +nears the end, be dishonoured by a weakness which is mere disease. +But happily I am not often troubled by that dark anticipation.</p> +<p>I always turn out of my way to walk through a country churchyard; +these rural resting-places are as attractive to me as a town cemetery +is repugnant. I read the names upon the stones, and find a deep +solace in thinking that for all these the fret and the fear of life +are over. There comes to me no touch of sadness; whether it be +a little child or an aged man, I have the same sense of happy accomplishment; +the end having come, and with it the eternal peace, what matter if it +came late or soon? There is no such gratulation as <i>Hic jacet</i>. +There is no such dignity as that of death. In the path trodden +by the noblest of mankind these have followed; that which of all who +live is the utmost thing demanded, these have achieved. I cannot +sorrow for them, but the thought of their vanished life moves me to +a brotherly tenderness. The dead, amid this leafy silence, seem +to whisper encouragement to him whose fate yet lingers: As we are, so +shalt thou be; and behold our quiet!</p> +<h3>XIII.</h3> +<p>Many a time, when life went hard with me, I have betaken myself to +the Stoics, and not all in vain. Marcus Aurelius has often been +one of my bedside books; I have read him in the night watches, when +I could not sleep for misery, and when assuredly I could have read nothing +else. He did not remove my burden; his proofs of the vanity of +earthly troubles availed me nothing; but there was a soothing harmony +in his thought which partly lulled my mind, and the mere wish that I +could find strength to emulate that high example (though I knew that +I never should) was in itself a safeguard against the baser impulses +of wretchedness. I read him still, but with no turbid emotion, +thinking rather of the man than of the philosophy, and holding his image +dear in my heart of hearts.</p> +<p>Of course the intellectual assumption which makes his system untenable +by the thinker of our time is: that we possess a knowledge of the absolute. +Noble is the belief that by exercise of his reason a man may enter into +communion with that Rational Essence which is the soul of the world; +but precisely because of our inability to find within ourselves any +such sure and certain guidance do we of to-day accept the barren doom +of scepticism. Otherwise, the Stoic’s sense of man’s +subordination in the universal scheme, and of the all-ruling destiny, +brings him into touch with our own philosophical views, and his doctrine +concerning the “sociable” nature of man, of the reciprocal +obligations which exist between all who live, are entirely congenial +to the better spirit of our day. His fatalism is not mere resignation; +one has not only to accept one’s lot, whatever it is, as inevitable, +but to accept it with joy, with praises. Why are we here? +For the same reason that has brought about the existence of a horse, +or of a vine, to play the part allotted to us by Nature. As it +is within our power to understand the order of things, so are we capable +of guiding ourselves in accordance therewith; the will, powerless over +circumstance, is free to determine the habits of the soul. The +first duty is self-discipline; its correspondent first privilege is +an inborn knowledge of the law of life.</p> +<p>But we are fronted by that persistent questioner who will accept +no <i>a priori</i> assumption, however noble in its character and beneficent +in its tendency. How do we know that the reason of the Stoic is +at harmony with the world’s law? I, perhaps, may see life +from a very different point of view; to me reason may dictate, not self-subdual, +but self-indulgence; I may find in the free exercise of all my passions +an existence far more consonant with what seems to me the dictate of +Nature. I am proud; Nature has made me so; let my pride assert +itself to justification. I am strong; let me put forth my strength, +it is the destiny of the feeble to fall before me. On the other +hand, I am weak and I suffer; what avails a mere assertion that fate +is just, to bring about my calm and glad acceptance of this down-trodden +doom? Nay, for there is that within my soul which bids me revolt, +and cry against the iniquity of some power I know not. Granting +that I am compelled to acknowledge a scheme of things which constrains +me to this or that, whether I will or no, how can I be sure that wisdom +or moral duty lies in acquiescence? Thus the unceasing questioner; +to whom, indeed, there is no reply. For our philosophy sees no +longer a supreme sanction, and no longer hears a harmony of the universe.</p> +<p>“He that is unjust is also impious. For the Nature of +the Universe, having made all reasonable creatures one for another, +to the end that they should do one another good; more or less, according +to the several persons and occasions; but in no wise hurt one another; +it is manifest that he that doth transgress against this her will, is +guilty of impiety towards the most ancient and venerable of all the +Deities.” How gladly would I believe this! That injustice +is impiety, and indeed the supreme impiety, I will hold with my last +breath; but it were the merest affectation of a noble sentiment if I +supported my faith by such a reasoning. I see no single piece +of strong testimony that justice is the law of the universe; I see suggestions +incalculable tending to prove that it is not. Rather must I apprehend +that man, in some inconceivable way, may at his best moments represent +a Principle darkly at strife with that which prevails throughout the +world as known to us. If the just man be in truth a worshipper +of the most ancient of Deities, he must needs suppose, either that the +object of his worship belongs to a fallen dynasty, or—what from +of old has been his refuge—that the sacred fire which burns within +him is an “evidence of things not seen.” What if I +am incapable of either supposition? There remains the dignity +of a hopeless cause—“<i>sed victa Catoni</i>.” +But how can there sound the hymn of praise?</p> +<p>“That is best for everyone, which the common Nature of all +doth send unto everyone, and then is it best, when she doth send it.” +The optimism of Necessity, and perhaps, the highest wisdom man can attain +unto. “Remember that unto reasonable creatures only is it +granted that they may willingly and freely submit.” No one +could be more sensible than I of the persuasiveness of this high theme. +The words sing to me, and life is illumined with soft glory, like that +of the autumn sunset yonder. “Consider how man’s life +is but for a very moment of time, and so depart meek and contented: +even as if a ripe olive falling should praise the ground that bare her, +and give thanks to the tree that begat her.” So would I +fain think, when the moment comes. It is the mood of strenuous +endeavour, but also the mood of rest. Better than the calm of +achieved indifference (if that, indeed, is possible to man); better +than the ecstasy which contemns the travail of earth in contemplation +of bliss to come. But, by no effort attainable. An influence +of the unknown powers; a peace that falleth upon the soul like dew at +evening.</p> +<h3>XIV.</h3> +<p>I have had one of my savage headaches. For a day and a night +I was in blind torment. Have at it, now, with the stoic remedy. +Sickness of the body is no evil. With a little resolution and +considering it as a natural issue of certain natural processes, pain +may well be borne. One’s solace is, to remember that it +cannot affect the soul, which partakes of the eternal nature. +This body is but as “the clothing, or the cottage, of the mind.” +Let flesh be racked; I, the very I, will stand apart, lord of myself.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, memory, reason, every faculty of my intellectual part, +is being whelmed in muddy oblivion. Is the soul something other +than the mind? If so, I have lost all consciousness of its existence. +For me, mind and soul are one, and, as I am too feelingly reminded, +that element of my being is <i>here</i>, where the brain throbs and +anguishes. A little more of such suffering, and I were myself +no longer; the body representing me would gesticulate and rave, but +I should know nothing of its motives, its fantasies. The very +I, it is too plain, consists but with a certain balance of my physical +elements, which we call health. Even in the light beginnings of +my headache, I was already not myself; my thoughts followed no normal +course, and I was aware of the abnormality. A few hours later, +I was but a walking disease; my mind—if one could use the word—had +become a barrel-organ, grinding in endless repetition a bar or two of +idle music.</p> +<p>What trust shall I repose in the soul that serves me thus? +Just as much, one would say, as in the senses, through which I know +all that I can know of the world in which I live, and which, for all +I can tell, may deceive me even more grossly in their common use than +they do on certain occasions where I have power to test them; just as +much, and no more—if I am right in concluding that mind and soul +are merely subtle functions of body. If I chance to become deranged +in certain parts of my physical mechanism, I shall straightway be deranged +in my wits; and behold that Something in me which “partakes of +the eternal” prompting me to pranks which savour little of the +infinite wisdom. Even in its normal condition (if I can determine +what that is) my mind is obviously the slave of trivial accidents; I +eat something that disagrees with me, and of a sudden the whole aspect +of life is changed; this impulse has lost its force, and another which +before I should not for a moment have entertained, is all-powerful over +me. In short, I know just as little about myself as I do about +the Eternal Essence, and I have a haunting suspicion that I may be a +mere automaton, my every thought and act due to some power which uses +and deceives me.</p> +<p>Why am I meditating thus, instead of enjoying the life of the natural +man, at peace with himself and the world, as I was a day or two ago? +Merely, it is evident, because my health has suffered a temporary disorder. +It has passed; I have thought enough about the unthinkable; I feel my +quiet returning. Is it any merit of mine that I begin to be in +health once more? Could I, by any effort of the will, have shunned +this pitfall?</p> +<h3>XV.</h3> +<p>Blackberries hanging thick upon the hedge bring to my memory something +of long ago. I had somehow escaped into the country, and on a +long walk began to feel mid-day hunger. The wayside brambles were +fruiting; I picked and ate, and ate on, until I had come within sight +of an inn where I might have made a meal. But my hunger was satisfied; +I had no need of anything more, and, as I thought of it, a strange feeling +of surprise, a sort of bewilderment, came upon me. What! +Could it be that I had eaten, and eaten sufficiently, <i>without paying</i>? +It struck me as an extraordinary thing. At that time, my ceaseless +preoccupation was how to obtain money to keep myself alive. Many +a day I had suffered hunger because I durst not spend the few coins +I possessed; the food I could buy was in any case unsatisfactory, unvaried. +But here Nature had given me a feast, which seemed delicious, and I +had eaten all I wanted. The wonder held me for a long time, and +to this day I can recall it, understand it.</p> +<p>I think there could be no better illustration of what it means to +be very poor in a great town. And I am glad to have been through +it. To those days of misery I owe much of the contentment which +I now enjoy; not by mere force of contrast, but because I have been +better taught than most men the facts which condition our day to day +existence. To the ordinary educated person, freedom from anxiety +as to how he shall merely be fed and clothed is a matter of course; +questioned, he would admit it to be an agreeable state of things, but +it is no more a source of conscious joy to him than physical health +to the thoroughly sound man. For me, were I to live another fifty +years, this security would be a delightful surprise renewed with every +renewal of day. I know, as only one with my experience can, all +that is involved in the possession of means to live. The average +educated man has never stood alone, utterly alone, just clad and nothing +more than that, with the problem before him of wresting his next meal +from a world that cares not whether he live or die. There is no +such school of political economy. Go through that course of lectures, +and you will never again become confused as to the meaning of elementary +terms in that sorry science.</p> +<p>I understand, far better than most men, what I owe to the labour +of others. This money which I “draw” at the four quarters +of the year, in a sense falls to me from heaven; but I know very well +that every drachm is sweated from human pores. Not, thank goodness, +with the declared tyranny of basest capitalism; I mean only that it +is the product of human labour; perhaps wholesome, but none the less +compulsory. Look far enough, and it means muscular toil, that +swinking of the ruder man which supports all the complex structure of +our life. When I think of him thus, the man of the people earns +my gratitude. That it is gratitude from afar, that I never was, +and never shall be, capable of democratic fervour, is a characteristic +of my mind which I long ago accepted as final. I have known revolt +against the privilege of wealth (can I not remember spots in London +where I have stood, savage with misery, looking at the prosperous folk +who passed?), but I could never feel myself at one with the native poor +among whom I dwelt. And for the simplest reason; I came to know +them too well. He who cultivates his enthusiasm amid graces and +comforts may nourish an illusion with regard to the world below him +all his life long, and I do not deny that he may be the better for it; +for me, no illusion was possible. I knew the poor, and I knew +that their aims were not mine. I knew that the kind of life (such +a modest life!) which I should have accepted as little short of the +ideal, would have been to them—if they could have been made to +understand it—a weariness and a contempt. To ally myself +with them against the “upper world” would have been mere +dishonesty, or sheer despair. What they at heart desired, was +to me barren; what I coveted, was to them for ever incomprehensible.</p> +<p>That my own aim indicated an ideal which is the best for all to pursue, +I am far from maintaining. It may be so, or not; I have long known +the idleness of advocating reform on a basis of personal predilection. +Enough to set my own thoughts in order, without seeking to devise a +new economy for the world. But it is much to see clearly from +one’s point of view, and therein the evil days I have treasured +are of no little help to me. If my knowledge be only subjective, +why, it only concerns myself; I preach to no one. Upon another +man, of origin and education like to mine, a like experience of hardship +might have a totally different effect; he might identify himself with +the poor, burn to the end of his life with the noblest humanitarianism. +I should no further criticize him than to say that he saw with other +eyes than mine. A vision, perhaps, larger and more just. +But in one respect he resembles me. If ever such a man arises, +let him be questioned; it will be found that he once made a meal of +blackberries—and mused upon it.</p> +<h3>XVI.</h3> +<p>I stood to-day watching harvesters at work, and a foolish envy took +hold upon me. To be one of those brawny, brown-necked men, who +can string their muscles from dawn to sundown, and go home without an +ache to the sound slumber which will make them fresh again for to-morrow’s +toil! I am a man in the middle years, with limbs shaped as those +of another, and subject to no prostrating malady, yet I doubt whether +I could endure the lightest part of this field labour even for half +an hour. Is that indeed to be a man? Could I feel surprised +if one of these stalwart fellows turned upon me a look of good-natured +contempt? Yet he would never dream that I envied him; he would +think it as probable, no doubt, that I should compare myself unfavourably +with one of the farm horses.</p> +<p>There comes the old idle dream: balance of mind and body, perfect +physical health combined with the fulness of intellectual vigour. +Why should I not be there in the harvest field, if so it pleased me, +yet none the less live for thought? Many a theorist holds the +thing possible, and looks to its coming in a better time. If so, +two changes must needs come before it; there will no longer exist a +profession of literature, and all but the whole of every library will +be destroyed, leaving only the few books which are universally recognized +as national treasures. Thus, and thus only, can mental and physical +equilibrium ever be brought about.</p> +<p>It is idle to talk to us of “the Greeks.” The people +we mean when so naming them were a few little communities, living under +very peculiar conditions, and endowed by Nature with most exceptional +characteristics. The sporadic civilization which we are too much +in the habit of regarding as if it had been no less stable than brilliant, +was a succession of the briefest splendours, gleaming here and there +from the coasts of the Aegean to those of the western Mediterranean. +Our heritage of Greek literature and art is priceless; the example of +Greek life possesses for us not the slightest value. The Greeks +had nothing alien to study—not even a foreign or a dead language. +They read hardly at all, preferring to listen. They were a slave-holding +people, much given to social amusement, and hardly knowing what we call +industry. Their ignorance was vast, their wisdom a grace of the +gods. Together with their fair intelligence, they had grave moral +weaknesses. If we could see and speak with an average Athenian +of the Periclean age, he would cause no little disappointment—there +would be so much more of the barbarian in him, and at the same time +of the decadent, than we had anticipated. More than possibly, +even his physique would be a disillusion. Leave him in that old +world, which is precious to the imagination of a few, but to the business +and bosoms of the modern multitude irrelevant as Memphis or Babylon.</p> +<p>The man of thought, as we understand him, is all but necessarily +the man of impaired health. The rare exception will be found to +come of a stock which may, indeed, have been distinguished by intelligence, +but represented in all its members the active rather than the studious +or contemplative life; whilst the children of such fortunate thinkers +are sure either to revert to the active type or to exhibit the familiar +sacrifice of body to mind. I am not denying the possibility of +<i>mens sana in corpore sano</i>; that is another thing. Nor do +I speak of the healthy people (happily still numerous) who are at the +same time bright-witted and fond of books. The man I have in view +is he who pursues the things of the mind with passion, who turns impatiently +from all common interests or cares which encroach upon his sacred time, +who is haunted by a sense of the infinity of thought and learning, who, +sadly aware of the conditions on which he holds his mental vitality, +cannot resist the hourly temptation to ignore them. Add to these +native characteristics the frequent fact that such a man must make merchandise +of his attainments, must toil under the perpetual menace of destitution; +and what hope remains that his blood will keep the true rhythm, that +his nerves will play as Nature bade them, that his sinews will bide +the strain of exceptional task? Such a man may gaze with envy +at those who “sweat in the eye of Phoebus,” but he knows +that no choice was offered him. And if life has so far been benignant +as to grant him frequent tranquillity of studious hours, let him look +from the reapers to the golden harvest, and fare on in thankfulness.</p> +<h3>XVII.</h3> +<p>That a labourer in the fields should stand very much on the level +of the beast that toils with him, can be neither desirable nor necessary. +He does so, as a matter of fact, and one hears that only the dullest-witted +peasant will nowadays consent to the peasant life; his children, taught +to read the newspaper, make what haste they can to the land of promise—where +newspapers are printed. That here is something altogether wrong +it needs no evangelist to tell us; the remedy no prophet has as yet +even indicated. Husbandry has in our time been glorified in eloquence +which for the most part is vain, endeavouring, as it does, to prove +a falsity—that the agricultural life is, in itself, favourable +to gentle emotions, to sweet thoughtfulness, and to all the human virtues. +Agriculture is one of the most exhausting forms of toil, and, in itself, +by no means conducive to spiritual development; that it played a civilizing +part in the history of the world is merely due to the fact that, by +creating wealth, it freed a portion of mankind from the labour of the +plough. Enthusiasts have tried the experiment of turning husbandman; +one of them writes of his experience in notable phrase.</p> +<p>“Oh, labour is the curse of the world, and nobody can meddle +with it without becoming proportionately brutified. Is it a praiseworthy +matter that I have spent five golden months in providing food for cows +and horses? It is not so.”</p> +<p>Thus Nathaniel Hawthorne, at Brook Farm. In the bitterness +of his disillusion he went too far. Labour may be, and very often +is, an accursed and a brutalizing thing, but assuredly, it is not the +curse of the world; nay, it is the world’s supreme blessing. +Hawthorne had committed a folly, and he paid for it in loss of mental +balance. For him, plainly, it was no suitable task to feed cows +and horses; yet many a man would perceive the nobler side of such occupation, +for it signifies, of course, providing food for mankind. The interest +of this quotation lies in the fact that, all unconsciously, so intelligent +a man as Hawthorne had been reduced to the mental state of our agricultural +labourers in revolt against the country life. Not only is his +intellect in abeyance, but his emotions have ceased to be a true guide. +The worst feature of the rustic mind in our day, is not its ignorance +or grossness, but its rebellious discontent. Like all other evils, +this is seen to be an inevitable outcome of the condition of things; +one understands it only too well. The bucolic wants to “better” +himself. He is sick of feeding cows and horses; he imagines that, +on the pavement of London, he would walk with a manlier tread.</p> +<p>There is no help in visions of Arcadia; yet it is plain fact that +in days gone by the peasantry found life more than endurable, and yet +were more intelligent than our clod-hoppers who still hold by the plough. +They had their folk-songs, now utterly forgotten. They had romances +and fairy lore, which their descendants could no more appreciate than +an idyll of Theocritus. Ah, but let it be remembered that they +had also a <i>home</i>, and this is the illumining word. If your +peasant love the fields which give him bread, he will not think it hard +to labour in them; his toil will no longer be as that of the beast, +but upward-looking and touched with a light from other than the visible +heavens. No use to blink the hard and dull features of rustic +existence; let them rather be insisted upon, that those who own and +derive profit from the land may be constant in human care for the lives +which make it fruitful. Such care may perchance avail, in some +degree, to counteract the restless tendency of the time; the dweller +in a pleasant cottage is not so likely to wish to wander from it as +he who shelters himself in a hovel. Well-meaning folk talk about +reawakening love of the country by means of deliberate instruction. +Lies any hope that way? Does it seem to promise a return of the +time when the old English names of all our flowers were common on rustic +lips—by which, indeed, they were first uttered? The fact +that flowers and birds are well-nigh forgotten, together with the songs +and the elves, shows how advanced is the process of rural degeneration. +Most likely it is foolishness to hope for the revival of any bygone +social virtue. The husbandman of the future will be, I daresay, +a well-paid mechanic, of the engine-driver species; as he goes about +his work he will sing the last refrain of the music-hall, and his oft-recurring +holidays will be spent in the nearest great town. For him, I fancy, +there will be little attraction in ever such melodious talk about “common +objects of the country.” Flowers, perhaps, at all events +those of tilth and pasture, will have been all but improved away. +And, as likely as not, the word Home will have only a special significance, +indicating the common abode of retired labourers who are drawing old-age +pensions.</p> +<h3>XVIII.</h3> +<p>I cannot close my eyes upon this day without setting down some record +of it; yet the foolish insufficiency of words! At sunrise I looked +forth; nowhere could I discern a cloud the size of a man’s hand; +the leaves quivered gently, as if with joy in the divine morning which +glistened upon their dew. At sunset I stood in the meadow above +my house, and watched the red orb sink into purple mist, whilst in the +violet heaven behind me rose the perfect moon. All between, through +the soft circling of the dial’s shadow, was loveliness and quiet +unutterable. Never, I could fancy, did autumn clothe in such magnificence +the elms and beeches; never, I should think, did the leafage on my walls +blaze in such royal crimson. It was no day for wandering; under +a canopy of blue or gold, where the eye could fall on nothing that was +not beautiful, enough to be at one with Nature in dreamy rest. +From stubble fields sounded the long caw of rooks; a sleepy crowing +ever and anon told of the neighbour farm; my doves cooed above their +cot. Was it for five minutes, or was it for an hour, that I watched +the yellow butterfly wafted as by an insensible tremor of the air amid +the garden glintings? In every autumn there comes one such flawless +day. None that I have known brought me a mind so touched to the +fitting mood of welcome, and so fulfilled the promise of its peace.</p> +<h3>XIX.</h3> +<p>I was at ramble in the lanes, when, from somewhere at a distance, +there sounded the voice of a countryman—strange to say—singing. +The notes were indistinct, but they rose, to my ear, with a moment’s +musical sadness, and of a sudden my heart was stricken with a memory +so keen that I knew not whether it was pain or delight. For the +sound seemed to me that of a peasant’s song which I once heard +whilst sitting among the ruins of Paestum. The English landscape +faded before my eyes. I saw great Doric columns of honey-golden +travertine; between them, as I looked one way, a deep strip of sea; +when I turned, the purple gorges of the Apennine; and all about the +temple, where I sat in solitude, a wilderness dead and still but for +that long note of wailing melody. I had not thought it possible +that here, in my beloved home, where regret and desire are all but unknown +to me, I could have been so deeply troubled by a thought of things far +off. I returned with head bent, that voice singing in my memory. +All the delight I have known in Italian travel burned again within my +heart. The old spell has not lost its power. Never, I know, +will it again draw me away from England; but the Southern sunlight cannot +fade from my imagination, and to dream of its glow upon the ruins of +old time wakes in me the voiceless desire which once was anguish.</p> +<p>In his <i>Italienische Reise</i>, Goethe tells that at one moment +of his life the desire for Italy became to him a scarce endurable suffering; +at length he could not bear to hear or to read of things Italian, even +the sight of a Latin book so tortured him that he turned away from it; +and the day arrived when, in spite of every obstacle, he yielded to +the sickness of longing, and in secret stole away southward. When +first I read that passage, it represented exactly the state of my own +mind; to think of Italy was to feel myself goaded by a longing which, +at times, made me literally ill; I, too, had put aside my Latin books, +simply because I could not endure the torment of imagination they caused +me. And I had so little hope (nay, for years no shadow of reasonable +hope) that I should ever be able to appease my desire. I taught +myself to read Italian; that was something. I worked (half-heartedly) +at a colloquial phrase-book. But my sickness only grew towards +despair.</p> +<p>Then came into my hands a sum of money (such a poor little sum) for +a book I had written. It was early autumn. I chanced to +hear some one speak of Naples—and only death would have held me +back.</p> +<h3>XX.</h3> +<p>Truly, I grow aged. I have no longer much delight in wine.</p> +<p>But then, no wine ever much rejoiced me save that of Italy. +Wine-drinking in England is, after all, only make-believe, a mere playing +with an exotic inspiration. Tennyson had his port, whereto clings +a good old tradition; sherris sack belongs to a nobler age; these drinks +are not for us. Let him who will, toy with dubious Bordeaux or +Burgundy; to get good of them, soul’s good, you must be on the +green side of thirty. Once or twice they have plucked me from +despair; I would not speak unkindly of anything in cask or bottle which +bears the great name of wine. But for me it is a thing of days +gone by. Never again shall I know the mellow hour <i>cum regnat +rosa, cum madent capilli</i>. Yet how it lives in memory!</p> +<p>“What call you this wine?” I asked of the temple-guardian +at Paestum, when he ministered to my thirst. “<i>Vino di +Calabria</i>,” he answered, and what a glow in the name! +There I drank it, seated against the column of Poseidon’s temple. +There I drank it, my feet resting on acanthus, my eyes wandering from +sea to mountain, or peering at little shells niched in the crumbling +surface of the sacred stone. The autumn day declined; a breeze +of evening whispered about the forsaken shore; on the far summit lay +a long, still cloud, and its hue was that of my Calabrian wine.</p> +<p>How many such moments come back to me as my thoughts wander! +Dim little <i>trattorie</i> in city byways, inns smelling of the sun +in forgotten valleys, on the mountain side, or by the tideless shore, +where the grape has given me of its blood, and made life a rapture. +Who but the veriest fanatic of teetotalism would grudge me those hours +so gloriously redeemed? No draught of wine amid the old tombs +under the violet sky but made me for the time a better man, larger of +brain, more courageous, more gentle. ’Twas a revelry whereon +came no repentance. Could I but live for ever in thoughts and +feelings such as those born to me in the shadow of the Italian vine! +There I listened to the sacred poets; there I walked with the wise of +old; there did the gods reveal to me the secret of their eternal calm. +I hear the red rillet as it flows into the rustic glass; I see the purple +light upon the hills. Fill to me again, thou of the Roman visage +and all but Roman speech! Is not yonder the long gleaming of the +Appian Way? Chant in the old measure, the song imperishable</p> +<blockquote><p>“dum Capitolium<br /> +Scandet cum tacita virgine pontifex—”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>aye, and for how many an age when Pontiff and Vestal sleep in the +eternal silence. Let the slave of the iron gods chatter what he +will; for him flows no Falernian, for him the Muses have no smile, no +melody. Ere the sun set, and the darkness fall about us, fill +again!</p> +<h3>XXI.</h3> +<p>Is there, at this moment, any boy of twenty, fairly educated, but +without means, without help, with nothing but the glow in his brain +and steadfast courage in his heart, who sits in a London garret, and +writes for dear life? There must be, I suppose; yet all that I +have read and heard of late years about young writers, shows them in +a very different aspect. No garretteers, these novelists and journalists +awaiting their promotion. They eat—and entertain their critics—at +fashionable restaurants; they are seen in expensive seats at the theatre; +they inhabit handsome flats—photographed for an illustrated paper +on the first excuse. At the worst, they belong to a reputable +club, and have garments which permit them to attend a garden party or +an evening “at home” without attracting unpleasant notice. +Many biographical sketches have I read, during the last decade, making +personal introduction of young Mr. This or young Miss That, whose book +was—as the sweet language of the day will have it—“booming”; +but never one in which there was a hint of stern struggle, of the pinched +stomach and frozen fingers. I surmise that the path of “literature” +is being made too easy. Doubtless it is a rare thing nowadays +for a lad whose education ranks him with the upper middle class to find +himself utterly without resources, should he wish to devote himself +to the profession of letters. And there is the root of the matter; +writing has come to be recognized as a profession, almost as cut-and-dried +as church or law; a lad may go into it with full parental approval, +with ready avuncular support. I heard not long ago of an eminent +lawyer, who had paid a couple of hundred per annum for his son’s +instruction in the art of fiction—yea, the art of fiction—by +a not very brilliant professor of that art. Really, when one comes +to think of it, an astonishing fact, a fact vastly significant. +Starvation, it is true, does not necessarily produce fine literature; +but one feels uneasy about these carpet-authors. To the two or +three who have a measure of conscience and vision, I could wish, as +the best thing, some calamity which would leave them friendless in the +streets. They would perish, perhaps. But set that possibility +against the all but certainty of their present prospect—fatty +degeneration of the soul; and is it not acceptable?</p> +<p>I thought of this as I stood yesterday watching a noble sunset, which +brought back to my memory the sunsets of a London autumn, thirty years +ago; more glorious, it seems to me, than any I have since beheld. +It happened that, on one such evening, I was by the river at Chelsea, +with nothing to do except to feel that I was hungry, and to reflect +that, before morning, I should be hungrier still. I loitered upon +Battersea Bridge—the old picturesque wooden bridge, and there +the western sky took hold upon me. Half an hour later, I was speeding +home. I sat down, and wrote a description of what I had seen, +and straightway sent it to an evening newspaper, which, to my astonishment, +published the thing next day—“On Battersea Bridge.” +How proud I was of that little bit of writing! I should not much +like to see it again, for I thought it then so good that I am sure it +would give me an unpleasant sensation now. Still, I wrote it because +I enjoyed doing so, quite as much as because I was hungry; and the couple +of guineas it brought me had as pleasant a ring as any money I ever +earned.</p> +<h3>XXII.</h3> +<p>I wonder whether it be really true, as I have more than once seen +suggested, that the publication of Anthony Trollope’s autobiography +in some degree accounts for the neglect into which he and his works +fell so soon after his death. I should like to believe it, for +such a fact would be, from one point of view, a credit to “the +great big stupid public.” Only, of course, from one point +of view; the notable merits of Trollope’s work are unaffected +by one’s knowledge of how that work was produced; at his best +he is an admirable writer of the pedestrian school, and this disappearance +of his name does not mean final oblivion. Like every other novelist +of note, he had two classes of admirers—those who read him for +the sake of that excellence which here and there he achieved, and the +undistinguishing crowd which found in him a level entertainment. +But it would be a satisfaction to think that “the great big stupid” +was really, somewhere in its secret economy, offended by that revelation +of mechanical methods which made the autobiography either a disgusting +or an amusing book to those who read it more intelligently. A +man with a watch before his eyes, penning exactly so many words every +quarter of an hour—one imagines that this picture might haunt +disagreeably the thoughts even of Mudie’s steadiest subscriber, +that it might come between him or her and any Trollopean work that lay +upon the counter.</p> +<p>The surprise was so cynically sprung upon a yet innocent public. +At that happy time (already it seems so long ago) the literary news +set before ordinary readers mostly had reference to literary work, in +a reputable sense of the term, and not, as now, to the processes of +“literary” manufacture and the ups and downs of the “literary” +market. Trollope himself tells how he surprised the editor of +a periodical, who wanted a serial from him, by asking how many thousand +words it should run to; an anecdote savouring indeed of good old days. +Since then, readers have grown accustomed to revelations of “literary” +method, and nothing in that kind can shock them. There has come +into existence a school of journalism which would seem to have deliberately +set itself the task of degrading authorship and everything connected +with it; and these pernicious scribblers (or typists, to be more accurate) +have found the authors of a fretful age only too receptive of their +mercantile suggestions. Yes, yes; I know as well as any man that +reforms were needed in the relations between author and publisher. +Who knows better than I that your representative author face to face +with your representative publisher was, is, and ever will be, at a ludicrous +disadvantage? And there is no reason in the nature and the decency +of things why this wrong should not by some contrivance be remedied. +A big, blusterous, genial brute of a Trollope could very fairly hold +his own, and exact at all events an acceptable share in the profits +of his work. A shrewd and vigorous man of business such as Dickens, +aided by a lawyer who was his devoted friend, could do even better, +and, in reaping sometimes more than his publisher, redress the ancient +injustice. But pray, what of Charlotte Brontë? Think +of that grey, pinched life, the latter years of which would have been +so brightened had Charlotte Brontë received but, let us say, one +third of what, in the same space of time, the publisher gained by her +books. I know all about this; alas! no man better. None +the less do I loathe and sicken at the manifold baseness, the vulgarity +unutterable, which, as a result of the new order, is blighting our literary +life. It is not easy to see how, in such an atmosphere, great +and noble books can ever again come into being. May it, perhaps, +be hoped that once again the multitude will be somehow touched with +disgust?—that the market for “literary” news of this +costermonger sort will some day fail?</p> +<p>Dickens. Why, there too was a disclosure of literary methods. +Did not Forster make known to all and sundry exactly how Dickens’ +work was done, and how the bargains for its production were made? +The multitudinous public saw him at his desk, learnt how long he sat +there, were told that he could not get on without having certain little +ornaments before his eyes, and that blue ink and a quill pen were indispensable +to his writing; and did all this information ever chill the loyalty +of a single reader? There was a difference, in truth, between +the picture of Charles Dickens sitting down to a chapter of his current +novel, and that of the broad-based Trollope doing his so many words +to the fifteen minutes. Trollope, we know, wronged himself by +the tone and manner of his reminiscences; but that tone and manner indicated +an inferiority of mind, of nature. Dickens—though he died +in the endeavour to increase (not for himself) an already ample fortune, +disastrous influence of his time and class—wrought with an artistic +ingenuousness and fervour such as Trollope could not even conceive. +Methodical, of course, he was; no long work of prose fiction was ever +brought into existence save by methodical labour; but we know that there +was no measuring of so many words to the hour. The picture of +him at work which is seen in his own letters is one of the most bracing +and inspiring in the history of literature. It has had, and will +always have, a great part in maintaining Dickens’ place in the +love and reverence of those who understand.</p> +<h3>XXIII.</h3> +<p>As I walked to-day in the golden sunlight—this warm, still +day on the far verge of autumn—there suddenly came to me a thought +which checked my step, and for the moment half bewildered me. +I said to myself: My life is over. Surely I ought to have been +aware of that simple fact; certainly it has made part of my meditation, +has often coloured my mood; but the thing had never definitely shaped +itself, ready in words for the tongue. My life is over. +I uttered the sentence once or twice, that my ear might test its truth. +Truth undeniable, however strange; undeniable as the figure of my age +last birthday.</p> +<p>My age? At this time of life, many a man is bracing himself +for new efforts, is calculating on a decade or two of pursuit and attainment. +I, too, may perhaps live for some years; but for me there is no more +activity, no ambition. I have had my chance—and I see what +I made of it.</p> +<p>The thought was for an instant all but dreadful. What! +I, who only yesterday was a young man, planning, hoping, looking forward +to life as to a practically endless career, I, who was so vigorous and +scornful, have come to this day of definite retrospect? How is +it possible? But, I have done nothing; I have had no time; I have +only been preparing myself—a mere apprentice to life. My +brain is at some prank; I am suffering a momentary delusion; I shall +shake myself, and return to common sense—to my schemes and activities +and eager enjoyments.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, my life is over.</p> +<p>What a little thing! I knew how the philosophers had spoken; +I repeated their musical phrases about the mortal span—yet never +till now believed them. And this is all? A man’s life +can be so brief and so vain? Idly would I persuade myself that +life, in the true sense, is only now beginning; that the time of sweat +and fear was not life at all, and that it now only depends upon my will +to lead a worthy existence. That may be a sort of consolation, +but it does not obscure the truth that I shall never again see possibilities +and promises opening before me. I have “retired,” +and for me as truly as for the retired tradesman, life is over. +I can look back upon its completed course, and what a little thing! +I am tempted to laugh; I hold myself within the limit of a smile.</p> +<p>And that is best, to smile, not in scorn, but in all forbearance, +without too much self-compassion. After all, that dreadful aspect +of the thing never really took hold of me; I could put it by without +much effort. Life is done—and what matter? Whether +it has been, in sum, painful or enjoyable, even now I cannot say—a +fact which in itself should prevent me from taking the loss too seriously. +What does it matter? Destiny with the hidden face decreed that +I should come into being, play my little part, and pass again into silence; +is it mine either to approve or to rebel? Let me be grateful that +I have suffered no intolerable wrong, no terrible woe of flesh or spirit, +such as others—alas! alas!—have found in their lot. +Is it not much to have accomplished so large a part of the mortal journey +with so much ease? If I find myself astonished at its brevity +and small significance, why, that is my own fault; the voices of those +gone before had sufficiently warned me. Better to see the truth +now, and accept it, than to fall into dread surprise on some day of +weakness, and foolishly to cry against fate. I will be glad rather +than sorry, and think of the thing no more.</p> +<h3>XXIV.</h3> +<p>Waking at early dawn used to be one of the things I most dreaded. +The night which made me capable of resuming labour had brought no such +calm as should follow upon repose; I woke to a vision of the darkest +miseries and lay through the hours of daybreak—too often—in +very anguish. But that is past. Sometimes, ere yet I know +myself, the mind struggles as with an evil spirit on the confines of +sleep; then the light at my window, the pictures on my walls, restore +me to happy consciousness, happier for the miserable dream. Now, +when I lie thinking, my worst trouble is wonder at the common life of +man. I see it as a thing so incredible that it oppresses the mind +like a haunting illusion. Is it the truth that men are fretting, +raving, killing each other, for matters so trivial that I, even I, so +far from saint or philosopher, must needs fall into amazement when I +consider them? I could imagine a man who, by living alone and +at peace, came to regard the everyday world as not really existent, +but a creation of his own fancy in unsound moments. What lunatic +ever dreamt of things less consonant with the calm reason than those +which are thought and done every minute in every community of men called +sane? But I put aside this reflection as soon as may be; it perturbs +me fruitlessly. Then I listen to the sounds about my cottage, +always soft, soothing, such as lead the mind to gentle thoughts. +Sometimes I can hear nothing; not the rustle of a leaf, not the buzz +of a fly, and then I think that utter silence is best of all.</p> +<p>This morning I was awakened by a continuous sound which presently +shaped itself to my ear as a multitudinous shrilling of bird voices. +I knew what it meant. For the last few days I have seen the swallows +gathering, now they were ranged upon my roof, perhaps in the last council +before their setting forth upon the great journey. I know better +than to talk about animal instinct, and to wonder in a pitying way at +its resemblance to reason. I know that these birds show to us +a life far more reasonable, and infinitely more beautiful, than that +of the masses of mankind. They talk with each other, and in their +talk is neither malice nor folly. Could one but interpret the +converse in which they make their plans for the long and perilous flight—and +then compare it with that of numberless respectable persons who even +now are projecting their winter in the South!</p> +<h3>XXV.</h3> +<p>Yesterday I passed by an elm avenue, leading to a beautiful old house. +The road between the trees was covered in all its length and breadth +with fallen leaves—a carpet of pale gold. Further on, I +came to a plantation, mostly of larches; it shone in the richest aureate +hue, with here and there a splash of blood-red, which was a young beech +in its moment of autumnal glory.</p> +<p>I looked at an alder, laden with brown catkins, its blunt foliage +stained with innumerable shades of lovely colour. Near it was +a horse-chestnut, with but a few leaves hanging on its branches, and +those a deep orange. The limes, I see, are already bare.</p> +<p>To-night the wind is loud, and rain dashes against my casement; to-morrow +I shall awake to a sky of winter.</p> +<h2>WINTER</h2> +<h3>I.</h3> +<p>Blasts from the Channel, with raining scud, and spume of mist breaking +upon the hills, have kept me indoors all day. Yet not for a moment +have I been dull or idle, and now, by the latter end of a sea-coal fire, +I feel such enjoyment of my ease and tranquillity that I must needs +word it before going up to bed.</p> +<p>Of course one ought to be able to breast weather such as this of +to-day, and to find one’s pleasure in the strife with it. +For the man sound in body and serene of mind there is no such thing +as bad weather; every sky has its beauty, and storms which whip the +blood do but make it pulse more vigorously. I remember the time +when I would have set out with gusto for a tramp along the wind-swept +and rain-beaten roads; nowadays, I should perhaps pay for the experiment +with my life. All the more do I prize the shelter of these good +walls, the honest workmanship which makes my doors and windows proof +against the assailing blast. In all England, the land of comfort, +there is no room more comfortable than this in which I sit. Comfortable +in the good old sense of the word, giving solace to the mind no less +than ease to the body. And never does it look more homely, more +a refuge and a sanctuary, than on winter nights.</p> +<p>In my first winter here, I tried fires of wood, having had my hearth +arranged for the purpose; but that was a mistake. One cannot burn +logs successfully in a small room; either the fire, being kept moderate, +needs constant attention, or its triumphant blaze makes the room too +hot. A fire is a delightful thing, a companion and an inspiration. +If my room were kept warm by some wretched modern contrivance of water-pipes +or heated air, would it be the same to me as that beautiful core of +glowing fuel, which, if I sit and gaze into it, becomes a world of wonders? +Let science warm the heaven-forsaken inhabitants of flats and hotels +as effectually and economically as it may; if the choice were forced +upon me, I had rather sit, like an Italian, wrapped in my mantle, softly +stirring with a key the silver-grey surface of the brasier’s charcoal. +They tell me we are burning all our coal, and with wicked wastefulness. +I am sorry for it, but I cannot on that account make cheerless perhaps +the last winter of my life. There may be waste on domestic hearths, +but the wickedness is elsewhere—too blatant to call for indication. +Use common sense, by all means, in the construction of grates; that +more than half the heat of the kindly coal should be blown up the chimney +is desired by no one; but hold by the open fire as you hold by whatever +else is best in England. Because, in the course of nature, it +will be some day a thing of the past (like most other things that are +worth living for), is that a reason why it should not be enjoyed as +long as possible? Human beings may ere long take their nourishment +in the form of pills; the prevision of that happy economy causes me +no reproach when I sit down to a joint of meat.</p> +<p>See how friendly together are the fire and the shaded lamp; both +have their part alike in the illumining and warming of the room. +As the fire purrs and softly crackles, so does my lamp at intervals +utter a little gurgling sound when the oil flows to the wick, and custom +has made this a pleasure to me. Another sound, blending with both, +is the gentle ticking of the clock. I could not endure one of +those bustling little clocks which tick like a fever pulse, and are +only fit for a stockbroker’s office; mine hums very slowly, as +though it savoured the minutes no less than I do; and when it strikes, +the little voice is silver-sweet, telling me without sadness that another +hour of life is reckoned, another of the priceless hours—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Quae nobis pereunt et imputantur.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>After extinguishing the lamp, and when I have reached the door, I +always turn to look back; my room is so cosily alluring in the light +of the last gleeds, that I do not easily move away. The warm glow +is reflected on shining wood, on my chair, my writing-table, on the +bookcases, and from the gilt title of some stately volume; it illumes +this picture, it half disperses the gloom on that. I could imagine +that, as in a fairy tale, the books do but await my departure to begin +talking among themselves. A little tongue of flame shoots up from +a dying ember; shadows shift upon the ceiling and the walls. With +a sigh of utter contentment, I go forth, and shut the door softly.</p> +<h3>II.</h3> +<p>I came home this afternoon just at twilight, and, feeling tired after +my walk, a little cold too, I first crouched before the fire, then let +myself drop lazily upon the hearthrug. I had a book in my hand, +and began to read it by the firelight. Rising in a few minutes, +I found the open page still legible by the pale glimmer of day. +This sudden change of illumination had an odd effect upon me; it was +so unexpected, for I had forgotten that dark had not yet fallen. +And I saw in the queer little experience an intellectual symbol. +The book was verse. Might not the warm rays from the fire exhibit +the page as it appears to an imaginative and kindred mind, whilst that +cold, dull light from the window showed it as it is beheld by eyes to +which poetry has but a poor, literal meaning, or none at all?</p> +<h3>III.</h3> +<p>It is a pleasant thing enough to be able to spend a little money +without fear when the desire for some indulgence is strong upon one; +but how much pleasanter the ability to give money away! Greatly +as I relish the comforts of my wonderful new life, no joy it has brought +me equals that of coming in aid to another’s necessity. +The man for ever pinched in circumstances can live only for himself. +It is all very well to talk about doing moral good; in practice, there +is little scope or hope for anything of that kind in a state of material +hardship. To-day I have sent S--- a cheque for fifty pounds; it +will come as a very boon of heaven, and assuredly blesseth him that +gives as much as him that takes. A poor fifty pounds, which the +wealthy fool throws away upon some idle or base fantasy, and never thinks +of it; yet to S--- it will mean life and light. And I, to whom +this power of benefaction is such a new thing, sign the cheque with +a hand trembling, so glad and proud I am. In the days gone by, +I have sometimes given money, but with trembling of another kind; it +was as likely as not that I myself, some black foggy morning, might +have to go begging for my own dire needs. That is one of the bitter +curses of poverty; it leaves no right to be generous. Of my abundance—abundance +to me, though starveling pittance in the view of everyday prosperity—I +can give with happiest freedom; I feel myself a man, and no crouching +slave with his back ever ready for the lash of circumstance. There +are those, I know, who thank the gods amiss, and most easily does this +happen in the matter of wealth. But oh, how good it is to desire +little, and to have a little more than enough!</p> +<h3>IV.</h3> +<p>After two or three days of unseasonable and depressing warmth, with +lowering but not rainy sky, I woke this morning to find the land covered +with a dense mist. There was no daybreak, and, till long after +the due hour, no light save a pale, sad glimmer at the window; now, +at mid-day, I begin dimly to descry gaunt shapes of trees, whilst a +haunting drip, drip on the garden soil tells me that the vapour has +begun to condense, and will pass in rain. But for my fire, I should +be in indifferent spirits on such a day as this; the flame sings and +leaps, and its red beauty is reflected in the window-glass. I +cannot give my thoughts to reading; if I sat unoccupied, they would +brood with melancholy fixedness on I know not what. Better to +betake myself to the old mechanic exercise of the pen, which cheats +my sense of time wasted.</p> +<p>I think of fogs in London, fogs of murky yellow or of sheer black, +such as have often made all work impossible to me, and held me, a sort +of dyspeptic owl, in moping and blinking idleness. On such a day, +I remember, I once found myself at an end both of coal and of lamp-oil, +with no money to purchase either; all I could do was to go to bed, meaning +to lie there till the sky once more became visible. But a second +day found the fog dense as ever. I rose in darkness; I stood at +the window of my garret, and saw that the street was illumined as at +night, lamps and shop-fronts perfectly visible, with folk going about +their business. The fog, in fact, had risen, but still hung above +the house-tops, impermeable by any heavenly beam. My solitude +being no longer endurable, I went out, and walked the town for hours. +When I returned, it was with a few coins which permitted me to buy warmth +and light. I had sold to a second-hand bookseller a volume which +I prized, and was so much the poorer for the money in my pocket.</p> +<p>Years after that, I recall another black morning. As usual +at such times, I was suffering from a bad cold. After a sleepless +night, I fell into a torpor, which held me unconscious for an hour or +two. Hideous cries aroused me; sitting up in the dark, I heard +men going along the street, roaring news of a hanging that had just +taken place. “Execution of Mrs.”—I forget the +name of the murderess. “Scene on the scaffold!” +It was a little after nine o’clock; the enterprising paper had +promptly got out its gibbet edition. A morning of midwinter, roofs +and ways covered with soot-grimed snow under the ghastly fog-pall; and, +whilst I lay there in my bed, that woman had been led out and hanged—hanged. +I thought with horror of the possibility that I might sicken and die +in that wilderness of houses, nothing above me but “a foul and +pestilent congregation of vapours.” Overcome with dread, +I rose and bestirred myself. Blinds drawn, lamp lit, and by a +blazing fire, I tried to make believe that it was kindly night.</p> +<h3>V.</h3> +<p>Walking along the road after nightfall, I thought all at once of +London streets, and, by a freak of mind, wished I were there. +I saw the shining of shop-fronts, the yellow glistening of a wet pavement, +the hurrying people, the cabs, the omnibuses—and I wished I were +amid it all.</p> +<p>What did it mean, but that I wished I were young again? Not +seldom I have a sudden vision of a London street, perhaps the dreariest +and ugliest, which for a moment gives me a feeling of home-sickness. +Often it is the High Street of Islington, which I have not seen for +a quarter of a century, at least; no thoroughfare in all London less +attractive to the imagination, one would say; but I see myself walking +there—walking with the quick, light step of youth, and there, +of course, is the charm. I see myself, after a long day of work +and loneliness, setting forth from my lodging. For the weather +I care nothing; rain, wind, fog—what does it matter! The +fresh air fills my lungs; my blood circles rapidly; I feel my muscles, +and have a pleasure in the hardness of the stone I tread upon. +Perhaps I have money in my pocket; I am going to the theatre, and, afterwards, +I shall treat myself to supper—sausage and mashed potatoes, with +a pint of foaming ale. The gusto with which I look forward to +each and every enjoyment! At the pit-door, I shall roll and hustle +amid the throng, and find it amusing. Nothing tires me. +Late at night, I shall walk all the way back to Islington, most likely +singing as I go. Not because I am happy—nay, I am anything +but that; but my age is something and twenty; I am strong and well.</p> +<p>Put me in a London street this chill, damp night, and I should be +lost in barren discomfort. But in those old days, if I am not +mistaken, I rather preferred the seasons of bad weather; I had, in fact, +the true instinct of townsfolk, which finds pleasure in the triumph +of artificial circumstance over natural conditions, delighting in a +glare and tumult of busy life under hostile heavens which, elsewhere, +would mean shivering ill-content. The theatre, at such a time, +is doubly warm and bright; every shop is a happy harbour of refuge—there, +behind the counter, stand persons quite at their ease, ready to chat +as they serve you; the supper bars make tempting display under their +many gas-jets; the public houses are full of people who all have money +to spend. Then clangs out the piano-organ—and what could +be cheerier!</p> +<p>I have much ado to believe that I really felt so. But then, +if life had not somehow made itself tolerable to me, how should I have +lived through those many years? Human creatures have a marvellous +power of adapting themselves to necessity. Were I, even now, thrown +back into squalid London, with no choice but to abide and work there—should +I not abide and work? Notwithstanding thoughts of the chemist’s +shop, I suppose I should.</p> +<h3>VI.</h3> +<p>One of the shining moments of my day is that when, having returned +a little weary from an afternoon walk, I exchange boots for slippers, +out-of-doors coat for easy, familiar, shabby jacket, and, in my deep, +soft-elbowed chair, await the tea-tray. Perhaps it is while drinking +tea that I most of all enjoy the sense of leisure. In days gone +by, I could but gulp down the refreshment, hurried, often harassed, +by the thought of the work I had before me; often I was quite insensible +of the aroma, the flavour, of what I drank. Now, how delicious +is the soft yet penetrating odour which floats into my study, with the +appearance of the teapot! What solace in the first cup, what deliberate +sipping of that which follows! What a glow does it bring after +a walk in chilly rain! The while, I look around at my books and +pictures, tasting the happiness of their tranquil possession. +I cast an eye towards my pipe; perhaps I prepare it, with seeming thoughtfulness, +for the reception of tobacco. And never, surely, is tobacco more +soothing, more suggestive of humane thoughts, than when it comes just +after tea—itself a bland inspirer.</p> +<p>In nothing is the English genius for domesticity more notably declared +than in the institution of this festival—almost one may call it +so—of afternoon tea. Beneath simple roofs, the hour of tea +has something in it of sacred; for it marks the end of domestic work +and worry, the beginning of restful, sociable evening. The mere +chink of cups and saucers tunes the mind to happy repose. I care +nothing for your five o’clock tea of modish drawing-rooms, idle +and wearisome like all else in which that world has part; I speak of +tea where one is at home in quite another than the worldly sense. +To admit mere strangers to your tea-table is profanation; on the other +hand, English hospitality has here its kindliest aspect; never is friend +more welcome than when he drops in for a cup of tea. Where tea +is really a meal, with nothing between it and nine o’clock supper, +it is—again in the true sense—the <i>homeliest</i> meal +of the day. Is it believable that the Chinese, in who knows how +many centuries, have derived from tea a millionth part of the pleasure +or the good which it has brought to England in the past one hundred +years?</p> +<p>I like to look at my housekeeper when she carries in the tray. +Her mien is festal, yet in her smile there is a certain gravity, as +though she performed an office which honoured her. She has dressed +for the evening; that is to say, her clean and seemly attire of working +hours is exchanged for garments suitable to fireside leisure; her cheeks +are warm, for she has been making fragrant toast. Quickly her +eye glances about my room, but only to have the pleasure of noting that +all is in order; inconceivable that anything serious should need doing +at this hour of the day. She brings the little table within the +glow of the hearth, so that I can help myself without changing my easy +position. If she speaks, it will only be a pleasant word or two; +should she have anything important to say, the moment will be <i>after</i> +tea, not before it; this she knows by instinct. Perchance she +may just stoop to sweep back a cinder which has fallen since, in my +absence, she looked after the fire; it is done quickly and silently. +Then, still smiling, she withdraws, and I know that she is going to +enjoy her own tea, her own toast, in the warm, comfortable, sweet-smelling +kitchen.</p> +<h3>VII.</h3> +<p>One has heard much condemnation of the English kitchen. Our +typical cook is spoken of as a gross, unimaginative creature, capable +only of roasting or seething. Our table is said to be such as +would weary or revolt any but gobbet-bolting carnivores. We are +told that our bread is the worst in Europe, an indigestible paste; that +our vegetables are diet rather for the hungry animal than for discriminative +man; that our warm beverages, called coffee and tea, are so carelessly +or ignorantly brewed that they preserve no simple virtue of the drink +as it is known in other lands. To be sure, there is no lack of +evidence to explain such censure. The class which provides our +servants is undeniably coarse and stupid, and its handiwork of every +kind too often bears the native stamp. For all that, English victuals +are, in quality, the best in the world, and English cookery is the wholesomest +and the most appetizing known to any temperate clime.</p> +<p>As in so many other of our good points, we have achieved this thing +unconsciously. Your ordinary Englishwoman engaged in cooking probably +has no other thought than to make the food masticable; but reflect on +the results, when the thing is well done, and there appears a culinary +principle. Nothing could be simpler, yet nothing more right and +reasonable. The aim of English cooking is so to deal with the +raw material of man’s nourishment as to bring out, for the healthy +palate, all its natural juices and savours. And in this, when +the cook has any measure of natural or acquired skill, we most notably +succeed. Our beef is veritably beef; at its best, such beef as +can be eaten in no other country under the sun; our mutton is mutton +in its purest essence—think of a shoulder of Southdown at the +moment when the first jet of gravy starts under the carving knife! +Each of our vegetables yields its separate and characteristic sweetness. +It never occurs to us to disguise the genuine flavour of food; if such +a process be necessary, then something is wrong with the food itself. +Some wiseacre scoffed at us as the people with only one sauce. +The fact is, we have as many sauces as we have kinds of meat; each, +in the process of cookery, yields its native sap, and this is the best +of all sauces conceivable. Only English folk know what is meant +by <i>gravy</i>; consequently, the English alone are competent to speak +on the question of sauce.</p> +<p>To be sure, this culinary principle presupposes food of the finest +quality. If your beef and your mutton have flavours scarcely distinguishable, +whilst both this and that might conceivably be veal, you will go to +work in quite a different way; your object must then be to disguise, +to counterfeit, to add an alien relish—in short, to do anything +<i>except</i> insist upon the natural quality of the viand. Happily, +the English have never been driven to these expedients. Be it +flesh, fowl, or fish, each comes to table so distinctly and eminently +itself that by no possibility could it be confused with anything else. +Give your average cook a bit of cod, and tell her to dress it in her +own way. The good creature will carefully boil it, and there an +end of the matter; and by no exercise of art could she have so treated +the fish as to make more manifest and enjoyable that special savour +which heaven has bestowed upon cod. Think of our array of joints; +how royal is each in its own way, and how utterly unlike any of the +others. Picture a boiled leg of mutton. It is mutton, yes, +and mutton of the best; nature has bestowed upon man no sweeter morsel; +but the same joint roasted is mutton too, and how divinely different! +The point is that these differences are natural; that, in eliciting +them, we obey the eternal law of things, and no human caprice. +Your artificial relish is here not only needless, but offensive.</p> +<p>In the case of veal, we demand “stuffing.” Yes, +for veal is a somewhat insipid meat, and by experience we have discovered +the best method of throwing into relief such inherent goodness as it +has. The stuffing does not disguise, nor seek to disguise; it +accentuates. Good veal stuffing—reflect!—is in itself +a triumph of culinary instinct; so bland it is, and yet so powerful +upon the gastric juices.</p> +<p>Did I call veal insipid? I must add that it is only so in comparison +with English beef and mutton. When I think of the “brown” +on the edge of a really fine cut of veal—!</p> +<h3>VIII.</h3> +<p>As so often when my thought has gone forth in praise of things English, +I find myself tormented by an after-thought—the reflection that +I have praised a time gone by. Now, in this matter of English +meat. A newspaper tells me that English beef is non-existent; +that the best meat bearing that name has merely been fed up in England +for a short time before killing. Well, well; we can only be thankful +that the quality is still so good. Real English mutton still exists, +I suppose. It would surprise me if any other country could produce +the shoulder I had yesterday.</p> +<p>Who knows? Perhaps even our own cookery has seen its best days. +It is a lamentable fact that the multitude of English people nowadays +never taste roasted meat; what they call by that name is baked in the +oven—a totally different thing, though it may, I admit, be inferior +only to the right roast. Oh, the sirloin of old times, the sirloin +which I can remember, thirty or forty years ago! That was English, +and no mistake, and all the history of civilization could show nothing +on the table of mankind to equal it. To clap that joint into a +steamy oven would have been a crime unpardonable by gods and man. +Have I not with my own eyes seen it turning, turning on the spit? +The scent it diffused was in itself a cure for dyspepsia.</p> +<p>It is very long since I tasted a slice of boiled beef; I have a suspicion +that the thing is becoming rare. In a household such as mine, +the “round” is impracticable; of necessity it must be large, +altogether too large for our requirements. But what exquisite +memories does my mind preserve! The very colouring of a round, +how rich it is, yet how delicate, and how subtly varied! The odour +is totally distinct from that of roast beef, and yet it is beef incontestable. +Hot, of course with carrots, it is a dish for a king; but cold it is +nobler. Oh, the thin broad slice, with just its fringe of consistent +fat!</p> +<p>We are sparing of condiments, but such as we use are the best that +man has invented. And we know <i>how</i> to use them. I +have heard an impatient innovator scoff at the English law on the subject +of mustard, and demand why, in the nature of things, mustard should +not be eaten with mutton. The answer is very simple; this law +has been made by the English palate—which is impeccable. +I maintain it is impeccable! Your educated Englishman is an infallible +guide in all that relates to the table. “The man of superior +intellect,” said Tennyson—justifying his love of boiled +beef and new potatoes—“knows what is good to eat”; +and I would extend it to all civilized natives of our country. +We are content with nothing but the finest savours, the truest combinations; +our wealth, and happy natural circumstances, have allowed us an education +of the palate of which our natural aptitude was worthy. Think, +by the bye, of those new potatoes, just mentioned. Our cook, when +dressing them, puts into the saucepan a sprig of mint. This is +genius. No otherwise could the flavour of the vegetable be so +perfectly, yet so delicately, emphasized. The mint is there, and +we know it; yet our palate knows only the young potato.</p> +<h3>IX.</h3> +<p>There is to me an odd pathos in the literature of vegetarianism. +I remember the day when I read these periodicals and pamphlets with +all the zest of hunger and poverty, vigorously seeking to persuade myself +that flesh was an altogether superfluous, and even a repulsive, food. +If ever such things fall under my eyes nowadays, I am touched with a +half humorous compassion for the people whose necessity, not their will, +consents to this chemical view of diet. There comes before me +a vision of certain vegetarian restaurants, where, at a minim outlay, +I have often enough made believe to satisfy my craving stomach; where +I have swallowed “savoury cutlet,” “vegetable steak,” +and I know not what windy insufficiencies tricked up under specious +names. One place do I recall where you had a complete dinner for +sixpence—I dare not try to remember the items. But well +indeed do I see the faces of the guests—poor clerks and shopboys, +bloodless girls and women of many sorts—all endeavouring to find +a relish in lentil soup and haricot something-or-other. It was +a grotesquely heart-breaking sight.</p> +<p>I hate with a bitter hatred the names of lentils and haricots—those +pretentious cheats of the appetite, those tabulated humbugs, those certificated +aridities calling themselves human food! An ounce of either, we +are told, is equivalent to—how many pounds?—of the best +rump-steak. There are not many ounces of common sense in the brain +of him who proves it, or of him who believes it. In some countries, +this stuff is eaten by choice; in England only dire need can compel +to its consumption. Lentils and haricots are not merely insipid; +frequent use of them causes something like nausea. Preach and +tabulate as you will, the English palate—which is the supreme +judge—rejects this farinaceous makeshift. Even as it rejects +vegetables without the natural concomitant of meat; as it rejects oatmeal-porridge +and griddle-cakes for a mid-day meal; as it rejects lemonade and ginger-ale +offered as substitutes for honest beer.</p> +<p>What is the intellectual and moral state of that man who really believes +that chemical analysis can be an equivalent for natural gusto?—I +will get more nourishment out of an inch of right Cambridge sausage; +aye, out of a couple of ounces of honest tripe; than can be yielded +me by half a hundredweight of the best lentils ever grown.</p> +<h3>X.</h3> +<p>Talking of vegetables, can the inhabited globe offer anything to +vie with the English potato justly steamed? I do not say that +it is always—or often—to be seen on our tables, for the +steaming of a potato is one of the great achievements of culinary art; +but, when it <i>is</i> set before you, how flesh and spirit exult! +A modest palate will find more than simple comfort in your boiled potato +of every day, as served in the decent household. New or old, it +is beyond challenge delectable. Try to think that civilized nations +exist to whom this food is unknown—nay, who speak of it, on hearsay, +with contempt! Such critics, little as they suspect it, never +ate a potato in their lives. What they have swallowed under that +name was the vegetable with all its exquisite characteristics vulgarized +or destroyed. Picture the “ball of flour” (as old-fashioned +housewives call it) lying in the dish, diffusing the softest, subtlest +aroma, ready to crumble, all but to melt, as soon as it is touched; +recall its gust and its after-gust, blending so consummately with that +of the joint, hot or cold. Then think of the same potato cooked +in any other way, and what sadness will come upon you!</p> +<h3>XI.</h3> +<p>It angers me to pass a grocer’s shop, and see in the window +a display of foreign butter. This is the kind of thing that makes +one gloom over the prospects of England. The deterioration of +English butter is one of the worst signs of the moral state of our people. +Naturally, this article of food would at once betray a decline in the +virtues of its maker; butter must be a subject of the dairyman’s +honest pride, or there is no hope of its goodness. Begin to save +your labour, to aim at dishonest profits, to feel disgust or contempt +for your work—and the churn declares every one of these vices. +They must be very prevalent, for it is getting to be a rare thing to +eat English butter which is even tolerable. What! England +dependent for dairy-produce upon France, Denmark, America? Had +we but one true statesman—but one genuine leader of the people—the +ears of English landowners and farmers would ring and tingle with this +proof of their imbecility.</p> +<p>Nobody cares. Who cares for anything but the show and bluster +which are threatening our ruin? English food, not long ago the +best in the world, is falling off in quality, and even our national +genius for cooking shows a decline; to anyone who knows England, these +are facts significant enough. Foolish persons have prated about +“our insular cuisine,” demanding its reform on Continental +models, and they have found too many like unto themselves who were ready +to listen; the result will be, before long, that our excellence will +be forgotten, and paltry methods be universally introduced, together +with the indifferent viands to which they are suited. Yet, if +any generality at all be true, it is a plain fact that English diet +and English virtue—in the largest sense of the word—are +inseparably bound together.</p> +<p>Our supremacy in this matter of the table came with little taking +of thought; what we should now do is to reflect upon the things which +used to be instinctive, perceive the reasons of our excellence, and +set to work to re-establish it. Of course the vilest cooking in +the kingdom is found in London; is it not with the exorbitant growth +of London that many an ill has spread over the land? London is +the antithesis of the domestic ideal; a social reformer would not even +glance in that direction, but would turn all his zeal upon small towns +and country districts, where blight may perhaps be arrested, and whence, +some day, a reconstituted national life may act upon the great centre +of corruption. I had far rather see England covered with schools +of cookery than with schools of the ordinary kind; the issue would be +infinitely more hopeful. Little girls should be taught cooking +and baking more assiduously than they are taught to read. But +with ever in view the great English principle—that food is only +cooked aright when it yields the utmost of its native and characteristic +savour. Let sauces be utterly forbidden—save the natural +sauce made of gravy. In the same way with sweets; keep in view +the insurpassable English ideals of baked tarts (or pies, if so you +call them), and boiled puddings; as they are the wholesomest, so are +they the most delicious of sweet cakes yet invented; it is merely a +question of having them well made and cooked. Bread, again; we +are getting used to bread of poor quality, and ill-made, but the English +loaf at its best—such as you were once sure of getting in every +village—is the faultless form of the staff of life. Think +of the glorious revolution that could be wrought in our troubled England +if it could be ordained that no maid, of whatever rank, might become +a wife unless she had proved her ability to make and bake a perfect +loaf of bread.</p> +<h3>XII.</h3> +<p>The good S--- writes me a kindly letter. He is troubled by +the thought of my loneliness. That I should choose to live in +such a place as this through the summer, he can understand; but surely +I should do better to come to town for the winter? How on earth +do I spend the dark days and the long evenings?</p> +<p>I chuckle over the good S---’s sympathy. Dark days are +few in happy Devon, and such as befall have never brought me a moment’s +tedium. The long, wild winter of the north would try my spirits; +but here, the season that follows autumn is merely one of rest, Nature’s +annual slumber. And I share in the restful influence. Often +enough I pass an hour in mere drowsing by the fireside; frequently I +let my book drop, satisfied to muse. But more often than not the +winter day is blest with sunshine—the soft beam which is Nature’s +smile in dreaming. I go forth, and wander far. It pleases +me to note changes of landscape when the leaves have fallen; I see streams +and ponds which during summer were hidden; my favourite lanes have an +unfamiliar aspect, and I become better acquainted with them. Then, +there is a rare beauty in the structure of trees ungarmented; and if +perchance snow or frost have silvered their tracery against the sober +sky, it becomes a marvel which never tires.</p> +<p>Day by day I look at the coral buds on the lime-tree. Something +of regret will mingle with my joy when they begin to break.</p> +<p>In the middle years of my life—those years that were the worst +of all—I used to dread the sound of a winter storm which woke +me in the night. Wind and rain lashing the house filled me with +miserable memories and apprehensions; I lay thinking of the savage struggle +of man with man, and often saw before me no better fate than to be trampled +down into the mud of life. The wind’s wail seemed to me +the voice of a world in anguish; rain was the weeping of the feeble +and the oppressed. But nowadays I can lie and listen to a night-storm +with no intolerable thoughts; at worst, I fall into a compassionate +sadness as I remember those I loved and whom I shall see no more. +For myself, there is even comfort in the roaring dark; for I feel the +strength of the good walls about me, and my safety from squalid peril +such as pursued me through all my labouring life. “Blow, +blow, thou winter wind!” Thou canst not blow away the modest +wealth which makes my security. Nor can any “rain upon the +roof” put my soul to question; for life has given me all I ever +asked—infinitely more than I ever hoped—and in no corner +of my mind does there lurk a coward fear of death.</p> +<h3>XIII.</h3> +<p>If some stranger from abroad asked me to point out to him the most +noteworthy things in England, I should first of all consider his intellect. +Were he a man of everyday level, I might indicate for his wonder and +admiration Greater London, the Black Country, South Lancashire, and +other features of our civilization which, despite eager rivalry, still +maintain our modern pre-eminence in the creation of ugliness. +If, on the other hand, he seemed a man of brains, it would be my pleasure +to take him to one of those old villages, in the midlands or the west, +which lie at some distance from a railway station, and in aspect are +still untouched by the baser tendencies of the time. Here, I would +tell my traveller, he saw something which England alone can show. +The simple beauty of the architecture, its perfect adaptation to the +natural surroundings, the neatness of everything though without formality, +the general cleanness and good repair, the grace of cottage gardens, +that tranquillity and security which make a music in the mind of him +who gazes—these are what a man must see and feel if he would appreciate +the worth and the power of England. The people which has made +for itself such homes as these is distinguished, above all things, by +its love of order; it has understood, as no other people, the truth +that “order is heaven’s first law.” With order +it is natural to find stability, and the combination of these qualities, +as seen in domestic life, results in that peculiarly English product, +our name for which—though but a pale shadow of the thing itself—has +been borrowed by other countries: comfort.</p> +<p>Then Englishman’s need of “comfort” is one of his +best characteristics; the possibility that he may change in this respect, +and become indifferent to his old ideal of physical and mental ease, +is the gravest danger manifest in our day. For “comfort,” +mind you, does not concern the body alone; the beauty and orderliness +of an Englishman’s home derive their value, nay, their very existence, +from the spirit which directs his whole life. Walk from the village +to the noble’s mansion. It, too, is perfect of its kind; +it has the dignity of age, its walls are beautiful, the gardens, the +park about it are such as can be found only in England, lovely beyond +compare; and all this represents the same moral characteristics as the +English cottage, but with greater activities and responsibilities. +If the noble grow tired of his mansion, and, letting it to some crude +owner of millions, go to live in hotels and hired villas; if the cottager +sicken of his village roof, and transport himself to the sixth floor +of a “block” in Shoreditch; one sees but too well that the +one and the other have lost the old English sense of comfort, and, in +losing it, have suffered degradation alike as men and as citizens. +It is not a question of exchanging one form of comfort for another; +the instinct which made an Englishman has in these cases perished. +Perhaps it is perishing from among us altogether, killed by new social +and political conditions; one who looks at villages of the new type, +at the working-class quarters of towns, at the rising of “flats” +among the dwellings of the wealthy, has little choice but to think so. +There may soon come a day when, though the word “comfort” +continues to be used in many languages, the thing it signifies will +be discoverable nowhere at all.</p> +<h3>XIV.</h3> +<p>If the ingenious foreigner found himself in some village of manufacturing +Lancashire, he would be otherwise impressed. Here something of +the power of England might be revealed to him, but of England’s +worth, little enough. Hard ugliness would everywhere assail his +eyes; the visages and voices of the people would seem to him thoroughly +akin to their surroundings. Scarcely could one find, in any civilized +nation, a more notable contrast than that between these two English +villages and their inhabitants.</p> +<p>Yet Lancashire is English, and there among the mill chimneys, in +the hideous little street, folk are living whose domestic thoughts claim +undeniable kindred with those of the villagers of the kinder south. +But to understand how “comfort,” and the virtues it implies, +can exist amid such conditions, one must penetrate to the hearthside; +the door must be shut, the curtain drawn; here “home” does +not extend beyond the threshold. After all, this grimy row of +houses, ugliest that man ever conceived, is more representative of England +to-day than the lovely village among the trees and meadows. More +than a hundred years ago, power passed from the south of England to +the north. The vigorous race on the other side of Trent only found +its opportunity when the age of machinery began; its civilization, long +delayed, differs in obvious respects from that of older England. +In Sussex or in Somerset, however dull and clownish the typical inhabitant, +he plainly belongs to an ancient order of things, represents an immemorial +subordination. The rude man of the north is—by comparison—but +just emerged from barbarism, and under any circumstances would show +less smooth a front. By great misfortune, he has fallen under +the harshest lordship the modern world has known—that of scientific +industrialism, and all his vigorous qualities are subdued to a scheme +of life based upon the harsh, the ugly, the sordid. His racial +heritage, of course, marks him to the eye; even as ploughman or shepherd, +he differs notably from him of the same calling in the weald or on the +downs. But the frank brutality of the man in all externals has +been encouraged, rather than mitigated, by the course his civilization +has taken, and hence it is that, unless one knows him well enough to +respect him, he seems even yet stamped with the half-savagery of his +folk as they were a century and a half ago. His fierce shyness, +his arrogant self-regard, are notes of a primitive state. Naturally, +he never learnt to house himself as did the Southerner, for climate, +as well as social circumstance, was unfavourable to all the graces of +life. And now one can only watch the encroachment of his rule +upon that old, that true England whose strength and virtue were so differently +manifested. This fair broad land of the lovely villages signifies +little save to the antiquary, the poet, the painter. Vainly, indeed, +should I show its beauty and its peace to the observant foreigner; he +would but smile, and, with a glance at the traction-engine just coming +along the road, indicate the direction of his thoughts.</p> +<h3>XV.</h3> +<p>Nothing in all Homer pleases me more than the bedstead of Odysseus. +I have tried to turn the passage describing it into English verse, thus:—</p> +<blockquote><p>Here in my garth a goodly olive grew;<br /> +Thick was the noble leafage of its prime,<br /> +And like a carven column rose the trunk.<br /> +This tree about I built my chamber walls,<br /> +Laying great stone on stone, and roofed them well,<br /> +And in the portal set a comely door,<br /> +Stout-hinged and tightly closing. Then with axe<br /> +I lopped the leafy olive’s branching head,<br /> +And hewed the bole to four-square shapeliness,<br /> +And smoothed it, craftsmanlike, and grooved and pierced,<br /> +Making the rooted timber, where it grew,<br /> +A corner of my couch. Labouring on,<br /> +I fashioned all the bed-frame; which complete,<br /> +The wood I overlaid with shining gear<br /> +Of gold, of silver, and of ivory.<br /> +And last, between the endlong beams I stretched<br /> +Stout thongs of ox-hide, dipped in purple dye.</p> +<p><i>Odyssey</i>, xxiii. 190-201.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Did anyone ever imitate the admirable precedent? Were I a young +man, and an owner of land, assuredly I would do so. Choose some +goodly tree, straight-soaring; cut away head and branches; leave just +the clean trunk and build your house about it in such manner that the +top of the rooted timber rises a couple of feet above your bedroom floor. +The trunk need not be manifest in the lower part of the house, but I +should prefer to have it so; I am a tree-worshipper; it should be as +the visible presence of a household god. And how could one more +nobly symbolize the sacredness of Home? There can be no home without +the sense of permanence, and without home there is no civilization—as +England will discover when the greater part of her population have become +flat-inhabiting nomads. In some ideal commonwealth, one can imagine +the Odyssean bed a normal institution, every head of a household, cottager +or lord (for the commonwealth must have its lords, go to!), lying down +to rest, as did his fathers, in the Chamber of the Tree. This, +one fancies, were a somewhat more fitting nuptial chamber than the chance +bedroom of a hotel. Odysseus building his home is man performing +a supreme act of piety; through all the ages that picture must retain +its profound significance. Note the tree he chose, the olive, +sacred to Athena, emblem of peace. When he and the wise goddess +meet together to scheme destruction of the princes, they sit ιερης +παρα πυθμεν ελαιης. +Their talk is of bloodshed, true; but in punishment of those who have +outraged the sanctity of the hearth, and to re-establish, after purification, +domestic calm and security. It is one of the dreary aspects of +modern life that natural symbolism has all but perished. We have +no consecrated tree. The oak once held a place in English hearts, +but who now reveres it?—our trust is in gods of iron. Money +is made at Christmas out of holly and mistletoe, but who save the vendors +would greatly care if no green branch were procurable? One symbol, +indeed, has obscured all others—the minted round of metal. +And one may safely say that, of all the ages since a coin first became +the symbol of power, ours is that in which it yields to the majority +of its possessors the poorest return in heart’s contentment.</p> +<h3>XVI.</h3> +<p>I have been dull to-day, haunted by the thought of how much there +is that I would fain know, and how little I can hope to learn. +The scope of knowledge has become so vast. I put aside nearly +all physical investigation; to me it is naught, or only, at moments, +a matter of idle curiosity. This would seem to be a considerable +clearing of the field; but it leaves what is practically the infinite. +To run over a list of only my favourite subjects, those to which, all +my life long, I have more or less applied myself, studies which hold +in my mind the place of hobbies, is to open vistas of intellectual despair. +In an old note-book I jotted down such a list—“things I +hope to know, and to know well.” I was then four and twenty. +Reading it with the eyes of fifty-four, I must needs laugh. There +appear such modest items as “The history of the Christian Church +up to the Reformation”—“all Greek poetry”—“The +field of Mediaeval Romance”—“German literature from +Lessing to Heine”—“Dante!” Not one of +these shall I ever “know, and know well”; not any one of +them. Yet here I am buying books which lead me into endless paths +of new temptation. What have I to do with Egypt? Yet I have +been beguiled by Flinders Petrie and by Maspéro. How can +I pretend to meddle with the ancient geography of Asia Minor? +Yet here have I bought Prof. Ramsay’s astonishing book, and have +even read with a sort of troubled enjoyment a good many pages of it; +troubled, because I have but to reflect a moment, and I see that all +this kind of thing is mere futile effort of the intellect when the time +for serious intellectual effort is over.</p> +<p>It all means, of course, that, owing to defective opportunity, owing, +still more perhaps, to lack of method and persistence, a possibility +that was in me has been wasted, lost. My life has been merely +tentative, a broken series of false starts and hopeless new beginnings. +If I allowed myself to indulge that mood, I could revolt against the +ordinance which allows me no second chance. <i>O mihi praeteritos +referat si Jupiter annos</i>! If I could but start again, with +only the experience there gained! I mean, make a new beginning +of my intellectual life; nothing else, O heaven! nothing else. +Even amid poverty, I could do so much better; keeping before my eyes +some definite, some not unattainable, good; sternly dismissing the impracticable, +the wasteful.</p> +<p>And, in doing so, become perhaps an owl-eyed pedant, to whom would +be for ever dead the possibility of such enjoyment as I know in these +final years. Who can say? Perhaps the sole condition of +my progress to this state of mind and heart which make my happiness +was that very stumbling and erring which I so regret.</p> +<h3>XVII.</h3> +<p>Why do I give so much of my time to the reading of history? +Is it in any sense profitable to me? What new light can I hope +for on the nature of man? What new guidance for the direction +of my own life through the few years that may remain to me? But +it is with no such purpose that I read these voluminous books; they +gratify—or seem to gratify—a mere curiosity; and scarcely +have I closed a volume, when the greater part of what I have read in +it is forgotten.</p> +<p>Heaven forbid that I should remember all! Many a time I have +said to myself that I would close the dreadful record of human life, +lay it for ever aside, and try to forget it. Somebody declares +that history is a manifestation of the triumph of good over evil. +The good prevails now and then, no doubt, but how local and transitory +is such triumph. If historic tomes had a voice, it would sound +as one long moan of anguish. Think steadfastly of the past, and +one sees that only by defect of imaginative power can any man endure +to dwell with it. History is a nightmare of horrors; we relish +it, because we love pictures, and because all that man has suffered +is to man rich in interest. But make real to yourself the vision +of every blood-stained page—stand in the presence of the ravening +conqueror, the savage tyrant—tread the stones of the dungeon and +of the torture-room—feel the fire of the stake—hear the +cries of that multitude which no man can number, the victims of calamity, +of oppression, of fierce injustice in its myriad forms, in every land, +in every age—and what joy have you of your historic reading? +One would need to be a devil to understand it thus, and yet to delight +in it.</p> +<p>Injustice—there is the loathed crime which curses the memory +of the world. The slave doomed by his lord’s caprice to +perish under tortures—one feels it a dreadful and intolerable +thing; but it is merely the crude presentment of what has been done +and endured a million times in every stage of civilization. Oh, +the last thoughts of those who have agonized unto death amid wrongs +to which no man would give ear! That appeal of innocence in anguish +to the hard, mute heavens! Were there only one such instance in +all the chronicles of time, it should doom the past to abhorred oblivion. +Yet injustice, the basest, the most ferocious, is inextricable from +warp and woof in the tissue of things gone by. And if anyone soothes +himself with the reflection that such outrages can happen no more, that +mankind has passed beyond such hideous possibility, he is better acquainted +with books than with human nature.</p> +<p>It were wiser to spend my hours with the books which bring no aftertaste +of bitterness—with the great poets whom I love, with the thinkers, +with the gentle writers of pages that soothe and tranquillize. +Many a volume regards me from the shelf as though reproachfully; shall +I never again take it in my hands? Yet the words are golden, and +I would fain treasure them all in my heart’s memory. Perhaps +the last fault of which I shall cure myself is that habit of mind which +urges me to seek knowledge. Was I not yesterday on the point of +ordering a huge work of erudition, which I should certainly never have +read through, and which would only have served to waste precious days? +It is the Puritan in my blood, I suppose, which forbids me to recognise +frankly that all I have now to do is to <i>enjoy</i>. This is +wisdom. The time for acquisition has gone by. I am not foolish +enough to set myself learning a new language; why should I try to store +my memory with useless knowledge of the past?</p> +<p>Come, once more before I die I will read <i>Don Quixote</i>.</p> +<h3>XVIII.</h3> +<p>Somebody has been making a speech, reported at a couple of columns’ +length in the paper. As I glance down the waste of print, one +word catches my eye again and again. It’s all about “science”—and +therefore doesn’t concern me.</p> +<p>I wonder whether there are many men who have the same feeling with +regard to “science” as I have? It is something more +than a prejudice; often it takes the form of a dread, almost a terror. +Even those branches of science which are concerned with things that +interest me—which deal with plants and animals and the heaven +of stars—even these I cannot contemplate without uneasiness, a +spiritual disaffection; new discoveries, new theories, however they +engage my intelligence, soon weary me, and in some way depress. +When it comes to other kinds of science—the sciences blatant and +ubiquitous—the science by which men become millionaires—I +am possessed with an angry hostility, a resentful apprehension. +This was born in me, no doubt; I cannot trace it to circumstances of +my life, or to any particular moment of my mental growth. My boyish +delight in Carlyle doubtless nourished the temper, but did not Carlyle +so delight me because of what was already in my mind? I remember, +as a lad, looking at complicated machinery with a shrinking uneasiness +which, of course, I did not understand; I remember the sort of disturbed +contemptuousness with which, in my time of “examinations,” +I dismissed “science papers.” It is intelligible enough +to me, now, that unformed fear: the ground of my antipathy has grown +clear enough. I hate and fear “science” because of +my conviction that, for long to come if not for ever, it will be the +remorseless enemy of mankind. I see it destroying all simplicity +and gentleness of life, all the beauty of the world; I see it restoring +barbarism under a mask of civilization; I see it darkening men’s +minds and hardening their hearts; I see it bringing a time of vast conflicts, +which will pale into insignificance “the thousand wars of old,” +and, as likely as not, will whelm all the laborious advances of mankind +in blood-drenched chaos.</p> +<p>Yet to rail against it is as idle as to quarrel with any other force +of nature. For myself, I can hold apart, and see as little as +possible of the thing I deem accursed. But I think of some who +are dear to me, whose life will be lived in the hard and fierce new +age. The roaring “Jubilee” of last summer was for +me an occasion of sadness; it meant that so much was over and gone—so +much of good and noble, the like of which the world will not see again, +and that a new time of which only the perils are clearly visible, is +rushing upon us. Oh, the generous hopes and aspirations of forty +years ago! Science, then, was seen as the deliverer; only a few +could prophesy its tyranny, could foresee that it would revive old evils +and trample on the promises of its beginning. This is the course +of things; we must accept it. But it is some comfort to me that +I—poor little mortal—have had no part in bringing the tyrant +to his throne.</p> +<h3>XIX.</h3> +<p>The Christmas bells drew me forth this morning. With but half-formed +purpose, I walked through soft, hazy sunshine towards the city, and +came into the Cathedral Close, and, after lingering awhile, heard the +first notes of the organ, and so entered. I believe it is more +than thirty years since I was in an English church on Christmas Day. +The old time and the old faces lived again for me; I saw myself on the +far side of the abyss of years—that self which is not myself at +all, though I mark points of kindred between the beings of then and +now. He who in that other world sat to hear the Christmas gospel, +either heeded it not at all—rapt in his own visions—or listened +only as one in whose blood was heresy. He loved the notes of the +organ, but, even in his childish mind, distinguished clearly between +the music and its local motive. More than that, he could separate +the melody of word and of thought from their dogmatic significance, +enjoying the one whilst wholly rejecting the other. “On +earth peace, good-will to men”—already that line was among +the treasures of his intellect, but only, no doubt, because of its rhythm, +its sonority. Life, to him, was a half-conscious striving for +the harmonic in thought and speech—and through what a tumult of +unmelodious circumstance was he beginning to fight his way!</p> +<p>To-day, I listen with no heretical promptings. The music, whether +of organ or of word, is more to me than ever; the literal meaning causes +me no restiveness. I felt only glad that I had yielded to the +summons of the Christmas bells. I sat among a congregation of +shadows, not in the great cathedral, but in a little parish church far +from here. When I came forth, it astonished me to see the softly +radiant sky, and to tread on the moist earth; my dream expected a wind-swept +canopy of cold grey, and all beneath it the gleam of new-fallen snow. +It is a piety to turn awhile and live with the dead, and who can so +well indulge it as he whose Christmas is passed in no unhappy solitude? +I would not now, if I might, be one of a joyous company; it is better +to hear the long-silent voices, and to smile at happy things which I +alone can remember. When I was scarce old enough to understand, +I heard read by the fireside the Christmas stanzas of “In Memoriam.” +To-night I have taken down the volume, and the voice of so long ago +has read to me once again—read as no other ever did, that voice +which taught me to know poetry, the voice which never spoke to me but +of good and noble things. Would I have those accents overborne +by a living tongue, however welcome its sound at another time? +Jealously I guard my Christmas solitude.</p> +<h3>XX.</h3> +<p>Is it true that the English are deeply branded with the vice of hypocrisy? +The accusation, of course, dates from the time of the Round-heads; before +that, nothing in the national character could have suggested it. +The England of Chaucer, the England of Shakespeare, assuredly was not +hypocrite. The change wrought by Puritanism introduced into the +life of the people that new element which ever since, more or less notably, +has suggested to the observer a habit of double-dealing in morality +and religion. The scorn of the Cavalier is easily understood; +it created a traditional Cromwell, who, till Carlyle arose, figured +before the world as our arch-dissembler. With the decline of genuine +Puritanism came that peculiarly English manifestation of piety and virtue +which is represented by Mr. Pecksniff—a being so utterly different +from Tartufe, and perhaps impossible to be understood save by Englishmen +themselves. But it is in our own time that the familiar reproach +has been persistently levelled at us. It often sounds upon the +lips of our emancipated youth; it is stereotyped for daily impression +in the offices of Continental newspapers. And for the reason one +has not far to look. When Napoleon called us a “nation of +shop-keepers,” we were nothing of the kind; since his day we have +become so, in the strictest sense of the word; and consider the spectacle +of a flourishing tradesman, anything but scrupulous in his methods of +business, who loses no opportunity of bidding all mankind to regard +him as a religious and moral exemplar. This is the actual show +of things with us; this is the England seen by our bitterest censors. +There is an excuse for those who charge us with “hypocrisy.”</p> +<p>But the word is ill-chosen, and indicates a misconception. +The characteristic of your true hypocrite is the assumption of a virtue +which not only he has not, but which he is incapable of possessing, +and in which he does not believe. The hypocrite may have, most +likely has, (for he is a man of brains,) a conscious rule of life, but +it is never that of the person to whom his hypocrisy is directed. +Tartufe incarnates him once for all. Tartufe is by conviction +an atheist and a sensualist; he despises all who regard life from the +contrasted point of view. But among Englishmen such an attitude +of mind has always been extremely rare; to presume it in our typical +money-maker who has edifying sentiments on his lips is to fall into +a grotesque error of judgment. No doubt that error is committed +by the ordinary foreign journalist, a man who knows less than little +of English civilization. More enlightened critics, if they use +the word at all, do so carelessly; when speaking with more precision, +they call the English “pharisaic”—and come nearer +the truth.</p> +<p>Our vice is self-righteousness. We are essentially an Old Testament +people; Christianity has never entered into our soul we see ourselves +as the Chosen, and by no effort of spiritual aspiration can attain unto +humility. In this there is nothing hypocritic. The blatant +upstart who builds a church, lays out his money in that way not merely +to win social consideration; in his curious little soul he believes +(so far as he can believe anything) that what he has done is pleasing +to God and beneficial to mankind. He may have lied and cheated +for every sovereign he possesses; he may have polluted his life with +uncleanness; he may have perpetrated many kinds of cruelty and baseness—but +all these things has he done against his conscience, and, as soon as +the opportunity comes, he will make atonement for them in the way suggested +by such faith as he has, the way approved by public opinion. His +religion, strictly defined, is <i>an ineradicable belief in his own +religiousness</i>. As an Englishman, he holds as birthright the +true Piety, the true Morals. That he has “gone wrong” +is, alas, undeniable, but never—even when leering most satirically—did +he deny his creed. When, at public dinners and elsewhere, he tuned +his voice to the note of edification, this man did not utter the lie +of the hypocrite he <i>meant every word he said</i>. Uttering +high sentiments, he spoke, not as an individual, but as an Englishman, +and most thoroughly did he believe that all who heard him owed in their +hearts allegiance to the same faith. He is, if you like, a Pharisee—but +do not misunderstand; his Pharisaism has nothing personal. That +would be quite another kind of man; existing, to be sure, in England, +but not as a national type. No; he is a Pharisee in the minor +degree with regard to those of his countrymen who differ from him in +dogma; he is Pharisee absolute with regard to the foreigner. And +there he stands, representing an Empire.</p> +<p>The word hypocrisy is perhaps most of all applied to our behaviour +in matters of sexual morality, and here with specially flagrant misuse. +Multitudes of Englishmen have thrown aside the national religious dogma, +but very few indeed have abandoned the conviction that the rules of +morality publicly upheld in England are the best known in the world. +Any one interested in doing so can but too easily demonstrate that English +social life is no purer than that of most other countries. Scandals +of peculiar grossness, at no long intervals, give rich opportunity to +the scoffer. The streets of our great towns nightly present an +exhibition the like of which cannot be seen elsewhere in the world. +Despite all this, your average Englishman takes for granted his country’s +moral superiority, and loses no chance of proclaiming it at the expense +of other peoples. To call him hypocrite, is simply not to know +the man. He may, for his own part, be gross-minded and lax of +life; that has nothing to do with the matter; <i>he believes in virtue</i>. +Tell him that English morality is mere lip-service, and he will blaze +with as honest anger as man ever felt. He is a monument of self-righteousness, +again not personal but national.</p> +<h4>XXI.</h4> +<p>I make use of the present tense, but am I speaking truly of present +England? Such powerful agencies of change have been at work during +the last thirty years; and it is difficult, nay impossible, to ascertain +in what degree they have affected the national character, thus far. +One notes the obvious: decline of conventional religion, free discussion +of the old moral standards; therewith, a growth of materialism which +favours every anarchic tendency. Is it to be feared that self-righteousness +may be degenerating into the darker vice of true hypocrisy? For +the English to lose belief in themselves—not merely in their potential +goodness, but in their pre-eminence as examples and agents of good—would +mean as hopeless a national corruption as any recorded in history. +To doubt their genuine worship, in the past, of a very high (though +not, of course, the highest) ethical ideal, is impossible for any one +born and bred in England; no less impossible to deny that those who +are rightly deemed “best” among us, the men and women of +gentle or humble birth who are not infected by the evils of the new +spirit, still lead, in a very true sense, “honest, sober, and +godly” lives. Such folk, one knows, were never in a majority, +but of old they had a power which made them veritable representatives +of the English <i>ethos</i>. If they thought highly of themselves, +why, the fact justified them; if they spoke, at times, as Pharisees, +it was a fault of temper which carried with it no grave condemnation. +Hypocrisy was, of all forms of baseness, that which they most abhorred. +So is it still with their descendants. Whether these continue +to speak among us with authority, no man can certainly say. If +their power is lost, and those who talk of English hypocrisy no longer +use the word amiss, we shall soon know it.</p> +<h3>XXII.</h3> +<p>It is time that we gave a second thought to Puritanism. In +the heyday of release from forms which had lost their meaning, it was +natural to look back on that period of our history with eyes that saw +in it nothing but fanatical excess; we approved the picturesque phrase +which showed the English mind going into prison and having the key turned +upon it. Now, when the peril of emancipation becomes as manifest +as was the hardship of restraint, we shall do well to remember all the +good that lay in that stern Puritan discipline, how it renewed the spiritual +vitality of our race, and made for the civic freedom which is our highest +national privilege. An age of intellectual glory is wont to be +paid for in the general decline of that which follows. Imagine +England under Stuart rule, with no faith but the Protestantism of the +Tudor. Imagine (not to think of worse) English literature represented +by Cowley, and the name of Milton unknown. The Puritan came as +the physician; he brought his tonic at the moment when lassitude and +supineness would naturally have followed upon a supreme display of racial +vitality. Regret, if you will, that England turned for her religion +to the books of Israel; this suddenly revealed sympathy of our race +with a fierce Oriental theocracy is perhaps not difficult to explain, +but one cannot help wishing that its piety had taken another form; later, +there had to come the “exodus from Houndsditch,” with how +much conflict and misery! Such, however, was the price of the +soul’s health; we must accept the fact, and be content to see +its better meaning. Health, of course, in speaking of mankind, +is always a relative term. From the point of view of a conceivable +civilization, Puritan England was lamentably ailing; but we must always +ask, not how much better off a people might be, but how much worse. +Of all theological systems, the most convincing is Manicheism, which, +of course, under another name, was held by the Puritans themselves. +What we call Restoration morality—the morality, that is to say, +of a king and court—might well have become that of the nation +at large under a Stuart dynasty safe from religious revolution.</p> +<p>The political services of Puritanism were inestimable; they will +be more feelingly remembered when England has once more to face the +danger of political tyranny. I am thinking now of its effects +upon social life. To it we owe the characteristic which, in some +other countries, is expressed by the term English prudery, the accusation +implied being part of the general charge of hypocrisy. It is said +by observers among ourselves that the prudish habit of mind is dying +out, and this is looked upon as a satisfactory thing, as a sign of healthy +emancipation. If by prude be meant a secretly vicious person who +affects an excessive decorum, by all means let the prude disappear, +even at the cost of some shamelessness. If, on the other hand, +a prude is one who, living a decent life, cultivates, either by bent +or principle, a somewhat extreme delicacy of thought and speech with +regard to elementary facts of human nature, then I say that this is +most emphatically a fault in the right direction, and I have no desire +to see its prevalence diminish. On the whole, it is the latter +meaning which certain foreigners have in mind when they speak of English +prudery—at all events, as exhibited by women; it being, not so +much an imputation on chastity, as a charge of conceited foolishness. +An English woman who typifies the <i>bégueule</i> may be spotless +as snow; but she is presumed to have snow’s other quality, and +at the same time to be a thoroughly absurd and intolerable creature. +Well, here is the point of difference. Fastidiousness of speech +is not a direct outcome of Puritanism, as our literature sufficiently +proves; it is a refinement of civilization following upon absorption +into the national life of all the best things which Puritanism had to +teach. We who know English women by the experience of a lifetime +are well aware that their careful choice of language betokens, far more +often than not, a corresponding delicacy of mind. Landor saw it +as a ridiculous trait that English people were so mealy-mouthed in speaking +of their bodies; De Quincey, taking him to task for this remark, declared +it a proof of blunted sensibility due to long residence in Italy; and, +whether the particular explanation held good or not, as regards the +question at issue, De Quincey was perfectly right. It is very +good to be mealy-mouthed with respect to everything that reminds us +of the animal in man. Verbal delicacy in itself will not prove +an advanced civilization, but civilization, as it advances, assuredly +tends that way.</p> +<h3>XXIII.</h3> +<p>All through the morning, the air was held in an ominous stillness. +Sitting over my books, I seemed to feel the silence; when I turned my +look to the window, I saw nothing but the broad, grey sky, a featureless +expanse, cold, melancholy. Later, just as I was bestirring myself +to go out for an afternoon walk, something white fell softly across +my vision. A few minutes more, and all was hidden with a descending +veil of silent snow.</p> +<p>It is a disappointment. Yesterday I half believed that the +winter drew to its end; the breath of the hills was soft; spaces of +limpid azure shone amid slow-drifting clouds, and seemed the promise +of spring. Idle by the fireside, in the gathering dusk, I began +to long for the days of light and warmth. My fancy wandered, leading +me far and wide in a dream of summer England. . . .</p> +<p>This is the valley of the Blythe. The stream ripples and glances +over its brown bed warmed with sunbeams; by its bank the green flags +wave and rustle, and, all about, the meadows shine in pure gold of buttercups. +The hawthorn hedges are a mass of gleaming blossom, which scents the +breeze. There above rises the heath, yellow-mantled with gorse, +and beyond, if I walk for an hour or two, I shall come out upon the +sandy cliffs of Suffolk, and look over the northern sea. . . .</p> +<p>I am in Wensleydale, climbing from the rocky river that leaps amid +broad pastures up to the rolling moor. Up and up, till my feet +brush through heather, and the grouse whirrs away before me. Under +a glowing sky of summer, this air of the uplands has still a life which +spurs to movement, which makes the heart bound. The dale is hidden; +I see only the brown and purple wilderness, cutting against the blue +with great round shoulders, and, far away to the west, an horizon of +sombre heights. . . .</p> +<p>I ramble through a village in Gloucestershire, a village which seems +forsaken in this drowsy warmth of the afternoon. The houses of +grey stone are old and beautiful, telling of a time when Englishmen +knew how to build whether for rich or poor; the gardens glow with flowers, +and the air is delicately sweet. At the village end, I come into +a lane, which winds upwards between grassy slopes, to turf and bracken +and woods of noble beech. Here I am upon a spur of the Cotswolds, +and before me spreads the wide vale of Evesham, with its ripening crops, +its fruiting orchards, watered by sacred Avon. Beyond, softly +blue, the hills of Malvern. On the branch hard by warbles a little +bird, glad in his leafy solitude. A rabbit jumps through the fern. +There sounds the laugh of a woodpecker from the copse in yonder hollow. +. . .</p> +<p>In the falling of a summer night, I walk by Ullswater. The +sky is still warm with the afterglow of sunset, a dusky crimson smouldering +above the dark mountain line. Below me spreads a long reach of +the lake, steel-grey between its dim colourless shores. In the +profound stillness, the trotting of a horse beyond the water sounds +strangely near; it serves only to make more sensible the repose of Nature +in this her sanctuary. I feel a solitude unutterable, yet nothing +akin to desolation; the heart of the land I love seems to beat in the +silent night gathering around me; amid things eternal, I touch the familiar +and the kindly earth. Moving, I step softly, as though my footfall +were an irreverence. A turn in the road, and there is wafted to +me a faint perfume, that of meadow-sweet. Then I see a light glimmering +in the farmhouse window—a little ray against the blackness of +the great hillside, below which the water sleeps. . . .</p> +<p>A pathway leads me by the winding of the river Ouse. Far on +every side stretches a homely landscape, tilth and pasture, hedgerow +and clustered trees, to where the sky rests upon the gentle hills. +Slow, silent, the river lapses between its daisied banks, its grey-green +osier beds. Yonder is the little town of St. Neots. In all +England no simpler bit of rural scenery; in all the world nothing of +its kind more beautiful. Cattle are lowing amid the rich meadows. +Here one may loiter and dream in utter restfulness, whilst the great +white clouds mirror themselves in the water as they pass above. . . +.</p> +<p>I am walking upon the South Downs. In the valleys, the sun +lies hot, but here sings a breeze which freshens the forehead and fills +the heart with gladness. My foot upon the short, soft turf has +an unwearied lightness; I feel capable of walking on and on, even to +that farthest horizon where the white cloud casts its floating shadow. +Below me, but far off, is the summer sea, still, silent, its ever-changing +blue and green dimmed at the long limit with luminous noontide mist. +Inland spreads the undulant vastness of the sheep-spotted downs, beyond +them the tillage and the woods of Sussex weald, coloured like to the +pure sky above them, but in deeper tint. Near by, all but hidden +among trees in yon lovely hollow, lies an old, old hamlet, its brown +roofs decked with golden lichen; I see the low church-tower, and the +little graveyard about it. Meanwhile, high in the heaven, a lark +is singing. It descends; it drops to its nest, and I could dream +that half the happiness of its exultant song was love of England. . +. .</p> +<p>It is all but dark. For a quarter of an hour I must have been +writing by a glow of firelight reflected on to my desk; it seemed to +me the sun of summer. Snow is still falling. I see its ghostly +glimmer against the vanishing sky. To-morrow it will be thick +upon my garden, and perchance for several days. But when it melts, +when it melts, it will leave the snowdrop. The crocus, too, is +waiting, down there under the white mantle which warms the earth.</p> +<h3>XXIV.</h3> +<p>Time is money—says the vulgarest saw known to any age or people. +Turn it round about, and you get a precious truth—money is time. +I think of it on these dark, mist-blinded mornings, as I come down to +find a glorious fire crackling and leaping in my study. Suppose +I were so poor that I could not afford that heartsome blaze, how different +the whole day would be! Have I not lost many and many a day of +my life for lack of the material comfort which was necessary to put +my mind in tune? Money is time. With money I buy for cheerful +use the hours which otherwise would not in any sense be mine; nay, which +would make me their miserable bondsman. Money is time, and, heaven +be thanked, there needs so little of it for this sort of purchase. +He who has overmuch is wont to be as badly off in regard to the true +use of money, as he who has not enough. What are we doing all +our lives but purchasing, or trying to purchase, time? And most +of us, having grasped it with one hand, throw it away with the other.</p> +<h3>XXV.</h3> +<p>The dark days are drawing to an end. Soon it will be spring +once more; I shall go out into the fields, and shake away these thoughts +of discouragement and fear which have lately too much haunted my fireside. +For me, it is a virtue to be self-centred; I am much better employed, +from every point of view, when I live solely for my own satisfaction, +than when I begin to worry about the world. The world frightens +me, and a frightened man is no good for anything. I know only +one way in which I could have played a meritorious part as an active +citizen—by becoming a schoolmaster in some little country town, +and teaching half a dozen teachable boys to love study for its own sake. +That I could have done, I daresay. Yet, no; for I must have had +as a young man the same mind that I have in age, devoid of idle ambitions, +undisturbed by unattainable ideals. Living as I do now, I deserve +better of my country than at any time in my working life; better, I +suspect, than most of those who are praised for busy patriotism.</p> +<p>Not that I regard my life as an example for any one else; all I say +is, that it is good for me, and in so far an advantage to the world. +To live in quiet content is surely a piece of good citizenship. +If you can do more, do it, and God-speed! I know myself for an +exception. And I ever find it a good antidote to gloomy thoughts +to bring before my imagination the lives of men, utterly unlike me in +their minds and circumstances, who give themselves with glad and hopeful +energy to the plain duties that lie before them. However one’s +heart may fail in thinking of the folly and baseness which make so great +a part of to-day’s world, remember how many bright souls are living +courageously, seeing the good wherever it may be discovered, undismayed +by portents, doing what they have to do with all their strength. +In every land there are such, no few of them, a great brotherhood, without +distinction of race or faith; for they, indeed, constitute the race +of man, rightly designated, and their faith is one, the cult of reason +and of justice. Whether the future is to them or to the talking +anthropoid, no one can say. But they live and labour, guarding +the fire of sacred hope.</p> +<p>In my own country, dare I think that they are fewer than of old? +Some I have known; they give me assurance of the many, near and far. +Hearts of noble strain, intrepid, generous; the clear head, the keen +eye; a spirit equal alike to good fortune and to ill. I see the +true-born son of England, his vigour and his virtues yet unimpaired. +In his blood is the instinct of honour, the scorn of meanness; he cannot +suffer his word to be doubted, and his hand will give away all he has +rather than profit by a plebeian parsimony. He is frugal only +of needless speech. A friend staunch to the death; tender with +a grave sweetness to those who claim his love; passionate, beneath stoic +seeming, for the causes he holds sacred. A hater of confusion +and of idle noise, his place is not where the mob presses; he makes +no vaunt of what he has done, no boastful promise of what he will do; +when the insensate cry is loud, the counsel of wisdom overborne, he +will hold apart, content with plain work that lies nearest to his hand, +building, strengthening, whilst others riot in destruction. He +was ever hopeful, and deems it a crime to despair of his country. +“Non, si male nunc, et olim sic erit.” Fallen on whatever +evil days and evil tongues, he remembers that Englishman of old, who, +under every menace, bore right onwards; and like him, if so it must +be, can make it his duty and his service to stand and wait.</p> +<h3>XXVI.</h3> +<p>Impatient for the light of spring, I have slept lately with my blind +drawn up, so that at waking, I have the sky in view. This morning, +I awoke just before sunrise. The air was still; a faint flush +of rose to westward told me that the east made fair promise. I +could see no cloud, and there before me, dropping to the horizon, glistened +the horned moon.</p> +<p>The promise held good. After breakfast, I could not sit down +by the fireside; indeed, a fire was scarce necessary; the sun drew me +forth, and I walked all the morning about the moist lanes, delighting +myself with the scent of earth.</p> +<p>On my way home, I saw the first celandine.</p> +<p>So, once more, the year has come full circle. And how quickly; +alas, how quickly! Can it be a whole twelvemonth since the last +spring? Because I am so content with life, must life slip away, +as though it grudged me my happiness? Time was when a year drew +its slow length of toil and anxiety and ever frustrate waiting. +Further away, the year of childhood seemed endless. It is familiarity +with life that makes time speed quickly. When every day is a step +in the unknown, as for children, the days are long with gathering of +experience; the week gone by is already far in retrospect of things +learnt, and that to come, especially if it foretell some joy, lingers +in remoteness. Past mid-life, one learns little and expects little. +To-day is like unto yesterday, and to that which shall be the morrow. +Only torment of mind or body serves to delay the indistinguishable hours. +Enjoy the day, and, behold, it shrinks to a moment.</p> +<p>I could wish for many another year; yet, if I knew that not one more +awaited me, I should not grumble. When I was ill at ease in the +world, it would have been hard to die; I had lived to no purpose, that +I could discover; the end would have seemed abrupt and meaningless. +Now, my life is rounded; it began with the natural irreflective happiness +of childhood, it will close in the reasoned tranquillity of the mature +mind. How many a time, after long labour on some piece of writing, +brought at length to its conclusion, have I laid down the pen with a +sigh of thankfulness; the work was full of faults, but I had wrought +sincerely, had done what time and circumstance and my own nature permitted. +Even so may it be with me in my last hour. May I look back on +life as a long task duly completed—a piece of biography; faulty +enough, but good as I could make it—and, with no thought but one +of contentment, welcome the repose to follow when I have breathed the +word “Finis.”</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PRIVATE PAPERS OF HENRY</p> +<pre> +RYECROFT*** + + +***** This file should be named 1463-h.htm or 1463-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/6/1463 + + + +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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