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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: At Large + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Release Date: December 3, 2009 [EBook #4613] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT LARGE *** + + + + +Produced by Don Lainson, Charles Aldarondo, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<br><br> + +<h1> + AT LARGE +</h1><br> + +<h2> +By Arthur Christopher Benson +</h2><br><br> + +<center> +Haec ego mecum +<br><br> +1908 +</center> + + + +<br> +<br> +<hr> +<br> +<br> + + + +<h2>Contents</h2> + + +<center> +<table summary=""> +<tr><td> + + + + + <a href="#2H_4_0001"> +I. </a></td><td>THE SCENE +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0003"> +II. </a></td><td>CONTENTMENT +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0004"> +III. </a></td><td>FRIENDSHIP +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0005"> +IV. </a></td><td>HUMOUR +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0006"> +V. </a></td><td>TRAVEL +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0007"> +VI. </a></td><td>SPECIALISM +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0008"> +VII. </a></td><td>OUR LACK OF GREAT MEN +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0009"> +VIII. </a></td><td>SHYNESS +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0010"> +IX. </a></td><td>EQUALITY +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0011"> +X. </a></td><td>THE DRAMATIC SENSE +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0012"> +XI. </a></td><td>KELMSCOTT AND WILLIAM MORRIS +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0013"> +XII. </a></td><td>A SPEECH-DAY +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0014"> +XIII. </a></td><td>LITERARY FINISH +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0015"> +XIV. </a></td><td>A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0016"> +XV. </a></td><td>SYMBOLS +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0017"> +XVI. </a></td><td>OPTIMISM +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0018"> +XVII. </a></td><td>JOY +</td></tr><tr><td> + <a href="#2H_4_0019"> +XVIII. </a></td><td>THE LOVE OF GOD +</td></tr><tr><td> + + +</td></tr> +</table> +</center> + +<center> +<a href="#2H_EPIL"> +EPILOGUE +</a></center> + + + +<br> +<br> +<hr> +<br> +<br> + + +<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + + +<h2> + I. THE SCENE +</h2> +<p> +Yes, of course it is an experiment! But it is made in corpore vili. +It is not irreparable, and there is no reason, more's the pity, why I +should not please myself. I will ask—it is a rhetorical question which +needs no answer—what is a hapless bachelor to do, who is professionally +occupied and tied down in a certain place for just half the year? What +is he to do with the other half? I cannot live on in my college rooms, +and I am not compelled to do so for economy. I have near relations and +many friends, at whose houses I should be made welcome. But I cannot be +like the wandering dove, who found no repose. I have a great love of my +independence and my liberty. I love my own fireside, my own chair, my +own books, my own way. It is little short of torture to have to conform +to the rules of other households, to fall in with other people's +arrangements, to throw my pen down when the gong sounds, to make myself +agreeable to fortuitous visitors, to be led whither I would not. I do +this, a very little, because I do not desire to lose touch with my kind; +but then my work is of a sort which brings me into close touch day after +day with all sorts of people, till I crave for recollection and repose; +the prospect of a round of visits is one that fairly unmans me. No doubt +it implies a certain want of vitality, but one does not increase one's +vitality by making overdrafts upon it; and then too I am a slave to my +pen, and the practice of authorship is inconsistent with paying visits. +Of course the obvious remedy is marriage; but one cannot marry from +prudence, or from a sense of duty, or even to increase the birth-rate, +which I am concerned to see is diminishing. I am, moreover, to be +perfectly frank, a transcendentalist on the subject of marriage. I know +that a happy marriage is the finest and noblest thing in the world, and +I would resign all the conveniences I possess with the utmost readiness +for it. But a great passion cannot be the result of reflection, or of +desire, or even of hope. One cannot argue oneself into it; one must be +carried away. "You have never let yourself go," says a wise and gentle +aunt, when I bemoan my unhappy fate. To which I reply that I have never +done anything else. I have lain down in streamlets, I have leapt into +silent pools, I have made believe I was in the presence of a deep +emotion, like the dear little girl in one of Reynolds's pictures, who +hugs a fat and lolling spaniel over an inch-deep trickle of water, for +fear he should be drowned. I do not say that it is not my fault. It is +my fault, my own fault, my own great fault, as we say in the Compline +confession. The fault has been an over-sensibility. I have desired close +and romantic relations so much that I have dissipated my forces; yet +when I read such a book as the love-letters of Robert Browning and +Elizabeth Barrett, I realise at once both the supreme nature of the +gift, and the hopelessness of attaining it unless it be given; but I try +to complain, as the beloved mother of Carlyle said about her health, as +little as possible. +</p> +<p> +Well, then, as I say, what is a reluctant bachelor who loves his liberty +to do with himself? I cannot abide the life of towns, though I live in a +town half the year. I like friends, and I do not care for acquaintances. +There is no conceivable reason why, in the pursuit of pleasure, I should +frequent social entertainments that do not amuse me. What have I then +done? I have done what I liked best. I have taken a big roomy house in +the quietest country I could find, I have furnished it comfortably, and +I have hitherto found no difficulty in inducing my friends, one or two +at a time, to come and share my life. I shall have something to say +about solitude presently, but meanwhile I will describe my hermitage. +</p> +<p> +The old Isle of Ely lies in the very centre of the Fens. It is a range +of low gravel hills, shaped roughly like a human hand. The river runs +at the wrist, and Ely stands just above it, at the base of the palm, +the fingers stretching out to the west. The fens themselves, vast peaty +plains, the bottoms of the old lagoons, made up of the accumulation of +centuries of rotting water-plants, stretch round it on every side; far +away you can see the low heights of Brandon, the Newmarket Downs, the +Gogmagogs behind Cambridge, the low wolds of Huntingdon. To the north +the interminable plain, through which the rivers welter and the great +levels run, stretches up to the Wash. So slight is the fall of the land +towards the sea, that the tide steals past me in the huge Hundred-foot +cut, and makes itself felt as far south as Earith Bridge, where the +Ouse comes leisurely down with its clear pools and reed-beds. At the +extremity of the southernmost of all the fingers of the Isle, a big +hamlet clusters round a great ancient church, whose blunt tower is +visible for miles above its grove of sycamores. More than twelve +centuries ago an old saint, whose name I think was Owen, though it +was Latinised by the monks into Ovinus, because he had the care of the +sheep, kept the flocks of St. Etheldreda, queen and abbess of Ely, on +these wolds. One does not know what were the visions of this rude and +ardent saint, as he paced the low heights day by day, looking over the +monstrous lakes. At night no doubt he heard the cries of the marsh-fowl +and saw the elfin lights stir on the reedy flats. Perhaps some touch of +fever kindled his visions; but he raised a tiny shrine here, and here he +laid his bones; and long after, when the monks grew rich, they raised +a great church here to the memory of the shepherd of the sheep, and +beneath it, I doubt not, he sleeps. +</p> +<p> +What is it I see from my low hills? It is an enchanted land for me, and +I lose myself in wondering how it is that no one, poet or artist, has +ever wholly found out the charm of these level plains, with their rich +black soil, their straight dykes, their great drift-roads, that run as +far as the eye can reach into the unvisited fen. In summer it is a feast +of the richest green from verge to verge; here a clump of trees stands +up, almost of the hue of indigo, surrounding a lonely shepherd's cote; +a distant church rises, a dark tower over the hamlet elms; far beyond, I +see low wolds, streaked and dappled by copse and wood; far to the south, +I see the towers and spires of Cambridge, as of some spiritual city—the +smoke rises over it on still days, hanging like a cloud; to the east lie +the dark pine-woods of Suffolk, to the north an interminable fen; +but not only is it that one sees a vast extent of sky, with great +cloud-battalions crowding up from the south, but all the colour of the +landscape is crowded into a narrow belt to the eye, which gives it an +intensity of emerald hue that I have seen nowhere else in the world. +There is a sense of deep peace about it all, the herb of the field just +rising in its place over the wide acres; the air is touched with a lazy +fragrance, as of hidden flowers; and there is a sense, too, of silent +and remote lives, of men that glide quietly to and fro in the great +pastures, going quietly about their work in a leisurely calm. In the +winter it is fairer still, if one has a taste for austerity. The trees +are leafless now; and the whole flat is lightly washed with the most +delicate and spare tints, the pasture tinted with the yellowing bent, +the pale stubble, the rich plough-land, all blending into a subdued +colour; and then, as the day declines and the plain is rimmed with a +frosty mist, the smouldering glow of the orange sunset begins to burn +clear on the horizon, the grey laminated clouds becoming ridged with +gold and purple, till the whole fades, like a shoaling sea, into the +purest green, while the cloud-banks grow black and ominous, and far-off +lights twinkle like stars in solitary farms. +</p> +<p> +Of the house itself, exteriorly, perhaps the less said the better; it +was built by an earl, to whom the estate belonged, as a shooting-box. I +have often thought that it must have been ordered from the Army and +Navy Stores. It is of yellow brick, blue-slated, and there has been a +pathetic feeling after giving it a meanly Gothic air; it is ill-placed, +shut in by trees, approached only by a very dilapidated farm-road; and +the worst of it is that a curious and picturesque house was destroyed to +build it. It stands in what was once a very pretty and charming little +park, with an ancient avenue of pollard trees, lime and elm. You can see +the old terraces of the Hall, the mounds of ruins, the fish-ponds, the +grass-grown pleasance. It is pleasantly timbered, and I have an orchard +of honest fruit-trees of my own. First of all I expect it was a Roman +fort; for the other day my gardener brought me in half of the handle of +a fine old Roman water-jar, red pottery smeared with plaster, with two +pretty laughing faces pinched lightly out under the volutes. A few days +after I felt like Polycrates of Samos, that over-fortunate tyrant, when, +walking myself in my garden, I descried and gathered up the rest of the +same handle, the fractures fitting exactly. There are traces of Roman +occupation hereabouts in mounds and earthworks. Not long ago a man +ploughing in the fen struck an old red vase up with the share, and +searching the place found a number of the same urns within the space +of a few yards, buried in the peat, as fresh as the day they were made. +There was nothing else to be found, and the place was under water till +fifty years ago; so that it must have been a boatload of pottery being +taken in to market that was swamped there, how many centuries ago! But +there have been stranger things than that found; half a mile away, where +the steep gravel hill slopes down to the fen, a man hoeing brought up +a bronze spear-head. He took it to the lord of the manor, who was +interested in curiosities. The squire hurried to the place and had it +all dug out carefully; quite a number of spear-heads were found, and a +beautiful bronze sword, with the holes where the leather straps of the +handle passed in and out. I have held this fine blade in my hands, and +it is absolutely undinted. It may be Roman, but it is probably earlier. +Nothing else was found, except some mouldering fragments of wood that +looked like spear-staves; and this, too, it seems, must have been a +boatload of warriors, perhaps some raiding party, swamped on the edge +of the lagoon with all their unused weapons, which they were presumably +unable to recover, if indeed any survived to make the attempt. Hard by +is the place where the great fight related in Hereward the Wake took +place. The Normans were encamped southwards at Willingham, where a line +of low entrenchments is still known as Belsar's Field, from Belisarius, +the Norman Duke in command. It is a quiet enough place now, and the +yellow-hammers sing sweetly and sharply in the thick thorn hedges. The +Normans made a causeway of faggots and earth across the fen, but came +at last to the old channel of the Ouse, which they could not bridge; +and here they attempted to cross in great flat-bottomed boats, but were +foiled by Hereward and his men, their boats sunk, and hundreds of stout +warriors drowned in the oozy river-bed. There still broods for me a +certain horror over the place, where the river in its confined channel +now runs quietly, by sedge and willow-herb and golden-rod, between its +high flood banks, to join the Cam to the east. +</p> +<p> +But to return to my house. It was once a monastic grange of Ely, a +farmstead with a few rooms, no doubt, where sick monks and ailing +novices were sent to get change of air and a taste of country life. +There is a bit of an old wall still bordering my garden, and a strip of +pale soil runs across the gooseberry beds, pale with dust of mortar +and chips of brick, where another old wall stood. There was a great +pigeon-house here, pulled down for the shooting-box, and the garden is +still full of old carved stones, lintels, and mullions, and capitals of +pillars, and a grotesque figure of a bearded man, with a tunic confined +round the waist by a cord, which crowns one of my rockeries. But it +is all gone now, and the pert cockneyfied house stands up among the +shrubberies and walnuts, surveying the ruins of what has been. +</p> +<p> +But I must not abuse my house, because whatever it is outside, it is +absolutely comfortable and convenient within: it is solid, well built, +spacious, sensible, reminding one of the "solid joys and lasting +treasure" that the hymn says "none but Zion's children know." And, +indeed, it is a Zion to be at ease in. +</p> +<p> +One other great charm it has: from the end of my orchard the ground +falls rapidly in a great pasture. Some six miles away, over the dark +expanse of Grunty Fen, the towers of Ely, exquisitely delicate and +beautiful, crown the ridge; on clear sunny days I can see the sun +shining on the lead roofs, and the great octagon rises with all its +fretted pinnacles. Indeed, so kind is Providence, that the huge brick +mass of the Ely water-tower, like an overgrown Temple of Vesta, blends +itself pleasantly with the cathedral, projecting from the western front +like a great Galilee. +</p> +<p> +The time to make pious pilgrimage to Ely is when the apple-orchards +are in bloom. Then the grim western tower, with its sombre windows, the +gabled roofs of the canonical houses, rise in picturesque masses over +acres of white blossom. But for me, six miles away, the cathedral is +a never-ending sight of beauty. On moist days it draws nearer, as if +carved out of a fine blue stone; on a grey day it looks more like a +fantastic crag, with pinnacles of rock. Again it will loom a ghostly +white against a thunder-laden sky. Grand and pathetic at once, for it +stands for something that we have parted with. What was the outward and +stately form of a mighty idea, a rich system, is now little more than an +aesthetic symbol. It has lost heart, somehow, and its significance +only exists for ecclesiastically or artistically minded persons; it +represents a force no longer in the front of the battle. +</p> +<p> +One other fine feature of the countryside there is, of which one never +grows tired. If one crosses over to Sutton, with its huge church, the +tower crowned with a noble octagon, and the village pleasantly perched +along a steep ridge of orchards, one can drop down to the west, past a +beautiful old farmhouse called Berristead, with an ancient chapel, built +into the homestead, among fine elms. The road leads out upon the fen, +and here run two great Levels, as straight as a line for many miles, up +which the tide pulsates day by day; between them lies a wide tract of +pasture called the Wash, which in summer is a vast grazing-ground for +herds, in rainy weather a waste of waters, like a great estuary—north +and south it runs, crossed by a few roads or black-timbered bridges, the +fen-water pouring down to the sea. It is a great place for birds this. +The other day I disturbed a brood of redshanks here, the parent birds +flying round and round, piping mournfully, almost within reach of my +hand. A little further down, not many months ago, there was observed a +great commotion in the stream, as of some big beast swimming slowly; the +level was netted, and they hauled out a great sturgeon, who had somehow +lost his way, and was trying to find a spawning-ground. There is an +ancient custom that all sturgeon, netted in English waters, belong by +right to the sovereign; but no claim was advanced in this case. The line +between Ely and March crosses the level, further north, and the huge +freight-trains go smoking and clanking over the fen all day. I often +walk along the grassy flood-bank for a mile or two, to the tiny decayed +village of Mepal, with a little ancient church, where an old courtier +lies, an Englishman, but with property near Lisbon, who was a +gentleman-in-waiting to James II. in his French exile, retired +invalided, and spent the rest of his days "between Portugal and Byall +Fen"—an odd pair of localities to be so conjoined! +</p> +<p> +And what of the life that it is possible to live in my sequestered +grange? I suppose there is not a quieter region in the whole of England. +There are but two or three squires and a few clergy in the Isle, but the +villages are large and prosperous; the people eminently friendly, +shrewd and independent, with homely names for the most part, but with a +sprinkling both of Saxon appellations, like Cutlack, which is Guthlac +a little changed, and Norman names, like Camps, inherited perhaps from +some invalided soldier who made his home there after the great fight. +There is but little communication with the outer world; on market-days a +few trains dawdle along the valley from Ely to St. Ives and back again. +They are fine, sturdy, prosperous village communities, that mind their +own business, and take their pleasure in religion and in song, like +their forefathers the fenmen, Girvii, who sang their three-part catches +with rude harmony. +</p> + +<p>Part of the charm of the place is, I confess, its loneliness. One may go +for weeks together with hardly a caller; there are no social functions, +no festivities, no gatherings. One may once in a month have a chat with +a neighbour, or take a cup of tea at a kindly parsonage. But people +tend to mind their own business, and live their own lives in their own +circle; yet there is an air of tranquil neighbourliness all about. The +inhabitants of the region respect one's taste in choosing so homely and +serene a region for a dwelling-place, and they know that whatever motive +one may have had for coming, it was not dictated by a feverish love of +society. I have never known a district—and I have lived in many parts +of England—where one was so naturally and simply accepted as a part +of the place. One is greeted in all directions with a comfortable +cordiality, and a natural sort of good-breeding; and thus the life comes +at once to have a precise quality, a character of its own. Every one +is independent, and one is expected to be independent too. There is no +suspicion of a stranger; it is merely recognised that he is in search of +a definite sort of life, and he is made frankly and unostentatiously at +home. +</p> +<p> +And so the days race away there in the middle of the mighty plain. No +plans are ever interrupted, no one questions one's going and coming as +one will, no one troubles his head about one's occupations or pursuits. +Any help or advice that one needs is courteously and readily given, +and no favours asked or expected in return. One little incident gave +me considerable amusement. There is a private footpath of my own which +leads close to my house; owing to the house having stood for some time +unoccupied, people had tended to use it as a short cut. The kindly +farmer obviated this by putting up a little notice-board, to indicate +that the path was private. A day or two afterwards it was removed and +thrown into a ditch. I was perturbed as well as surprised by this, +supposing that it showed that the notice had offended some local +susceptibility; and being very anxious to begin my tenure on neighbourly +terms, I consulted my genial landlord, who laughed, and said that there +was no one who would think of doing such a thing; and to reassure me he +added that one of his men had seen the culprit at work, and that it was +only an old horse, who had rubbed himself against the post till he had +thrown it down. +</p> +<p> +The days pass, then, in a delightful monotony; one reads, writes, sits +or paces in the garden, scours the country on still sunny afternoons. +There are many grand churches and houses within a reasonable distance, +such as the great churches near Wisbech and Lynn—West Walton, Walpole +St. Peter, Tilney, Terrington St. Clement, and a score of others—great +cruciform structures, in every conceivable style, with fine woodwork and +noble towers, each standing in the centre of a tiny rustic hamlet, +built with no idea of prudent proportion to the needs of the places they +serve, but out of pure joy and pride. There are houses like Beaupre, +a pile of fantastic brick, haunted by innumerable phantoms, with its +stately orchard closes, or the exquisite gables of Snore Hall, of rich +Tudor brickwork, with fine panelling within. There is no lack of +shrines for pilgrimage—then, too, it is not difficult to persuade some +like-minded friend to share one's solitude. And so the quiet hours +tick themselves away in an almost monastic calm, while one's book grows +insensibly day by day, as the bulrush rises on the edge of the dyke. +</p> +<p> +I do not say that it would be a life to live for the whole of a year, +and year by year. There is no stir, no eagerness, no brisk interchange +of thought about it. But for one who spends six months in a busy and +peopled place, full of duties and discussions and conflicting interests, +it is like a green pasture and waters of comfort. The danger of it, if +prolonged, would be that things would grow languid, listless, fragrant +like the Lotos-eaters' Isle; small things would assume undue importance, +small decisions would seem unduly momentous; one would tend to regard +one's own features as in a mirror and through a magnifying glass. But, +on the other hand, it is good, because it restores another kind of +proportion; it is like dipping oneself in the seclusion of a monastic +cell. Nowadays the image of the world, with all its sheets of detailed +news, all its network of communications, sets too deep a mark upon one's +spirit. We tend to believe that a man is lost unless he is overwhelmed +with occupation, unless, like the conjurer, he is keeping a dozen balls +in the air at once. Such a gymnastic teaches a man alertness, agility, +effectiveness. But it has got to be proved that one was sent into +the world to be effective, and it is not even certain that a man has +fulfilled the higher law of his being if he has made a large fortune +by business. A sagacious, shrewd, acute man of the world is sometimes +a mere nuisance; he has made his prosperous corner at the expense of +others, and he has only contrived to accumulate, behind a little fence +of his own, what was meant to be the property of all. I have known a +good many successful men, and I cannot honestly say that I think that +they are generally the better for their success. They have often learnt +self-confidence, the shadow of which is a good-natured contempt for +ineffective people; the shadow, on the other hand, which falls on the +contemplative man is an undue diffidence, an indolent depression, a +tendency to think that it does not very much matter what any one does. +But, on the other hand, the contemplative man sometimes does grasp one +very important fact—that we are sent into the world, most of us, to +learn something about God and ourselves; whereas if we spend our lives +in directing and commanding and consulting others, we get so swollen a +sense of our own importance, our own adroitness, our own effectiveness, +that we forget that we are tolerated rather than needed, it is better on +the whole to tarry the Lord's leisure, than to try impatiently to force +the hand of God, and to make amends for His apparent slothfulness. What +really makes a nation grow, and improve, and progress, is not social +legislation and organisation. That is only the sign of the rising moral +temperature; and a man who sets an example of soberness, and kindliness, +and contentment is better than a pragmatical district visitor with a +taste for rating meek persons. +</p> +<p> +It may be asked, then, do I set myself up as an example in this +matter? God forbid! I live thus because I like it, and not from any +philosophical or philanthropical standpoint. But if more men were +to follow their instincts in the matter, instead of being misled +and bewildered by the conventional view that attaches virtue to +perspiration, and national vigour to the multiplication of unnecessary +business, it would be a good thing for the community. What I claim is +that a species of mental and moral equilibrium is best attained by a +careful proportion of activity and quietude. What happens in the case of +the majority of people is that they are so much occupied in the process +of acquisition that they have no time to sort or dispose their stores; +and thus life, which ought to be a thing complete in itself, and ought +to be spent, partly in gathering materials, and partly in drawing +inferences, is apt to be a hurried accumulation lasting to the edge of +the tomb. We are put into the world, I cannot help feeling, to BE rather +than to DO. We excuse our thirst for action by pretending to ourselves +that our own doing may minister to the being of others; but all that it +often effects is to inoculate others with the same restless and feverish +bacteria. +</p> +<p> +And anyhow, as I said, it is but an experiment. I can terminate it +whenever I have the wish to do so. Even if it is a failure, it will at +all events have been an experiment, and others may learn wisdom by my +mistake; because it must be borne in mind that a failure in a deliberate +experiment in life is often more fruitful than a conventional +success. People as a rule are so cautious; and it is of course highly +disagreeable to run a risk, and to pay the penalty. Life is too short, +one feels, to risk making serious mistakes; but, on the other hand, +the cautious man often has the catastrophe, without even having had +the pleasure of a run for his money. Jowett, the high priest of worldly +wisdom, laid down as a maxim, "Never resign"; but I have found myself +that there is no pleasure comparable to disentangling oneself from +uncongenial surroundings, unless it be the pleasure of making mild +experiments and trying unconventional schemes. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + II. CONTENTMENT +</h2> +<p> +I have attempted of late, in more than one book, to depict a certain +kind of tranquil life, a life of reflection rather than of action, of +contemplation rather than of business; and I have tried to do this +from different points of view, though the essence has been the same. I +endeavoured at first to do it anonymously, because I have no desire to +recommend these ideas as being my own theories. The personal background +rather detracts from than adds to the value of the thoughts, because +people can compare my theories with my practice, and show how lamentably +I fail to carry them out. But time after time I have been pulled +reluctantly out of my burrow, by what I still consider a wholly +misguided zeal for publicity, till I have decided that I will lurk no +longer. It was in this frame of mind that I published, under my own +name, a book called Beside Still Waters, a harmless enough volume, I +thought, which was meant to be a deliberate summary or manifesto of +these ideas. It depicted a young man who, after a reasonable experience +of practical life, resolved to retire into the shade, who in that +position indulged profusely in leisurely reverie. The book was carefully +enough written, and I have been a good deal surprised to find that it +has met with considerable disapproval, and even derision, on the part +of many reviewers. It has been called morbid and indolent, and decadent, +and half a hundred more ugly adjectives. Now I do not for an instant +question the right of a single one of these conscientious persons to +form whatever opinion they like about my book, and to express it in any +terms they like; they say, and obviously feel, that the thought of the +book is essentially thin, and that the vein in which it is written is +offensively egotistical. I do not dispute the possibility of their being +perfectly right. An artist who exhibits his paintings, or a writer who +publishes his books, challenges the criticisms of the public; and I am +quite sure that the reviewers who frankly disliked my book, and said +so plainly, thought that they were doing their duty to the public, and +warning them against teaching which they believed to be insidious +and even immoral. I honour them for doing this, and I applaud them, +especially if they did violence to their own feelings of courtesy and +urbanity in doing so. Then there were some good-natured reviewers +who practically said that the book was simply a collection of amiable +platitudes; but that if the public liked to read such stuff, they were +quite at liberty to do so. I admire these reviewers for a different +reason, partly for their tolerant permission to the public to read what +they choose, and still more because I like to think that there are so +many intelligent people in the world who are wearisomely familiar with +ideas which have only slowly and gradually dawned upon myself. I have +no intention of trying to refute or convince my critics, and I beg them +with all my heart to say what they think about my books, because only by +the frank interchange of ideas can we arrive at the truth. +</p> +<p> +But what I am going to try to do in this chapter is to examine the +theory by virtue of which my book is condemned, and I am going to try +to give the fullest weight to the considerations urged against it. I +am sure there is something in what the critics say, but I believe that +where we differ is in this. The critics who disapprove of my book seem +to me to think that all men are cast in the same mould, and that the +principles which hold good for some necessarily hold good for all. What +I like best about their criticisms is that they are made in a spirit of +moral earnestness and ethical seriousness. I am a serious man myself, +and I rejoice to see others serious. The point of view which they +seem to recommend is the point of view of a certain kind of practical +strenuousness, the gospel of push, if I may so call it. They seem to +hold that people ought to be discontented with what they are, that they +ought to try to better themselves, that they ought to be active, +and what they call normal; that when they have done their work as +energetically as possible, they should amuse themselves energetically +too, take hard exercise, shout and play, +</p> +<pre> + "Pleased as the Indian boy to run + And shoot his arrows in the sun," +</pre> +<p> +and that then they should recreate themselves like Homeric heroes, +eating and drinking, listening comfortably to the minstrel, and take +their fill of love in a full-blooded way. +</p> +<p> +That is, I think, a very good theory of life for some people, though I +think it is a little barbarous; it is Spartan rather than Athenian. +</p> +<p> +Some of my critics take a higher kind of ground, and say that I want to +minimise and melt down the old stern beliefs and principles of morality +into a kind of nebulous emotion. They remind me a little of an old +country squire of whom I have heard, of the John Bull type, whose +younger son, a melancholy and sentimental youth, joined the Church of +Rome. His father was determined that this should not separate them, and +asked him to come home and talk it over. He told his eldest son that +he was going to remonstrate with the erring youth in a simple and +affectionate way. The eldest son said that he hoped his father would do +it tactfully and gently, as his brother was highly sensitive, to which +his father replied that he had thought over what he meant to say, and +was going to be very reasonable. The young man arrived, and was ushered +into the study by his eldest brother. "Well," said the squire, "very +glad to see you, Harry; but do you mean to tell me that your mother's +religion is not good enough for a damned ass like you?" +</p> +<p> +Now far from desiring to minimise faith in God and the Unseen, I think +it is the thing of which the world is more in need than anything else. +What has made the path of faith a steep one to tread is partly that it +has got terribly encumbered with ecclesiastical traditions; it has been +mended, like the Slough of Despond, with cartloads of texts and insecure +definitions. And partly too the old simple undisturbed faith in the +absolute truth and authority of the Bible has given way. It is admitted +that the Bible contains a considerable admixture of the legendary +element; and it requires a strong intellectual and moral grip to build +one's faith upon a collection of writings, some of which, at all events, +are not now regarded as being historically and literally true. "If I +cannot believe it all," says the simple bewildered soul, "how can I +be certain that any of it is indubitably true?" Only the patient +and desirous spirit can decide; but whatever else fades, the perfect +insight, the Divine message of the Son of Man cannot fade; the dimmer +that the historical setting becomes, the brighter shine the parables +and the sayings, so far beyond the power of His followers to have +originated, so utterly satisfying to our deepest needs. What I desire to +say with all my heart is that we pilgrims need not be dismayed because +the golden clue dips into darkness and mist; it emerges as bright as +ever upon the upward slope of the valley. If one disregards all that is +uncertain, all that cannot be held to be securely proved in the sacred +writings, there still remain the essential facts of the Christian +revelation, and more deep and fruitful principles than a man can +keep and make his own in the course of a lifetime, however purely and +faithfully he lives and strives. To myself the doubtful matters are +things absolutely immaterial, like the debris of the mine, while the +precious ore gleams and sparkles in every boulder. +</p> +<p> +What, in effect, these critics say is that a man must not discuss +religion unless he is an expert in theology. When I try, as I have once +or twice tried, to criticise some current conception of a Christian +dogma, the theological reviewer, with a titter that resembles the titter +of Miss Squeers in Nicholas Nickleby, says that a writer who presumes +to discuss such questions ought to be better acquainted with the modern +developments of theology. To that I demur, because I am not attempting +to discuss theology, but current conceptions of theology. If the +advance in theology has been so enormous, then all I can say is that the +theologians fail to bring home the knowledge of that progress to the man +in the street. To use a simple parable, what one feels about many modern +theological statements is what the eloquent bagman said in praise of the +Yorkshire ham: "Before you know where you are, there—it's wanished!" +This is not so in science; science advances, and the ordinary man knows +more or less what is going on; he understands what is meant by the +development of species, he has an inkling of what radio-activity means, +and so forth; but this is because science is making discoveries, while +theological discoveries are mainly of a liberal and negative kind, a +modification of old axioms, a loosening of old definitions. Theology has +made no discoveries about the nature of God, or the nature of the soul; +the problem of free will and necessity is as dark as ever, except that +scientific discovery tends to show more and more that an immutable law +regulates the smallest details of life. I honour, with all my heart, the +critics who have approached the Bible in the same spirit in which they +approach other literature; but the only definite result has been to make +what was considered a matter of blind faith more a matter of opinion. +But to attempt to scare men away from discussing religious topics, by +saying that it is only a matter for experts, is to act in the spirit +of the Inquisition. It is like saying to a man that he must not discuss +questions of diet and exercise because he is not acquainted with the +Pharmacopoeia, or that no one may argue on matters of current politics +unless he is a trained historian. Religion is, or ought to be, a matter +of vital and daily concern for every one of us; if our moral progress +and our spiritual prospects are affected by what we believe, theologians +ought to be grateful to any one who will discuss religious ideas +from the current point of view, if it only leads them to clear up +misconceptions that may prevail. If I needed to justify myself further, +I would only add that since I began to write on such subjects I have +received a large number of letters from unknown people, who seem to be +grateful to any one who will attempt to speak frankly on these matters, +with the earnest desire, which I can honestly say has never been absent +from my mind, to elucidate and confirm a belief in simple and essential +religious principles. +</p> +<p> +And now I would go on to say a few words as to the larger object which I +have had in view. My aim has been to show how it is possible for people +living quiet and humdrum lives, without any opportunities of gratifying +ambition or for taking a leading part on the stage of the world, to make +the most of simple conditions, and to live lives of dignity and joy. +My own belief is that what is commonly called success has an insidious +power of poisoning the clear springs of life; because people who grow +to depend upon the stimulus of success sink into dreariness and dulness +when that stimulus is withdrawn. Here my critics have found fault with +me for not being more strenuous, more virile, more energetic. It is +strange to me that my object can have been so singularly misunderstood. +I believe, with all my heart, that happiness depends upon strenuous +energy; but I think that this energy ought to be expended upon work, and +everyday life, and relations with others, and the accessible pleasures +of literature and art. The gospel that I detest is the gospel of +success, the teaching that every one ought to be discontented with his +setting, that a man ought to get to the front, clear a space round him, +eat, drink, make love, cry, strive, and fight. It is all to be at the +expense of feebler people. That is a detestable ideal, because it is +the gospel of tyranny rather than the gospel of equality. It is obvious, +too, that such success depends upon a man being stronger than his +fellows, and is only made possible by shoving and hectoring, and +bullying the weak. The preaching of this violent gospel has done us +already grievous harm; it is this which has tended to depopulate country +districts, to make people averse to discharging all honest subordinate +tasks, to make men and women overvalue excitement and amusement. The +result of it is the lowest kind of democratic sentiment, which says, +"Every one is as good as every one else, and I am a little better," and +the jealous spirit, which says, "If I cannot be prominent, I will do +my best that no one else shall be." Out of it develops the demon of +municipal politics, which makes a man strive for a place, in the hope +being able to order things for which others have to pay. It is this +teaching which makes power seem desirable for the sake of personal +advantages, and with no care for responsibility. This spirit seems to +me an utterly vile and detestable spirit. It tends to disguise its rank +individualism under a pretence of desiring to improve social conditions. +I do not mean for a moment to say that all social reformers are of +this type; the clean-handed social reformer, who desires no personal +advantage, and whose influence is a matter of anxious care, is one +of the noblest of men; but now that schemes of social reform are +fashionable, there are a number of blatant people who them for purposes +of personal advancement. +</p> +<p> +What I rather desire is to encourage a very different kind of +individualism, the individualism of the man who realises that the hope +of the race depends upon the quality of the life, upon the number of +people who live quiet, active, gentle, kindly, faithful lives, enjoying +their work and turning for recreation to the nobler and simpler sources +of pleasure—the love of nature, poetry, literature, and art. Of course +the difficulty is that we do not, most of us, find our pleasures in +these latter things, but in the excitement and amusement of social life. +I mournfully admit it, and I quite see the uselessness of trying to +bring pleasures within the reach of people when they have no taste for +them; but an increasing number of people do care for such things, and +there are still more who would care for them, if only they could be +introduced to them at an impressionable age. +</p> +<p> +If it is said that this kind of simplicity is a very tame and spiritless +thing, I would answer that it has the advantage of being within the +reach of all. The reason why the pursuit of social advancement and +success is so hollow, is that the subordinate life is after all the life +that must fall to the majority of people. We cannot organise society +on the lines of the army of a lesser German state, which consisted +of twenty-four officers, covered with military decorations, and +eight privates. The successful men, whatever happens, must be a small +minority; and what I desire is that success, as it is called, should +fall quietly and inevitably on the heads of those who deserve it, +while ordinary people should put it out of their thoughts. It is no use +holding up an ideal which cannot be attained, and which the mere attempt +to attain is fruitful in disaster and discontent. +</p> +<p> +I do not at all wish to teach a gospel of dulness. I am of the opinion +of the poet who said: +</p> +<pre> + "Life is not life at all without delight, + Nor hath it any might." +</pre> +<p> +But I am quite sure that the real pleasures of the world are those which +cannot be bought for money, and which are wholly independent of success. +</p> +<p> +Every one who has watched children knows the extraordinary amount of +pleasure that they can extract out of the simplest materials. To keep +a shop in the corner of a garden, where the commodities are pebbles and +thistle-heads stored in old tin pots, and which are paid for in daisies, +will be an engrossing occupation to healthy children for a long summer +afternoon. There is no reason why that kind of zest should not be +imported into later life; and, as a matter of fact, people who practise +self-restraint, who are temperate and quiet, do retain a gracious kind +of contentment in all that they do or say, or think, to extreme old age; +it is the jaded weariness of overstrained lives that needs the stimulus +of excitement to carry them along from hour to hour. Who does not +remember the rigid asceticism of Ruskin's childhood? A bunch of keys +to play with, and a little later a box of bricks; the Bible and The +Pilgrim's Progress and Robinson Crusoe to read; a summary whipping if +he fell down and hurt himself, or if he ever cried. Yet no one +would venture to say that this austerity in any way stunted Ruskin's +development or limited his range of pleasures; it made him perhaps a +little submissive and unadventurous. But who that ever saw him, as the +most famous art-critic of the day, being mercilessly snubbed, when he +indulged in paradoxes, by the old wine-merchant, or being told to hold +his tongue by the grim old mother, and obeying cheerfully and sweetly, +would have preferred him to have been loud, contradictory, and +self-assertive? The mischief of our present system of publicity is that +we cannot enjoy our own ideas, unless we can impress people with them, +or, at all events, impress people with a sense of our enjoyment of them. +There is a noble piece of character-drawing in one of Mr. Henry +James's novels, The Portrait of a Lady, where Gilbert Osmond, a selfish +dilettante, finding that he cannot make a great success or attain a +great position, devotes himself to trying to mystify and provoke +the curiosity of the world by retiring into a refined seclusion, and +professing that it affords him an exquisite kind of enjoyment. The +hideous vulgarity of his attitude is not at first sight apparent; he +deceives the heroine, who is a considerable heiress, into thinking that +here, at last, is a man who is living a quiet and sincere life among the +things of the soul; and having obtained possession of her purse, he sets +up house in a dignified old palace in Rome, where he continues to amuse +himself by inviting distinguished persons to visit him, in order that he +may have the pleasure of excluding the lesser people who would like to +be included. +</p> +<p> +This is, of course, doing the thing upon an almost sublime scale; but +the fact remains that in an age which values notoriety above everything +except property, a great many people do suffer from the disease of not +enjoying things, unless they are aware that others envy their enjoyment. +To people of an artistic temperament this is a sore temptation, because +the essence of the artistic temperament is its egotism, and egotism, +like the Bread-and-butter fly, requires a special nutriment, the +nutriment of external admiration. +</p> +<p> +And here, I think, lies one of the pernicious results of an +over-developed system of athletics. The more games that people play, the +better; but I do not think it is wholesome to talk about them for large +spaces of leisure time, any more than it is wholesome to talk about your +work or your meals. The result of all the talk about athletics is that +the newspapers get full of them too. That is only natural. It is the +business of newspapers to find out what interests people, and to +tell them about it; but the bad side of it is that young athletes get +introduced to the pleasures of publicity, and that ambitious young +men think that athletics are a short cut to fame. To have played in a +University eleven is like accepting a peerage; you wear for the rest of +your life an agreeable and honourable social label, and I do not think +that a peerage is deserved, or should be accepted, at the age of twenty. +I do not think it is a good kind of fame which depends on a personal +performance rather than upon a man's usefulness to the human race. +</p> +<p> +The kind of contentment that I should like to see on the increase is the +contentment of a man who works hard and enjoys work, both in itself and +in the contrast it supplies to his leisure hours; and, further, whose +leisure is full of varied interests, not only definite pursuits, but an +interest in his relations with others, not only of a spectatorial kind, +but with the natural and instinctive desire to contribute to their +happiness, not in a priggish way, but from a sense of cordial +good-fellowship. +</p> +<p> +This programme may seem, as I have said, to be unambitious and prosaic, +and to have very little that is stirring about it. But my belief is that +it can be the most lively, sensitive, fruitful, and enjoyable programme +in the world, because the enjoyment of it depends upon the very stuff of +life itself, and not upon skimming the cream off and throwing away the +milk. +</p> +<p> +My critics will say that I am only appearing again from my cellar, with +my hands filled with bottled platitudes; but if they are platitudes, by +which I mean plain and obvious truths, why do we not find more people +practising them? What I mean by a platitude is a truth so obvious that +it is devoid of inspiration, and has become one of the things that every +one does so instinctively, that no reminder of them is necessary. Would +that it were so in the present case! All I can say is that I know very +few people who live their lives on these lines, and that most of the +people I know find inspiration anywhere but in the homely stuff of life. +Of course there are a good many people who take life stolidly enough, +and do not desire inspiration at all; but I do not mean that sort of +life in the least. I mean that it ought to be possible and delightful +for people to live lives full of activity and perception and kindliness +and joy, on very simple lines indeed; to take up their work day by day +with an agreeable sense of putting out their powers, to find in the +pageant of nature an infinite refreshment, and to let art and poetry +lift them up into a world of hopes and dreams and memories; and thus +life may become a meal to be eaten with appetite, with a wholesome +appreciation of its pleasant savours, rather than a meal eaten in +satiety or greediness, with a peevish repining that it is not more +elaborate and delicate. +</p> +<p> +I do not claim to live my own life on these lines. I started, as all +sensitive and pleasure-loving natures do, with an expectation of finding +life a much more exciting, amusing, and delightful thing than I have +found it. I desired to skip from peak to peak, without troubling to +descend into the valleys. But now that I have descended, partly out of +curiosity and partly out of inefficiency, no doubt, into the low-lying +vales, I have found them to be beautiful and interesting places, the +hedgerows full of flower and leaf, the thickets musical with the voices +of birds, the orchards loaded with fruit, the friendly homesteads rich +with tranquil life and abounding in quiet friendly people; and then the +very peaks themselves, past which my way occasionally conducts me, have +a beautiful solemnity of pure outline and strong upliftedness, seen from +below, which I think they tend to lose, seen from the summit; and if +I have spoken of the quieter joys, it is—I can say this with perfect +honesty—because I have been pleased with them, as a bird is pleased +with the sunshine and the berries, and sings, not that the passers-by +may admire his notes, but out of simple joy of heart; and, after all, it +is enough justification, if a pilgrim or two have stopped upon their way +to listen with a smile. That alone persuades me that one does no harm +by speaking, even if there are other passers-by who say what a tiresome +note it is, that they have heard it a hundred times before, and cannot +think why the stupid bird does not vary his song. Personally, I would +rather hear the yellow-hammer utter his sharp monotonous notes, with +the dropping cadence at the end, than that he should try to imitate the +nightingale. +</p> +<p> +However, as I have said, I am quite willing to believe that the critics +speak, or think they speak, in the interests of the public, and with a +tender concern that the public should not be bored. And I will take my +leave of them by saying, like Miss Flite, that I will ask them to accept +a blessing, and that when I receive a judgment, I shall confer estates +impartially. +</p> +<p> +But my last word shall be to my readers, and I will beg of them not to +be deceived either by experts or by critics; on the one hand, not to +be frightened away from speculating and reflecting about the possible +meanings of life by the people who say that no one under the degree of +a Bachelor of Divinity has any right to tackle the matter; and, on the +other hand, I would implore them to believe that a quiet life is not +necessarily a dull life, and that the cutting off of alcohol does not +necessarily mean a lowering of physical vitality; but rather that if +they will abstain for a little from dependence upon excitement, they +will find their lives flooded by a new kind of quality, which heightens +perception and increases joy. Of course souls will ache and ail, and +we have to bear the burden of our ancestors' weaknesses as well as +the burden of our own; but just as, in the physical region, diet +and exercise and regularity can effect more cures than the strongest +medicines, so, in the life of the spirit, self-restraint and deliberate +limitation and tranquil patience will often lead into a vigorous and +effective channel the stream that, left to itself, welters and wanders +among shapeless pools and melancholy marshes. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + III. FRIENDSHIP +</h2> +<p> +To make oneself beloved, says an old French proverb, this is, after +all, the best way to be useful. That is one of the deep sayings which +children think flat, and which young men, and even young women, despise; +and which a middle-aged man hears with a certain troubled surprise, and +wonders if there is not something in it after all; and which old people +discover to be true, and think with a sad regret of opportunities +missed, and of years devoted, how unprofitably, to other kinds of +usefulness! The truth is that most of us who have any ambitions at all, +do not start in life with a hope of being useful, but rather with an +intention of being ornamental. We think, like joseph in his childish +dreams, that the sun and moon and the eleven stars, to say nothing +of the sheaves, are going to make obeisance to us. We want to be +impressive, rich, beautiful, influential, admired, envied; and then, as +we move forward, the visions fade. We have to be content if, in a quiet +corner, a single sheaf gives us a nod of recognition; and as for the +eleven stars, they seem unaware of our very existence! And then we +make further discoveries; that when we have seemed to ourselves most +impressive, we have only been pretentious; that riches are only a +talisman against poverty, and even make suffering and pain and grief +more unendurable; that beauty fades into stolidity or weariness; that +influence comes mostly to people who do not pursue it, and that the +best kind of influence belongs to those who do not even know that they +possess it; that admiration is but a brilliant husk, which may or may +not contain a wholesome kernel; and as for envy, there is poison in that +cup! And then we become aware that the best crowns have fallen to those +who have not sought them, and that simple-minded and unselfish people +have won the prize which has been denied to brilliance and ambition. +</p> +<p> +That is the process which is often called disillusionment; and it is a +sad enough business for people who only look at one side of the medal, +and who brood over the fact that they have been disappointed and have +failed. For such as these, there follow the faded years of cynicism and +dreariness. But that disillusionment, that humiliation, are the freshest +and most beautiful things in the world, for people who have real +generosity of spirit, and whose vanity has been of a superficial kind; +because they thus realise that these great gifts are real and true +things, but that they must be deserved and not captured; and then +perhaps such people begin their life-work afresh, in a humble and +hopeful spirit; and if it be too late for them to do what they might +have once done, they do not waste time in futile regret, but are +grateful for ever so little love and tenderness. After all, they have +lived, they have learnt by experience; and it does not yet appear what +we shall be. Somewhere, far hence—who knows?—we shall make a better +start. +</p> +<p> +Some philosophers have devoted time and thought to tracing backwards all +our emotions to their primal origin; and it is undoubtedly true that in +the intensest and most passionate relationships of life—the love of a +man for a woman, or a mother for a child—there is a large admixture of +something physical, instinctive, and primal. But the fact also remains +that there are unnumbered relationships between all sorts of apparently +incongruous persons, of which the basis is not physical desire, or the +protective instinct, and is not built up upon any hope of gain or profit +whatsoever. All sorts of qualities may lend a hand to strengthen and +increase and confirm these bonds; but what lies at the base of all is +simply a sort of vital congeniality. The friend is the person whom one +is in need of, and by whom one is needed. Life is a sweeter, stronger, +fuller, more gracious thing for the friend's existence, whether he be +near or far: if the friend is close at hand, that is best; but if he is +far away, he is still there, to think of, to wonder about, to hear from, +to write to, to share life and experience with, to serve, to honour, +to admire, to love. But again it is a mistake to think that one makes +a friend because of his or her qualities; it has nothing to do with +qualities at all. If the friend has noble qualities, we admire them +because they are his; if he has obviously bad and even noxious faults, +how readily we condone them or overlook them! It is the person that we +want, not what he does or says, or does not do or say, but what he is: +that is eternally enough. +</p> +<p> +Of course, it does sometimes happen that we think we have made a friend, +and on closer acquaintance we find things in him that are alien to our +very being; but even so, such a friendship often survives, if we have +given our heart, or if affection has been bestowed upon us—affection +which we cannot doubt. Some of the richest friendships of all are +friendships between people whose whole view of life is sharply +contrasted; and then what blessed energy can be employed in defending +one's friend, in explaining him to other people, in minimising faults, +in emphasising virtues! "While the thunder lasted," says the old Indian +proverb, "two bad men were friends." That means that a common danger +will sometimes draw even malevolent people together. But, for most of +us, the only essential thing to friendship is a kind of mutual trust and +confidence. It does not even shake our faith to know that our friend may +play other people false: we feel by a kind of secret instinct that he +will not play us false; and even if it be proved incontestably that he +has played us false, why, we believe that he will not do so again, and +we have all the pleasure of forgiveness. +</p> +<p> +Who shall explain the extraordinary instinct that tells us, perhaps +after a single meeting, that this or that particular person in some +mysterious way matters to us? The person in question may have no +attractive gifts of intellect or manner or personal appearance; but +there is some strange bond between us; we seem to have shared experience +together, somehow and somewhere; he is interesting, whether he speaks or +is silent, whether he agrees or disagrees. We feel that in some secret +region he is congenial. Est mihi nescio quid quod me tibi temperat +astrum, says the old Latin poet—"There is something, I know not what, +which yokes our fortunes, yours and mine." Sometimes indeed we are +mistaken, and the momentary nearness fades and grows cold. But it is +not often so. That peculiar motion of the heart, that secret joining of +hands, is based upon something deep and vital, some spiritual kinship, +some subtle likeness. +</p> +<p> +Of course, we differ vastly in our power of attracting and feeling +attraction. I confess that, for myself, I never enter a new company +without the hope that I may discover a friend, perhaps THE friend, +sitting there with an expectant smile. That hope survives a thousand +disappointments; yet most of us tend to make fewer friends as time goes +on, partly because we have not so much emotional activity to spare, +partly because we become more cautious and discreet; and partly, too, +because we become more aware of the responsibilities which lie in +the background of a friendship, and because we tend to be more shy of +responsibility. Some of us become less romantic and more comfortable; +some of us become more diffident about what we have to give in return; +some of us begin to feel that we cannot take up new ideas—none of +them very good reasons perhaps; but still, for whatever reason, we make +friends less easily. The main reason probably is that we acquire a +point of view, and it is easier to keep to that, and fit people in who +accommodate themselves to it, than to modify the point of view with +reference to the new personalities. People who deal with life generously +and large-heartedly go on multiplying relationships to the end. +</p> +<p> +Of course, as I have said, there are infinite grades of friendship, +beginning with the friendship which is a mere camaraderie arising out of +habit and proximity; and every one ought to be capable of forming this +last relationship. The modest man, said Stevenson, finds his friendships +ready-made; by which he meant that if one is generous, tolerant, and +ungrudging, then, instead of thinking the circle in which one lives +inadequate, confined, and unsympathetic, one gets the best out of it, +and sees the lovable side of ordinary human beings. Such friendships +as these can evoke perhaps the best and simplest kind of loyalty. It +is said that in countries where oxen are used for ploughing in double +harness, there are touching instances of an ox pining away, and even +dying, if he loses his accustomed yoke-fellow. There are such human +friendships, sometimes formed on a blood relationship, such as +the friendship of a brother and a sister; and sometimes a marriage +transforms itself into this kind of camaraderie, and is a very blessed, +quiet, beautiful thing. +</p> +<p> +And then there are infinite gradations, such as the friendships of +old and young, pupils and masters, parents and children, nurses +and nurslings, employers and servants, all of them in a way unequal +friendships, but capable of evoking the deepest and purest kinds of +devotion: such famous friendships have been Carlyle's devotion to his +parents, Boswell's to Johnson, Stanley's to Arnold; till at last +one comes to the typical and essential thing known specially as +friendship—the passionate, devoted, equal bond which exists between two +people of the same age and sex; many of which friendships are formed at +school and college, and which often fade away in a sort of cordial glow, +implying no particular communion of life and thought. Marriage is often +the great divorcer of such friendships, and circumstances generally, +which sever and estrange; because, unless there is a constant +interchange of thought and ideas, increasing age tends to emphasise +differences. But there are instances of men, like Newman and FitzGerald, +who kept up a sort of romantic quality of friendship to the end. +</p> +<p> +I remember the daughter of an old clergyman of my acquaintance +telling me a pathetic and yet typical story of the end of one of these +friendships. Her father and another elderly clergyman had been devoted +friends in boyhood and youth. Circumstances led to a suspension of +intercourse, but at last, after a gap of nearly thirty years, during +which the friends had not met, it was arranged that the old comrade +should come and stay at the vicarage. As the time approached, her +father grew visibly anxious, and coupled his frequent expression of the +exquisite pleasure which the visit was going to bring him with elaborate +arrangements as to which of his family should be responsible for the +entertainment of the old comrade at every hour of the day: the daughters +were to lead him out walking in the morning, his wife was to take him +out drives in the afternoon, and he was to share the smoking-room with a +son, who was at home, in the evenings—the one object being that the +old gentleman should not have to interrupt his own routine, or bear the +burden of entertaining a guest; and he eventually contrived only to meet +him at meals, when the two old friends did not appear to have anything +particular to say to each other. When the visit was over, her father +used to allude to his guest with a half-compassionate air: "Poor Harry, +he has aged terribly—I never saw a man so changed, with such a limited +range of interests; dear fellow, he has quite lost his old humour. Well, +well! it was a great pleasure to see him here. He was very anxious +that we should go to stay with him, but I am afraid that will be rather +difficult to manage; one is so much at a loose end in a strange house, +and then one's correspondence gets into arrears. Poor old Harry! What a +lively creature he was up at Trinity, to be sure!" Thus with a sigh dust +is committed to dust. +</p> +<p> +"What passions our friendships were!" said Thackeray to FitzGerald, +speaking of University days. There is a shadow of melancholy in the +saying, because it implies that for Thackeray at all events that kind +of glow had faded out of life. Perhaps—who knows?—he had accustomed +himself, with those luminous, observant, humorous eyes, to look too deep +into the heart of man, to study too closely and too laughingly the seamy +side, the strange contrast between man's hopes and his performances, his +dreams and his deeds. Ought one to be ashamed if that kind of generous +enthusiasm, that intensity of admiration, that vividness of sympathy die +out of one's heart? Is it possible to keep alive the warmth, the colour +of youth, suffusing all the objects near it with a lively and rosy glow? +Some few people seem to find it possible, and can add to it a kind of +rich tolerance, a lavish affectionateness, which pierces even deeper, +and sees even more clearly, than the old partial idealisation. Such a +large-hearted affection is found as a rule most often in people +whose lives have brought them into intimate connection with their +fellow-creatures—in priests, doctors, teachers, who see others not +in their guarded and superficial moments, but in hours of sharp and +poignant emotion. In many cases the bounds of sympathy narrow themselves +into the family and the home—because there only are men brought into an +intimate connection with human emotion; because to many people, and to +the Anglo-Saxon race in particular, emotional situations are a strain, +and only professional duty, which is a strongly rooted instinct in +the Anglo-Saxon temperament, keeps the emotional muscles agile and +responsive. +</p> +<p> +Another thing which tends to extinguish friendships is that many of the +people who desire to form them, and who do form them, wish to have +the pleasures of friendship without the responsibilities. In the +self-abandonment of friendship we become aware of qualities and strains +in the friend which we do not wholly like. One of the most difficult +things to tolerate in a friend are faults which are similar without +being quite the same. A common quality, for instance, in the Anglo-Saxon +race, is a touch of vulgarity, which is indeed the quality that makes +them practically successful. A great many Anglo-Saxon people have a +certain snobbishness, to give it a hard name; it is probably the poison +of the feudal system lurking in our veins. We admire success unduly; +we like to be respected, to have a definite label, to know the right +people. +</p> +<p> +I remember once seeing a friendship of a rather promising kind forming +between two people, one of whom had a touch of what I may call "county" +vulgarity, by which I mean an undue recognition of "the glories of our +birth and state." It was a deep-seated fault, and emerged in a form +which is not uncommon among people of that type—namely, a tendency +to make friends with people of rank, coupled with a constant desire to +detect snobbishness in other people. There is no surer sign of innate +vulgarity than that; it proceeds, as a rule, from a dim consciousness of +the fault, combined with the natural shame of a high-minded nature +for being subject to it. In this particular case the man in question +sincerely desired to resist the fault, but he could not avoid making +himself slightly more deferential, and consequently slightly more +agreeable, to persons of position. If he had not suffered from the +fault, he would never have given the matter a thought at all. +</p> +<p> +The other partner in the friendly enterprise had a touch of a different +kind of snobbishness—the middle-class professional snobbishness, +which pays an undue regard to success, and gravitates to effective +and distinguished people. As the friendship matured, each became +unpleasantly conscious of the other's defect, while remaining +unconscious of his own. The result was a perpetual little friction on +the point. If both could have been perfectly sincere, and could have +confessed their weakness frankly, no harm would have been done. But each +was so sincerely anxious to present an unblemished soul to the other's +view, that they could not arrive at an understanding on the point; each +desired to appear more disinterested than he was; and so, after coming +together to a certain extent—both were fine natures—the presence of +grit in the machinery made itself gradually felt, and the friendship +melted away. It was a case of each desiring the unalloyed pleasure of an +admiring friendship, without accepting the responsibility of discovering +that the other was not perfection, and bearing that discovery loyally +and generously. For this is the worst of a friendship that begins in +idealisation rather than in comradeship; and this is the danger of +all people who idealise. When two such come together and feel a mutual +attraction, they display instinctively and unconsciously the best +of themselves; but melancholy discoveries supervene; and then what +generally happens is that the idealising friend is angry with the other +for disappointing his hopes, not with himself for drawing an extravagant +picture. +</p> +<p> +Such friendships have a sort of emotional sensuality about them; and to +be dismayed by later discoveries is to decline upon Rousseau's vice of +handing in his babies to the Foundling Hospital, instead of trying to +bring them up honestly; what lies at the base of it is the indolent +shirking of the responsibilities for the natural consequences of +friendship. The mistake arises from a kind of selfishness, the +selfishness that thinks more of what it wants and desires to get, than +of taking what there is soberly and gratefully. +</p> +<p> +It is often said that it is the duty and privilege of a friend to warn +his friend faithfully against his faults. I believe that this is a +wholly mistaken principle. The essence of the situation is rather a +cordial partnership, of which the basis is liberty. What I mean +by liberty is not a freedom from responsibility, but an absence of +obligation. I do not, of course, mean that one is to take all one can +get and give as little as one likes, but rather that one must respect +one's friend enough—and that is implied in the establishment of the +relation—to abstain from directing him, unless he desires and asks for +direction. The telling of faults may be safely left to hostile critics, +and to what Sheridan calls "damned good-natured" acquaintances. But the +friend must take for granted that his friend desires, in a general way, +what is good and true, even though he may pursue it on different +lines. One's duty is to encourage and believe in one's friend, not to +disapprove of and to censure him. One loves him for what he is, not for +what he might be if he would only take one's advice. The point is that +it must be all a free gift, not a mutual improvement society—unless +indeed that is the basis of the compact. After all, a man can only feel +responsible to God. One goes astray, no doubt, like a sheep that is +lost; but it is not the duty of another sheep to butt one back into the +right way, unless indeed one appeals for help. One may have pastors +and directors, but they can never be equal friends. If there is to be +superiority in friendship, the lesser must willingly crown the greater; +the greater must not ask to be crowned. The secure friendship is +that which begins in comradeship, and moves into a more generous +and emotional region. Then there is no need to demand or to question +loyalty, because the tie has been welded by many a simple deed, many a +frank word. The ideal is a perfect frankness and sincerity, which +lays bare the soul as it is, without any false shame or any fear of +misunderstanding. A friendship of this kind can be one of the purest, +brightest, and strongest things in the world. Yet how rare it is! What +far oftener happens is that two people, in a sensitive and emotional +mood, are brought together. They begin by comparing experiences, they +search their memories for beautiful and suggestive things, and each +feels, "This nature is the true complement of my own; what light it +seems to shed on my own problems; how subtle, how appreciative it is!" +Then the process of discovery begins. Instead of the fair distant city, +all spires and towers, which we discerned in the distance in a sort +of glory, we find that there are crooked lanes, muddy crossings, dull +market-places, tiresome houses. Odd misshapen figures, fretful and +wearied, plod through the streets or look out at windows; here is a +ruin, with doleful creatures moping in the shade; we overturn a stone, +and blind uncanny things writhe away from the light. We begin to reflect +that it is after all much like other places, and that our fine +romantic view of it was due to some accident of light and colour, some +transfiguring mood of our own mind; and then we set out in search of +another city which we see crowning a hill on the horizon, and leave the +dull place to its own commonplace life. But to begin with comradeship is +to explore the streets and lanes first; and then day by day, as we go +up and down in the town, we become aware of its picturesqueness and +its charm; we realise that it has an intense and eager life of its own, +which we can share as a dweller, though we cannot touch it as a visitor; +and so the wonder grows, and the patient love of home. And we have +surprises, too: we enter a door in a wall that we have not seen before, +and we are in a shrine full of fragrant incense-smoke; the fallen day +comes richly through stained windows; figures move at the altar, where +some holy rite is being celebrated. The truth is that a friendship +cannot be formed in the spirit of a tourist, who is above all in search +of the romantic and the picturesque. Sometimes, indeed, the wandering +traveller may become the patient and contented inhabitant; but it is +generally the other way, and the best friendships are most often those +that seem at first sight dully made for us by habit and proximity, and +which reveal to us by slow degrees their beauty and their worth. +</p> +<pre> + * * * * * * +</pre> +<p> +Thus far had I written, when it came into my mind that I should like to +see the reflection of my beliefs in some other mind, to submit them to +the test of what I may perhaps be forgiven for calling a spirit-level! +And so I read my essay to two wise, kindly, and gracious ladies, who +have themselves often indeed graduated in friendship, and taken the +highest honours. I will say nothing of the tender courtesy with which +they made their head-breaking balms precious; I told them that I had not +finished my essay, and that before I launched upon my last antistrophe, +I wanted inspiration. I cannot here put down the phrases they used, but +I felt that they spoke in symbols, like two initiated persons, for whom +the corn and the wine and the oil of the sacrifice stand for very +secret and beautiful mysteries; but they said in effect that I had +been depicting, and not untruly, the outer courts and corridors of +friendship. What they told me of the inner shrine I shall presently +describe; but when I asked them to say whether they could tell me +instances of the best and highest kind of friendship, existing and +increasing and perfecting itself between two men, or between a man and a +woman, not lovers or wedded, they found a great difficulty in doing so. +We sifted our common experiences of friendships, and we could find but +one or two such, and these had somewhat lost their bloom. It came then +to this: that in the emotional region, many women, but very few men, can +form the highest kind of tie; and we agreed that men tended to find what +they needed in marriage, because they were rather interested in than +dependent upon personal emotion, and because practical life, as the +years went on—the life of causes, and movements, and organisations, +and ideas, and investigations—tended to absorb the energies of men; and +that they found their emotional life in home ties; and that the man who +lived for emotional relations would tend to be thought, if not to be, a +sentimentalist; but that the real secret lay with women, and with men +of perhaps a feminine fibre. And all this was transfused by a kind of +tender pity, without any touch of complacency or superiority, such as a +mother might have for the whispered hopes of a child who is lost in tiny +material dreams. But I gathered that there was a region in which the +heart could be entirely absorbed in a deep and beautiful admiration +for some other soul, and rejoice whole-heartedly in its nobleness and +greatness; so that no question of gaining anything, or even of being +helped to anything, came in, any more than one who has long been pent in +shadow and gloom and illness, and comes out for the first time into +the sun, thinks of any benefits that he may receive from the caressing +sunlight; he merely knows that it is joy and happiness and life to be +there, and to feel the warm light comfort him and make him glad; and all +this I had no difficulty in understanding, for I knew the emotion that +they spoke of, though I called it by a different name. I saw that it +was love indeed, but love infinitely purified, and with all the sense of +possession that mingles with masculine love subtracted from it; and how +such a relation might grow and increase, until there arose a sort of +secret and vital union of spirit, more real indeed than time and space, +so that, even if this were divorced and sundered by absence, or the +clouded mind, or death itself, there could be no shadow of doubt as to +the permanence of the tie; and a glance passed between the two as they +spoke, which made me feel like one who hears an organ rolling, and +voices rising in sweet harmonies inside some building, locked and +barred, which he may not enter. I could not doubt that the music was +there, while I knew that for some dulness or belatedness I was myself +shut out; not, indeed, that I doubted of the truth of what was said, but +I was in the position of the old saint who said that he believed, and +prayed to One to help his unbelief. For I saw that though I projected +the lines of my own experience infinitely, adding loyalty to loyalty, +and admiration to admiration, it was all on a different plane. This +interfusion of personality, this vital union of soul, I could not doubt +it! but it made me feel my own essential isolation still more deeply, +as when the streaming sunlight strikes warmth and glow out of the fire, +revealing crumbling ashes where a moment before had been a heart of +flame. +</p> +<pre> + "Ah te meae si partem animae rapit + Maturior vis, quid moror altera?"— +</pre> +<p> +"Ah, if the violence of fate snatch thee from me, thou half of my soul, +how can I, the other half, still linger here?" So wrote the old cynical, +worldly, Latin poet of his friend—that poet whom, for all his deftness +and grace, we are apt to accuse of a certain mundane heartlessness, +though once or twice there flickers up a sharp flame from the +comfortable warmth of the pile. Had he the secret hidden in his heart +all the time? If one could dream of a nearness like that, which doubts +nothing, and questions nothing, but which teaches the soul to move in as +unconscious a unison with another soul as one's two eyes move, so that +the brain cannot distinguish between the impressions of each, would not +that be worth the loss of all that we hold most sweet? We pay a price +for our qualities; the thistle cannot become the vine, or the oak the +rose, by admiration or desire. But we need not doubt of the divine +alchemy that gives good gifts to others, and denies them to ourselves. +And thus I can gratefully own that there are indeed these high mysteries +of friendship, and I can be glad to discern them afar off, as the +dweller on the high moorland, in the wind-swept farm, can see, far away +in the woodland valley, the smoke go up from happy cottage-chimneys, +nestled in leaves, and the spire point a hopeful finger up to heaven. +Life would be a poorer thing if we had all that we desired, and it is +permitted to hope that if we are faithful with our few things, we may be +made rulers over many things! +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + IV. HUMOUR +</h2> +<p> +There is a pleasant story of a Cambridge undergraduate finding it +necessary to expound the four allegorical figures that crown the parapet +of Trinity Library. They are the Learned Muses, as a matter of fact. +"What are those figures, Jack?" said an ardent sister, labouring under +the false feminine impression that men like explaining things. "Those," +said Jack, observing them for the first time in his life—"those are +Faith, Hope, and Charity, of course." "Oh! but there are FOUR of them," +said the irrepressible fair one. "What is the other?" Jack, not to +be dismayed, gave a hasty glance; and, observing what may be called +philosophical instruments in the hands of the statue, said firmly, "that +is Geography." It made a charming quaternion. +</p> +<p> +I have often felt myself that the time has come to raise another figure +to the hierarchy of Christian Graces. Faith, Hope, and Charity, were +sufficient in a more elementary and barbarous age; but, now that +the world has broadened somewhat, I think an addition to the trio is +demanded. A man may be faithful, hopeful, and charitable, and yet leave +much to be desired. He may be useful, no doubt, with that equipment, but +he may also be both tiresome, and even absurd. The fourth quality that I +should like to see raised to the highest rank among Christian graces is +the Grace of Humour. +</p> +<p> +I do not think that Humour has ever enjoyed its due repute in the +ethical scale. The possession of it saves a man from priggishness; and +the possession of faith, hope, and charity does not. Indeed, not only +do these three virtues not save a man from priggishness—they sometimes +even plunge him in irreclaimable depths of superiority. I suppose that +when Christianity was first making itself felt in the world, the one +quality needful was a deep-seated and enthusiastic earnestness. There is +nothing that makes life so enjoyable as being in earnest. It is not +the light, laughter-loving, jocose people who have the best time in the +world. They have a chequered career. They skip at times upon the hills +of merriment, but they also descend gloomily at other times into the +valleys of dreariness. But the man who is in earnest is generally +neither merry nor dreary. He has not time to be either. The early +Christians, engaged in leavening the world, had no time for levity or +listlessness. A pioneer cannot be humorous. But now that the world is +leavened and Christian principles are theoretically, if not practically, +taken for granted, a new range of qualities comes in sight. By humour +I do not mean a taste for irresponsible merriment; for though humour is +not a necessarily melancholy thing, in this imperfect world the humorist +sighs as often as he smiles. What I mean by it is a keen perception of +the rich incongruities and absurdities of life, its undue solemnity, its +guileless pretentiousness. To be true humour, it must not be at all a +cynical thing—as soon as it becomes cynical, it loses all its natural +grace; it is an essentially tender-hearted quality, apt to find excuse, +ready to condone, eager to forgive. The possessor of it can never be +ridiculous, or heavy, or superior. Wit, of course, is a very small +province of humour: wit is to humour what lightning is to the electric +fluid—a vivid, bright, crackling symptom of it in certain conditions; +but a man may be deeply and essentially humorous, and never say a witty +thing in his life. To be witty, one has to be fanciful, intellectual, +deft, light-hearted; and the humorist need be none of these things. +</p> +<p> +In religion, the absence of a due sense of humour has been the cause of +some of our worst disasters. All rational people know that what has done +most to depress and discount religion is ecclesiasticism. The spirit of +ecclesiasticism is the spirit that confuses proportions, that loves what +is unimportant, that hides great principles under minute rules, that +sacrifices simplicity to complexity, that adores dogma, and definition, +and labels of every kind, that substitutes the letter for the spirit. +The greatest misfortune that can befall religion is that it should +become logical, that it should evolve a reasoned system from +insufficient data; but humour abhors logic, and cannot pin its faith on +insecure deductions. The heaviest burden which religion can have to +bear is the burden of tradition, and humour is the determined foe of +everything that is conventional and traditional. The Pharisaical spirit +loves precedent and authority; the humorous spirit loves all that is +swift and shifting and subversive and fresh. One of the reasons why the +orthodox heaven is so depressing a place is that there seems to be no +room in it for laughter; it is all harmony and meekness, sanctified by +nothing but the gravest of smiles. What wonder that humanity is dejected +at the thought of an existence from which all possibility of innocent +absurdity and kindly mirth is subtracted—the only things which have +persistently lightened and beguiled the earthly pilgrimage! That is why +the death of a humorous person has so deep an added tinge of melancholy +about it, because it is apt to seem indecorous to think of what was his +most congenial and charming trait still finding scope for its exercise. +We are never likely to be able to tolerate the thought of Death, while +we continue to think of it as a thing which will rob humanity of some of +its richest and most salient characteristics. +</p> +<p> +Even the ghastly humour of Milton is a shade better than this. It will +be remembered that he makes the archangel say to Adam that astronomy +has been made by the Creator a complicated subject, in order that the +bewilderment of scientific men may be a matter of entertainment to Him! +</p> +<pre> + "He His fabric of the Heavens + Hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move + His laughter at their quaint opinions wide." +</pre> +<p> +Or, again, we may remember the harsh contortions of dry cachinnation +indulged in by the rebel spirits, when they have succeeded in toppling +over with their artillery the armed hosts of Seraphim. Milton certainly +did not intend to subtract all humour from the celestial regions. The +only pity was that he had not himself emerged beyond the childish stage, +which finds its deepest amusement in the disasters and catastrophes of +stately persons. +</p> +<p> +It may be asked whether we have any warrant in the Gospel for the +Christian exercise of humour. I have no doubt of it myself. The image of +the children in the market-place who cannot get their peevish companions +to join in games, whether merry or mournful, as illustrating the +attitude of the Pharisees who blamed John the Baptist for asceticism and +Christ for sociability, is a touch of real humour; and the story of the +importunate widow with the unjust judge, who betrayed so naively his +principle of judicial action by saying "Though I fear not God, neither +regard men, yet will I avenge this widow, lest by her continual coming +she weary me," must—I cannot believe otherwise—have been intended to +provoke the hearers' mirth. There is not, of course, any superabundance +of such instances, but Christ's reporters were not likely to be on the +look-out for sayings of this type. Yet I find it impossible to believe +that One who touched all the stops of the human heart, and whose stories +are among the most beautiful and vivid things ever said in the world, +can have exercised His unequalled power over human nature without +allowing His hearers to be charmed by many humorous and incisive +touches, as well as by more poetical and emotional images. No one has +ever swayed the human mind in so unique a fashion, without holding in +his hand all the strings that move and stir the faculties of delighted +apprehension; and of these faculties humour is one of the foremost. +The amazing lightness of Christ's touch upon life, the way in which His +words plumbed the depths of personality, make me feel abundantly sure +that there was no dreary sense of overwhelming seriousness in His +relations with His friends and disciples. Believing as we do that He was +Perfect Man, we surely cannot conceive of one of the sweetest and most +enlivening of all human qualities as being foreign to His character. +</p> +<p> +Otherwise there is little trace of humour in the New Testament. St. +Paul, one would think, would have had little sympathy with humorists. He +was too fiery, too militant, too much preoccupied with the working out +of his ideas, to have the leisure or the inclination to take stock of +humanity. Indeed I have sometimes thought that if he had had some touch +of the quality, he might have given a different bias to the faith; his +application of the method which he had inherited from the Jewish school +of theology, coupled with his own fervid rhetoric, was the first step, +I have often thought, in disengaging the Christian development from the +simplicity and emotion of the first unclouded message, in transferring +the faith from the region of pure conduct and sweet tolerance into a +province of fierce definition and intellectual interpretation. +</p> +<p> +I think it was Goethe who said that Greek was the sheath into which +the dagger of the human mind fitted best; and it is true that one finds +among the Greeks the brightest efflorescence of the human mind. Who +shall account for that extraordinary and fragrant flower, the flower of +Greek culture, so perfect in curve and colour, in proportion and scent, +opening so suddenly, in such a strange isolation, so long ago, upon the +human stock? The Greeks had the wonderful combination of childish zest +side by side with mature taste; charis, as they called it—a perfect +charm, an instinctive grace—was the mark of their spirit. And we should +naturally expect to find, in their literature, the same sublimation of +humour that we find in their other qualities. Unfortunately the greater +number of their comedies are lost. Of Menander we have but a few tiny +fragments, as it were, of a delectable vase; but in Aristophanes there +is a delicious levity, an incomparable prodigality of laughter-moving +absurdities, which has possibly never been equalled. Side by side +with that is the tender and charming irony of Plato, who is even more +humorous, if less witty, than Aristophanes. But the Greeks seem to have +been alone in their application of humour to literature. In the older +world literature tended to be rather a serious, pensive, stately thing, +concerned with human destiny and artistic beauty. One searches in vain +for humour in the energetic and ardent Roman mind. Their very comedies +were mostly adaptations from the Greek. I have never myself been able to +discern the humour of Terence or Plautus to any great extent. The humour +of the latter is of a brutal and harsh kind; and it has always been a +marvel to me that Luther said that the two books he would take to be his +companions on a desert island would be Plautus and the Bible. Horace and +Martial have a certain deft appreciation of human weakness, but it is +of the nature of smartness rather than of true humour—the wit of the +satirist rather; and then the curtain falls on the older world. When +humour next makes its appearance, in France and England pre-eminently, +we realise that we are in the presence of a far larger and finer +quality; and now we have, so to speak, whole bins full of liquors, +of various brands and qualities, from the mirthful absurdities of the +English, the pawky gravity of the Scotch, to the dry and sparkling +beverage of the American. To give an historical sketch of the growth and +development of modern Humour would be a task that might well claim +the energies of some literary man; it seems to me surprising that some +German philosopher has not attempted a scientific classification of the +subject. It would perhaps be best done by a man without appreciation of +humour, because only then could one hope to escape being at the mercy +of preferences; it would have to be studied purely as a phenomenon, +a symptom of the mind; and nothing but an overwhelming love of +classification would carry a student past the sense of its unimportance. +But here I would rather attempt not to find a formula or a definition +for humour, but to discover what it is, like argon, by eliminating other +characteristics, until the evasive quality alone remains. +</p> +<p> +It lies deep in nature. The peevish mouth and the fallen eye of the +plaice, the helpless rotundity of the sunfish, the mournful gape and +rolling glance of the goldfish, the furious and ineffective mien of +the barndoor fowl, the wild grotesqueness of the babyroussa and the +wart-hog, the crafty solemn eye of the parrot,—if such things as these +do not testify to a sense of humour in the Creative Spirit, it is hard +to account for the fact that in man a perception is implanted which +should find such sights pleasurably entertaining from infancy upwards. +I suppose the root of the matter is that, insensibly comparing these +facial attributes with the expression of humanity, one credits the +animals above described with the emotions which they do not necessarily +feel; yet even so it is hard to analyse, because grotesque exaggerations +of human features, which are perfectly normal and natural, seem +calculated to move the amusement of humanity quite instinctively. A +child is apt to be alarmed at first by what is grotesque, and, when once +reassured, to find in it a matter of delight. Perhaps the mistake we +make is to credit the Creative Spirit with human emotions; but, on the +other hand, it is difficult to see how complex emotions, not connected +with any material needs and impulses, can be found existing in +organisms, unless the same emotions exist in the mind of their Creator. +If the thrush bursts into song on the bare bush at evening, if the +child smiles to see the bulging hairy cactus, there must be, I think, +something joyful and smiling at the heart, the inmost cell of nature, +loving beauty and laughter; indeed, beauty and mirth must be the natural +signs of health and content. And then there strike in upon the mind two +thoughts. Is, perhaps, the basis of humour a kind of selfish security? +Does one primarily laugh at all that is odd, grotesque, broken, ill at +ease, fantastic, because such things heighten the sense of one's own +health and security? I do not mean that this is the flower of modern +humour; but is it not, perhaps, the root? Is not the basis of laughter +perhaps the purely childish and selfish impulse to delight, not in +the sufferings of others, but in the sense which all distorted things +minister to one—that one is temporarily, at least, more blest than +they? A child does not laugh for pure happiness—when it is happiest, it +is most grave and solemn; but when the sense of its health and soundness +is brought home to it poignantly, then it laughs aloud, just as +it laughs at the pleasant pain of being tickled, because the tiny +uneasiness throws into relief its sense of secure well-being. +</p> +<p> +And the further thought—a deep and strange one—is this: We see how all +mortal things have a certain curve or cycle of life—youth, maturity, +age. May not that law of being run deeper still? we think of nature +being ever strong, ever young, ever joyful; but may not the very shadow +of sorrow and suffering in the world be the sign that nature too grows +old and weary? May there have been a dim age, far back beyond history or +fable or scientific record, when she, too, was young and light-hearted? +The sorrows of the world are at present not like the sorrows of age, but +the sorrows of maturity. There is no decrepitude in the world: its heart +is restless, vivid, and hopeful yet; its melancholy is as the melancholy +of youth—a melancholy deeply tinged with beauty; it is full of +boundless visions and eager dreams; though it is thwarted, it believes +in its ultimate triumph; and the growth of humour in the world may be +just the shadow of hard fact falling upon the generous vision, for that +is where humour resides; youth believes glowingly that all things +are possible, but maturity sees that to hope is not to execute, and +acquiesces smilingly in the incongruity between the programme and the +performance. +</p> +<p> +Humour resides in the perception of limitation, in discerning how often +the conventional principle is belied by the actual practice. The old +world was full of a youthful sense of its own importance; it held that +all things were created for man—that the flower was designed to yield +him colour and fragrance, that the beast of the earth was made to give +him food and sport. This philosophy was summed up in the phrase that man +was the measure of all things; but now we have learnt that man is but +the most elaborate of created organisms, and that just as there was a +time when man did not exist, so there may be a time to come when beings +infinitely more elaborate may look back to man as we look back to +trilobites—those strange creatures, like huge wood-lice, that were +in their day the glory and crown of creation. Perhaps our dreams of +supremacy and finality may be in reality the absurdest things in the +world for their pomposity and pretentiousness. Who can say? +</p> +<p> +But to retrace our steps awhile. It seems that the essence of humour +is a certain perception of incongruity. Let us take a single instance. +There is a story of a drunken man who was observed to feel his way +several times all round the railings of a London square, with the +intention apparently of finding some way of getting in. At last he sat +down, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears, saying, +with deep pathos, "I am shut in!" In a sense it was true: if the rest +of the world was his prison, and the garden of the square represented +liberty, he was undoubtedly incarcerated. Or, again, take the story +of the Scotchman returning from a convivial occasion, who had jumped +carefully over the shadows of the lamp-posts, but on coming to the +shadow of the church-tower, ruefully took off his boots and stockings, +and turned his trousers up, saying, "I'll ha'e to wade." The reason +why the stories of drunken persons are often so indescribably humorous, +though, no doubt, highly deplorable in a Christian country, is that the +victim loses all sense of probability and proportion, and laments +unduly over an altogether imaginary difficulty. The appreciation of such +situations is in reality the same as the common and barbarous form of +humour, of which we have already spoken, which consists in being amused +at the disasters which befall others. The stage that is but slightly +removed from the lowest stage is the theory of practical jokes, the +humour of which is the pleasure of observing the actions of a person +in a disagreeable predicament which is not so serious as the victim +supposes. And thus we get to the region illustrated by the two stories +I have told, where the humour lies in the observation of one in a +predicament that appears to be of a tragic character, when the +tragic element is purely imaginary. And so we pass into the region of +intellectual humour, which may be roughly illustrated by such sayings as +that of George Sand that nothing is such a restorative as rhetoric, +or the claim advanced by a patriot that Shakespeare was undoubtedly a +Scotchman, on the ground that his talents would justify the supposition. +The humour of George Sand's epigram depends upon the perception that +rhetoric, which ought to be based upon a profound conviction, an +overwhelming passion, an intense enthusiasm, is often little more than +the abandonment of a personality to a mood of intoxicating ebullience; +while the humour of the Shakespeare story lies in a sense of the way in +which a national predilection will override all reasonable evidence. +</p> +<p> +It will be recognised how much of our humour depends upon our keen +perception of the weaknesses and imperfections of other nationalities. A +great statesman once said that if a Scotchman applied for a post and +was unsuccessful, his one object became to secure the post for another +Scotchman; while if an Irishman made an unsuccessful application, his +only aim was to prevent any other Irishman from obtaining the post. That +is a humorous way of contrasting the jealous patriotism of the Scot with +the passionate individualism of the Celt. The curious factor of this +species of humour is that we are entirely unable to recognise the +typicality of the caricatures which other nations draw of ourselves. A +German fails to recognise the English idea of the German as a man who, +after a meal of gigantic proportions and incredible potations, among the +smoke of endless cigars, will discuss the terminology of the absolute, +and burst into tears over a verse of poetry or a strain of music. +Similarly the Englishman cannot divine what is meant by the Englishman +of the French stage, with his long whiskers, his stiff pepper-and-salt +clothes, walking arm-in-arm with a raw-boned wife, short-skirted and +long-toothed, with a bevy of short-skirted and long-toothed daughters +walking behind. +</p> +<p> +But if it requires a robust humorist to perceive the absurdity of his +own nation, what intensity of humour is required for a man to see the +absurdity of himself! To acquiesce in appearing ridiculous is the height +of philosophy. We are glad enough to amuse other people intentionally, +but how many men does one know who do not resent amusing other people +unintentionally? Yet if one were a true philanthropist, how delighted we +ought to be to afford to others a constant feast of innocent and joyful +contemplation. +</p> +<p> +But the fact which emerges from all these considerations is the fact +that we do not give humour its place of due dignity in the moral and +emotional scale. The truth is that we in England have fallen into a +certain groove of humour of late, the humour of paradox. The formula +which lies at the base of our present output of humour is the formula, +"Whatever is, is wrong." The method has been over-organised, and the +result is that humour can be manufactured in unlimited quantities. The +type of such humour is the saying of the humorist that he went about +the world with one dread constantly hanging over him—"the dread of not +being misunderstood." I would not for a moment deny the quality of such +humour, but it grows vapid and monotonous. It is painful to observe the +clever young man of the present day, instead of aiming at the expression +of things beautiful and emotional, which he is often well equipped to +produce, with all the charm of freshness and indiscretion, turn aside +to smart writing of a cynical type, because he cannot bear to be thought +immature. He wants to see the effect of his cleverness, and the envious +smile of the slower-witted is dearer to him than the secret kindling of +a sympathetic mind. Real humour is a broader and a deeper thing, and it +can hardly be attained until a man has had some acquaintance with the +larger world; and that very experience, in natures that are emotional +rather than patient, often tends to extinguish humour, because of the +knowledge that life is really rather too sad and serious a business +to afford amusement. The man who becomes a humorist is the man who +contrives to retain a certain childlike zest and freshness of mind side +by side with a large and tender tolerance. This state of mind is not one +to be diligently sought after. The humorist nascitur non fit. One sees +young men of irresponsible levity drawn into the interest of a cause or +a profession, and we say sadly of them that they have lost their sense +of humour. They are probably both happier and more useful for having +lost it. The humorist is seldom an apostle or a leader. But one does +occasionally find a man of real genius who adds to a deep and vital +seriousness a delightful perception of the superficial absurdities of +life; who is like a river, at once strong and silent beneath, with +sunny ripples and bright water-breaks upon the surface. Most men must be +content to flow turbid and sullen, turning the mills of life or bearing +its barges; others may dash and flicker through existence, like a +shallow stream. Perhaps, indeed, it may be said that to be a real +humorist there must be a touch of hardness somewhere, a bony carapace, +because we seldom see one of very strong and ardent emotions who is a +true humorist; and this is, I suppose, the reason why women, as a rule, +are so far less humorous than men. We have to pay a price for our good +qualities; and though I had rather be strong, affectionate, loyal, +noble-minded, than be the best humorist in the world, yet if a gift +of humour be added to these graces, you have a combination that is +absolutely irresistible, because you have a perfect sense of proportion +that never allows emotion to degenerate into gush, or virtue into +rigidity; and thus I say that humour is a kind of divine and crowning +grace in a character, because it means an artistic sense of proportion, +a true and vital tolerance, a power of infinite forgiveness. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + V. TRAVEL +</h2> +<p> +There are many motives that impel us to travel, to change our sky, as +Horace calls it—good motives and bad, selfish and unselfish, noble +and ignoble. With some people it is pure restlessness; the tedium of +ordinary life weighs on them, and travel, they think, will distract +them; people travel for the sake of health, or for business reasons, or +to accompany some one else, or because other people travel. And these +motives are neither good nor bad, they are simply sufficient. Some +people travel to enlarge their minds, or to write a book; and the worst +of travelling for such reasons is that it so often implants in the +traveller, when he returns, a desperate desire to enlarge other +people's minds too. Unhappily, it needs an extraordinary gift of vivid +description and a tactful art of selection to make the reflections of +one's travels interesting to other people. It is a great misfortune for +biographers that there are abundance of people who are stirred, partly +by unwonted leisure and partly by awakened interest, to keep a diary +only when they are abroad. These extracts from diaries of foreign +travel, which generally pour their muddy stream into a biography on the +threshold of the hero's manhood, are things to be resolutely skipped. +What one desires in a biography is to see the ordinary texture of a +man's life, an account of his working days, his normal hours; and to +most people the normal current of their lives appears so commonplace and +uninteresting that they keep no record of it; while they often keep +an elaborate record of their impressions of foreign travel, which +are generally superficial and picturesque, and remarkably like the +impressions of all other intelligent people. A friend of mine returned +the other day from an American tour, and told me that he received +a severe rebuke, out of the mouth of a babe, which cured him of +expatiating on his experiences. He lunched with his brother soon after +his return, and was holding forth with a consciousness of brilliant +descriptive emphasis, when his eldest nephew, aged eight, towards the +end of the meal, laid down his spoon and fork, and said piteously to +his mother, "Mummy, I MUST talk; it does make me so tired to hear Uncle +going on like that." A still more effective rebuke was administered by a +clever lady of my acquaintance to a cousin of hers, a young lady who +had just returned from India, and was very full of her experiences. +The cousin had devoted herself during breakfast to giving a lively +description of social life in India, and was preparing to spend the +morning in continuing her lecture, when the elder lady slipped out of +the room, and returned with some sermon-paper, a blotting-book, and a +pen. "Maud," she said, "this is too good to be lost: you must write it +all down, every word!" The projected manuscript did not come to very +much, but the lesson was not thrown away. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps, for most people, the best results of travel are that they +return with a sense of grateful security to the familiar scene: the +monotonous current of life has been enlivened, the old relationships +have gained a new value, the old gossip is taken up with a comfortable +zest; the old rooms are the best, after all; the homely language is +better than the outlandish tongue; it is a comfort to have done with +squeezing the sponge and cramming the trunk: it is good to be at home. +</p> +<p> +But to people of more cultivated and intellectual tastes there is an +abundance of good reasons for the pursuit of impressions. It is worth +a little fatigue to see the spring sun lie softly upon the unfamiliar +foliage, to see the delicate tints of the purple-flowered Judas-tree, +the bright colours of Southern houses, the old high-shouldered chateau +blinking among its wooded parterres; it is pleasant to see mysterious +rites conducted at tabernacled altars, under dark arches, and to +smell the "thick, strong, stupefying incense-smoke"; to see well-known +pictures in their native setting, to hear the warm waves of the canal +lapping on palace-stairs, with the exquisite moulded cornice overhead. +It gives one a strange thrill to stand in places rich with dim +associations, to stand by the tombs of heroes and saints, to see the +scenes made familiar by art or history, the homes of famous men. Such +travel is full of weariness and disappointment. The place one had +desired half a lifetime to behold turns out to be much like other +places, devoid of inspiration. A tiresome companion casts dreariness +as from an inky cloud upon the mind. Do I not remember visiting the +Palatine with a friend bursting with archaeological information, who led +us from room to room, and identified all by means of a folding plan, to +find at the conclusion that he had begun at the wrong end, and that even +the central room was not identified correctly, because the number of +rooms was even, and not odd? +</p> +<p> +But, for all that, there come blessed unutterable moments, when the mood +and the scene and the companion are all attuned in a soft harmony. Such +moments come back to me as I write. I see the mouldering brickwork of +a crumbling tomb all overgrown with grasses and snapdragons, far out in +the Campagna; or feel the plunge of the boat through the reed-beds of +the Anapo, as we slid into the silent pool of blue water in the heart of +the marsh, where the sand danced at the bottom, and the springs bubbled +up, while a great bittern flew booming away from a reedy pool hard by. +Such things are worth paying a heavy price for, because they bring a +sort of aerial distance into the mind, they touch the spirit with a +hope that the desire for beauty and perfection is not, after all, wholly +unrealisable, but that there is a sort of treasure to be found even upon +earth, if one diligently goes in search of it. +</p> +<p> +Of one thing, however, I am quite certain, and that is that travel +should not be a feverish garnering of impressions, but a delicious and +leisurely plunge into a different atmosphere. It is better to visit few +places, and to become at home in each, than to race from place to place, +guide-book in hand. A beautiful scene does not yield up its secrets to +the eye of the collector. What one wants is not definite impressions but +indefinite influences. It is of little use to enter a church, unless one +tries to worship there, because the essence of the place is worship, and +only through worship can the secret of the shrine be apprehended. It +is of little use to survey a landscape, unless one has an overpowering +desire to spend the remainder of one's days there; because it is the +life of the place, and not the sight of it, in which one desires to have +a part. Above all, one must not let one's memories sleep as in a dusty +lumber-room of the mind. In a quiet firelit hour one must draw near, and +scrutinise them afresh, and ask oneself what remains. As I write, I open +the door of my treasury and look round. What comes up before me? I see +an opalescent sky, and the great soft blue rollers of a sapphire sea. I +am journeying, it seems, in no mortal boat, though it was a commonplace +vessel enough at the time, twenty years ago, and singularly destitute of +bodily provision. What is that over the sea's rim, where the tremulous, +shifting, blue line of billows shimmers and fluctuates? A long, low +promontory, and in the centre, over white clustered houses and masts +of shipping, rises a white dome like the shrine of some celestial city. +That is Cadiz for me. I dare say the picture is all wrong, and I shall +be told that Cadiz has a tower and is full of factory chimneys; but +for me the dome, ghostly white, rises as though moulded out of a single +pearl, upon the shifting edges of the haze. Whatever I have seen in my +life, that at least is immortal. +</p> +<p> +Or again the scene shifts, and now I stumble to the deck of another +little steamer, very insufficiently habited, in the sharp freshness +of the dawn of a spring morning. The waves are different here—not the +great steely league-long rollers of the Atlantic, but the sharp azure +waves, marching in rhythmic order, of the Mediterranean; what is the +land, with grassy downs and folded valleys falling to grey cliffs, upon +which the brisk waves whiten and leap? That is Sicily; and the thought +of Theocritus, with the shepherd-boy singing light-heartedly upon the +headland a song of sweet days and little eager joys, comes into my heart +like wine, and brings a sharp touch of tears into the eyes. Theocritus! +How little I thought, as I read the ugly brown volume with its yellow +paper, in the dusty schoolroom at Eton ten years before, that it was +going to mean that to me, sweetly as even then, in a moment torn from +the noisy tide of schoolboy life, came the pretty echoes of the song +into a little fanciful and restless mind! But now, as I saw those +deserted limestone crags, that endless sheep-wold, with no sign of a +habitation, rising and falling far into the distance, with the fresh +sea-breeze upon my cheek—there came upon me that tender sorrow for all +the beautiful days that are dead, the days when the shepherds walked +together, exulting in youth and warmth and good-fellowship and song, to +the village festival, and met the wandering minstrel, with his coat of +skin and his kind, ironical smile, who gave them, after their halting +lays, a touch of the old true melody from a master's hand. What do all +those old and sweet dreams mean for me, the sunlight that breaks on the +stream of human souls, flowing all together, alike through dark rocks +where the water chafes and thunders, and spreading out into tranquil +shining reaches, where the herons stand half asleep? What does that +strange drift of kindred spirits, moving from the unknown to the +unknown, mean for me? I only know that it brings into my mind a strange +yearning, and a desire of almost unearthly sweetness for all that is +delicate and beautiful and full of charm, together with a sombre pity +for the falling mist of tears, the hard discipline of the world, the +cries of anguish, as life lapses from the steep into the silent tide of +death. +</p> +<p> +Or, again, I seem once more to sit in the balcony of a house that looks +out towards Vesuvius. It is late; the sky is clouded, the air is still; +a grateful coolness comes up from acre after acre of gardens climbing +the steep slope; a fluttering breeze, that seems to have lost his way +in the dusk, comes timidly and whimsically past, like Ariel, singing +as soft as a far-off falling sea in the great pine overhead, making a +little sudden flutter in the dry leaves of the thick creeper; like Ariel +comes that dainty spirit of the air, laden with balmy scents and cool +dew. A few lights twinkle in the plain below. Opposite, the sky has an +added blackness, an impenetrability of shade; but what is the strange +red eye of light that hangs between earth and heaven? And, stranger +still, what is that phantasmal gleam of a lip of crags high in the air, +and that mysterious, moving, shifting light, like a pale flame, +above it? The gloomy spot is a rent in the side of Vesuvius where the +smouldering heat has burnt through the crust, and where a day or two +before I saw a viscid stream of molten liquor, with the flames playing +over it, creeping, creeping through the tunnelled ashes; and in the +light above is the lip of Vesuvius itself, with its restless furnace at +work, casting up a billowy swell of white oily smoke, while the glare of +the fiery pit lights up the underside of the rising vapours. A ghastly +manifestation, that, of sleepless and stern forces, ever at work upon +some eternal and bewildering task; and yet so strangely made am I, that +these fierce signal-fires, seen afar, but blend with the scents of the +musky alleys for me into a thrill of unutterable wonder. +</p> +<p> +There are hundreds of such pictures stored in my mind, each stamped upon +some sensitive particle of the brain, that cannot be obliterated, and +each of which the mind can recall at will. And that, too, is a fact of +surpassing wonder: what is the delicate instrument that registers, with +no seeming volition, these amazing pictures, and preserves them thus +with so fantastic a care, retouching them, fashioning them anew, +detaching from the picture every sordid detail, till each is as a lyric, +inexpressible, exquisite, too fine for words to touch? +</p> +<p> +Now it is useless to dictate to others the aims and methods of travel: +each must follow his own taste. To myself the acquisition of knowledge +and information is in these matters an entirely negligible thing. To me +the one and supreme object is the gathering of a gallery of pictures; +and yet that is not a definite object either, for the whimsical and +stubborn spirit refuses to be bound by any regulations in the matter. +It will garner up with the most poignant care a single vignette, a +tiny detail. I see, as I write, the vision of a great golden-grey +carp swimming lazily in the clear pool of Arethusa, the carpet of +mesembryanthemum that, for some fancy of its own, chose to involve the +whole of a railway viaduct with its flaunting magenta flowers and its +fleshy leaves. I see the edge of the sea, near Syracuse, rimmed with a +line of the intensest yellow, and I hear the voice of a guide explaining +that it was caused by the breaking up of a stranded orange-boat, so that +the waves for many hundred yards threw up on the beach a wrack of fruit; +yet the same wilful and perverse mind will stand impenetrably dumb and +blind before the noblest and sweetest prospect, and decline to receive +any impression at all. What is perhaps the oddest characteristic of the +tricksy spirit is that it often chooses moments of intense discomfort +and fatigue to master some scene, and take its indelible picture. I +suppose that the reason of this is that the mind makes, at such moments, +a vigorous effort to protest against the tyranny of the vile body, and +to distract itself from instant cares. +</p> +<p> +But another man may travel for archaeological or even statistical +reasons. He may wish, like Ulysses, to study "manners, councils, +customs, governments." He may be preoccupied with questions of +architectural style or periods of sculpture. I have a friend who takes +up at intervals the study of the pictures of a particular master, and +will take endless trouble and undergo incredible discomfort, in order +to see the vilest daubs, if only he can make his list complete, and say +that he has seen all the reputed works of the master. This instinct +is, I believe, nothing but the survival of the childish instinct for +collecting, and though I can reluctantly admire any man who spares no +trouble to gain an end, the motive is dark and unintelligible to me. +</p> +<p> +There are some travellers, like Dean Stanley, who drift from the +appreciation of natural scenery into the pursuit of historical +associations. The story of Stanley as a boy, when he had his first sight +of the snowy Alps on the horizon, always delights me. He danced about +saying, "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?" But, in later days, +Stanley would not go a mile to see a view, while he would travel all +night to see a few stones of a ruin, jutting out of a farmyard wall, if +only there was some human and historical tradition connected with the +place. I do not myself understand that. I should not wish to see Etna +merely because Empedocles is supposed to have jumped down the crater, +nor the site of Jericho because the walls fell down at the trumpets +of the host. The only interest to me in an historical scene is that +it should be in such a condition as that one can to a certain extent +reconstruct the original drama, and be sure that one's eyes rest upon +very much the same scene as the actors saw. The reason why Syracuse +moved me by its acquired beauty, and not for its historical +associations, was because I felt convinced that Thucydides, who gives so +picturesque a description of the sea-fight, can never have set eyes on +the place, and must have embroidered his account from scanty hearsay. +But, on the other hand, there are few things in the world more +profoundly moving than to see a place where great thoughts have been +conceived and great books written, when one is able to feel that the +scene is hardly changed. The other day, as I passed before the +sacred gate of Rydal Mount, I took my hat off my head with a sense of +indescribable reverence. My companion asked me laughingly why I did so. +"Why?" I said. "From natural piety, of course! I know every detail here +as well as if I had lived here, and I have walked in thought a hundred +times with the poet, to and fro in the laurelled walks of the garden, up +the green shoulder of Nab Scar, and sat in the little parlour, while +the fire leapt on the hearth, and heard him 'booing' his verses, to be +copied by some friendly hand." +</p> +<p> +I thrill to see the stately rooms of Abbotsford, with all their sham +feudal decorations, the little staircase by which Scott stole away +to his solitary work, the folded clothes, the shapeless hat, the ugly +shoes, laid away in the glass case; the plantations where he walked with +his shrewd bailiff, the place where he stopped so often on the shoulder +of the slope, to look at the Eildon Hills, the rooms where he sat, a +broken and bereaved man, yet with so gallant a spirit, to wrestle with +sorrow and adversity. I wept, I am not ashamed to say, at Abbotsford, at +the sight of the stately Tweed rolling his silvery flood past lawns and +shrubberies, to think of that kindly, brave, and honourable heart, and +his passionate love of all the goodly and cheerful joys of life and +earth. +</p> +<p> +Or, again, it was a solemn day for me to pass from the humble tenement +where Coleridge lived, at Nether Stowey, before the cloud of sad habit +had darkened his horizon, and turned him away from the wells of poetry +into the deserts of metaphysical speculation, to find, if he could, some +medicine for his tortured spirit. I walked with a holy awe along the +leafy lanes to Alfoxden, where the beautiful house nestles in the +green combe among its oaks, thinking how here, and here, Wordsworth and +Coleridge had walked together in the glad days of youth, and planned, +in obscurity and secluded joy, the fresh and lovely lyrics of their +matin-prime. +</p> +<p> +I turn, I confess, more eagerly to scenes like these than to scenes of +historical and political tradition, because there hangs for me a glory +about the scene of the conception and genesis of beautiful imaginative +work that is unlike any glory that the earth holds. The natural joy of +the youthful spirit receiving the impact of mighty thoughts, of poignant +impressions, has for me a liberty and a grace which no historical or +political associations could ever possess. I could not glow to see +the room in which a statesman worked out the details of a Bill for the +extension of the franchise, or a modification of the duties upon imports +and exports, though I respect the growing powers of democracy and the +extinction of privilege and monopoly; but these measures are dimmed and +tainted with intrigue and manoeuvre and statecraft. I do not deny their +importance, their worth, their nobleness. But not by committees and +legislation does humanity triumph. In the vanguard go the blessed +adventurous spirits that quicken the moral temperature, and uplift the +banner of simplicity and sincerity. The host marches heavily behind, and +the commissariat rolls grumbling in the rear of all; and though my place +may be with the work-a-day herd, I will send my fancy afar among the +leafy valleys and the far-off hills of hope. +</p> +<p> +But I would not here quarrel with the taste of any man. If a mortal +chooses to travel in search of comfortable rooms, new cookery and wines, +the livelier gossip of unknown people, in heaven's name let him do so. +If another wishes to study economic conditions, standards of life, +rates of wages, he has my gracious leave for his pilgrimage. If another +desires to amass historical and archaeological facts, measurements +of hypaethral temples, modes of burial, folk-lore, fortification, +God forbid that I should throw cold water on the quest. But the only +traveller whom I recognise as a kindred spirit is the man who goes in +search of impressions and effects, of tone and atmosphere, of rare and +curious beauty, of uplifting association. Nothing that has ever moved +the interest, or the anxiety, or the care, or the wonder, of human +beings can ever wholly lose its charm. I have felt my skin prickle and +creep at the sight of that amazing thing in the Dublin museum, a section +dug bodily out of a claypit, and showing the rough-hewn stones of a +cist, deep in the earth, the gravel over it and around it, the roots +of the withered grass forming a crust many feet above, and, inside the +cist, the rude urn, reversed over a heap of charred ashes; it was not +the curiosity of the sight that moved me, but the thought of the old +dark life revealed, the dim and savage world, that was yet shot through +and pierced, even as now, with sorrow for death, and care for the +beloved ashes of a friend and chieftain. Such a sight sets a viewless +network of emotion, which seems to interlace far back into the ages, +all pulsating and stirring. One sees in a flash that humanity lived, +carelessly and brutally perhaps, as we too live, and were confronted, as +we are confronted, with the horror of the gap, the intolerable +mystery of life lapsing into the dark. Ah, the relentless record, the +impenetrable mystery! I care very little, I fear, for the historical +development of funereal rites, and hardly more for the light that such +things throw on the evolution of society. I leave that gratefully enough +to the philosophers. What I care for is the touch of nature that shows +me my ancient brethren of the dim past—who would have mocked and +ridiculed me, I doubt not, if I had fallen into their hands, and killed +me as carelessly as one throws aside the rind of a squeezed fruit—yet +I am one of them, and perhaps even something of their blood flows in my +veins yet. +</p> +<p> +As I grow older, I tend to travel less and less, and I do not care if +I never cross the Channel again. Is there a right and a wrong in the +matter, an advisability or an inadvisability, an expediency or an +inexpediency? I do not think so. Travelling is a pleasure, if it is +anything, and a pleasure pursued from a sense of duty is a very fatuous +thing. I have no good reason to give, only an accumulation of small +reasons. Dr. Johnson once said that any number of insufficient reasons +did not make a sufficient one, just as a number of rabbits did not make +a horse. A lively but misleading illustration: he might as well have +said that any number of sovereigns did not make a cheque for a hundred +pounds. I suppose that I do not like the trouble, to start with; and +then I do not like being adrift from my own beloved country. Then +I cannot converse in any foreign language, and half the pleasure of +travelling comes from being able to lay oneself alongside of a new point +of view. Then, too, I realise, as I grow older, how little I have really +seen of my own incomparably beautiful and delightful land, so that, like +the hero of Newman's hymn, +</p> +<pre> + "I do not ask to see + The distant scene; one step enough for me." +</pre> +<p> +And, lastly, I have a reason which will perhaps seem a far-fetched one. +Travel is essentially a distraction, and I do not want to be distracted +any more. One of the mistakes that people make, in these Western +latitudes, is to be possessed by an inordinate desire to drown thought. +The aim of many men whom I know seems to me to be occupied in some +absolutely definite way, so that they may be as far as possible +unaware of their own existence. Anything to avoid reflection! A normal +Englishman does not care very much what the work and value of his +occupation is, as long as he is occupied; and I am not at all sure that +we came into the world to be occupied. Christ, in the Gospel story, +rebuked the busy Martha for her bustling anxieties, her elaborate +attentions to her guests, and praised the leisurely Mary for desiring to +sit and hear Him talk. Socrates spent his life in conversation. I do not +say that contemplation is a duty, but I cannot help thinking that we +are not forbidden to scrutinise life, to wonder what it is all about, to +study its problems, to apprehend its beauty and significance. We admire +a man who goes on making money long after he has made far more than he +needs; we think a life honourably spent in editing Greek books. Socrates +in one of Plato's dialogues quotes the opinion of a philosopher to the +effect that when a man has made enough to live upon, he should begin +to practise virtue. "I think he should begin even earlier," says the +interlocutor; and I am wholly in agreement with him. Travel is one of +the expedients to which busy men resort, in order that they may forget +their existence. I do not venture to think this exactly culpable, but I +feel sure that it is a pity that people do not do less and think more. +If a man asks what good comes from thinking, I can only retort by asking +what good comes from the multiplication of unnecessary activity. I am +quite as much at a loss as any one else to say what is the object of +life, but I do not feel any doubt that we are not sent into the world +to be in a fuss. Like the lobster in The Water-Babies, I cry, "Let me +alone; I want to think!" because I believe that that occupation is at +least as profitable as many others. +</p> +<p> +And then, too, without travelling more than a few miles from my door, +I can see things fully as enchanting as I can see by ranging Europe. I +went to-day along a well-known road; just where the descent begins to +fall into a quiet valley, there stands a windmill—not one of the ugly +black circular towers that one sometimes sees, but one of the old crazy +boarded sort, standing on a kind of stalk; out of the little +loopholes of the mill the flour had dusted itself prettily over the +weather-boarding. From a mysterious hatch half-way up leaned the miller, +drawing up a sack of grain with a little pulley. There is nothing so +enchanting as to see a man leaning out of a dark doorway high up in +the air. He drew the sack in, he closed the panel. The sails whirled, +flapping and creaking; and I loved to think of him in the dusty gloom, +with the gear grumbling among the rafters, tipping the golden grain into +its funnel, while the rattling hopper below poured out its soft stream +of flour. Beyond the mill, the ground sank to a valley; the roofs +clustered round a great church tower, the belfry windows blinking +solemnly. Hard by the ancient Hall peeped out from its avenue of elms. +That was a picture as sweet as anything I have ever seen abroad, +as perfect a piece of art as could be framed, and more perfect than +anything that could be painted, because it was a piece out of the old +kindly, quiet life of the world. One ought to learn, as the years flow +on, to love such scenes as that, and not to need to have the blood and +the brain stirred by romantic prospects, peaked hills, well-furnished +galleries, magnificent buildings: mutare animum, that is the secret, to +grow more hopeful, more alive to delicate beauties, more tender, less +exacting. Nothing, it is true, can give us peace; but we get nearer it +by loving the familiar scene, the old homestead, the tiny valley, +the wayside copse, than we do by racing over Europe on the track +of Giorgione, or over Asia in pursuit of local colour. After all, +everything has its appointed time. It is good to range in youth, to rub +elbows with humanity, and then, as the days go on, to take stock, to +remember, to wonder, "To be content with little, to serve beauty well." +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VI. SPECIALISM +</h2> +<p> +It is a very curious thing to reflect how often an old platitude or +axiom retains its vitality, long after the conditions which gave it +birth have altered, and it no longer represents a truth. It would +not matter if such platitudes only lived on dustily in vapid and +ill-furnished minds, like the vases of milky-green opaque glass +decorated with golden stars, that were the joy of Early Victorian +chimney-pieces, and now hold spills in the second-best spare bedroom. +But like the psalmist's enemies, platitudes live and are mighty. They +remain, and, alas! they have the force of arguments in the minds +of sturdy unreflective men, who describe themselves as plain, +straightforward people, and whose opinions carry weight in a community +whose feelings are swayed by the statements of successful men rather +than by the conclusions of reasonable men. +</p> +<p> +One of these pernicious platitudes is the statement that every one ought +to know something about everything and everything about something. It +has a speciously epigrammatic air about it, dazzling enough to persuade +the common-sense person that it is an intellectual judgment. +</p> +<p> +As a matter of fact, under present conditions, it represents an +impossible and even undesirable ideal. A man who tried to know something +about everything would end in knowing very little about anything; and +the most exhaustive programme that could be laid down for the most +erudite of savants nowadays would be that he should know anything about +anything, while the most resolute of specialists must be content with +knowing something about something. +</p> +<p> +A well-informed friend told me, the other day, the name and date of +a man who, he said, could be described as the last person who knew +practically everything at his date that was worth knowing. I have +forgotten both the name and the date and the friend who told me, but I +believe that the learned man in question was a cardinal in the sixteenth +century. At the present time, the problem of the accumulation of +knowledge and the multiplication of books is a very serious one indeed. +It is, however, morbid to allow it to trouble the mind. Like all +insoluble problems, it will settle itself in a way so obvious that the +people who solve it will wonder that any one could ever have doubted +what the solution would be, just as the problem of the depletion of the +world's stock of coal will no doubt be solved in some perfectly simple +fashion. +</p> +<p> +The dictum in question is generally quoted as an educational formula in +favour of giving every one what is called a sound general education. +And it is probably one of the contributory causes which account for the +present chaos of curricula. All subjects are held to be so important, +and each subject is thought by its professors to be so peculiarly +adapted for educational stimulus, that a resolute selection of subjects, +which is the only remedy, is not attempted; and accordingly the victim +of educational theories is in the predicament of the man described by +Dr. Johnson who could not make up his mind which leg of his breeches +he would put his foot into first. Meanwhile, said the Doctor, with a +directness of speech which requires to be palliated, the process of +investiture is suspended. +</p> +<p> +But the practical result of the dilemma is the rise of specialism. The +savant is dead and the specialist rules. It is interesting to try to +trace the effect of this revolution upon our national culture. +</p> +<p> +Now, I have no desire whatever to take up the cudgels against the +specialists: they are a harmless and necessary race, so long as they are +aware of their limitations. But the tyranny of an oligarchy is the +worst kind of tyranny, because it means the triumph of an average over +individuals, whereas the worst that can be said of a despotism is that +it is the triumph of an individual over an average. The tyranny of the +specialistic oligarchy is making itself felt to-day, and I should like +to fortify the revolutionary spirit of liberty, whose boast it is +to detest tyranny in all its forms, whether it is the tyranny of an +enlightened despot, or the tyranny of a virtuous oligarchy, or the +tyranny of an intelligent democracy. +</p> +<p> +The first evil which results from the rule of the specialist is the +destruction of the AMATEUR. So real a fact is the tyranny of the +specialist that the very word "amateur," which means a leisurely lover +of fine things, is beginning to be distorted into meaning an inefficient +performer. As an instance of its correct and idiomatic use, I often +think of the delightful landlord whom Stevenson encountered somewhere, +and upon whom he pressed some Burgundy which he had with him. The +generous host courteously refused a second glass, saying, "You see I +am an amateur of these things, and I am capable of leaving you +not sufficient." Now, I shall concern myself here principally with +literature, because, in England at all events, literature plays the +largest part in general culture. It may be said that we owe some of the +best literature we have to amateurs. To contrast a few names, taken at +random, Shakespeare, Dryden, Pope, Dr. Johnson, De Quincey, Tennyson, +and Carlyle were professionals, it is true; but, on the other hand, +Milton, Gray, Boswell, Walter Scott, Charles Lamb, Shelley, Browning, +and Ruskin were amateurs. It is not a question of how much a man writes +or publishes, it is a question of the spirit in which a man writes. +Walter Scott became a professional in the last years of his life, and +for the noblest of reasons; but he also became a bad writer. A good pair +to contrast are Southey and Coleridge. They began as amateurs. Southey +became a professional writer, and his sun set in the mists of valuable +information. Coleridge, as an amateur, enriched the language with a +few priceless poems, and then got involved in the morass of dialectical +metaphysics. The point is whether a man writes simply because he cannot +help it, or whether he writes to make an income. The latter motive does +not by any means prevent his doing first-rate artistic work—indeed, +there are certain persons who seem to have required the stimulus of +necessity to make them break through an initial indolence of nature. +When Johnson found fault with Gray for having times of the year when +he wrote more easily, from the vernal to the autumnal equinox, he added +that a man could write at any time if he set himself doggedly to +it. True, no doubt! But to write doggedly is not to court favourable +conditions for artistic work. It may be a finer sight for a moralist to +see a man performing an appointed task heavily and faithfully, with grim +tenacity, than it is to see an artist in a frenzy of delight dashing +down an overpowering impression of beauty; but what has always hampered +the British appreciation of literature is that we cannot disentangle the +moral element from it: we are interested in morals, not in art, and we +require a dash of optimistic piety in all writing that we propose to +enjoy. +</p> +<p> +The real question is whether, if a man sets himself doggedly to work, +the appetite comes with eating, and whether the caged bird begins to +flutter its wings and to send out the song that it learnt in the green +heart of the wood. When Byron said that easy writing made damned hard +reading, he meant that careless conception and hasty workmanship tend +to blur the pattern and the colour of work. The fault of the amateur is +that he can make the coat, but he cannot be bothered to make it fit. But +it is not by any means true that hard writing makes easy reading. The +spirit of the amateur is the spirit of the lover, who trembles at the +thought that the delicate creature he loves may learn to love him in +return, if he can but praise her worthily. The professional spirit is +the spirit in which a man carefully and courteously woos an elderly +spinster for the sake of her comfortable fortune. The amateur has an +irresponsible joy in his work; he is like the golfer who dreams +of mighty drives, and practises "putting" on his back lawn: the +professional writer gives his solid hours to his work in a conscientious +spirit, and is glad in hours of freedom to put the tiresome business +away. Yet neither the amateur nor the professional can hope to capture +the spirit of art by joy or faithfulness. It is a kind of divine +felicity, when all is said and done, the kindly gift of God. +</p> +<p> +Now into this free wild world of art and literature and music comes +the specialist and pegs out his claim, fencing out the amateur, who is +essentially a rambler, from a hundred eligible situations. In literature +this is particularly the case: the amateur is told by the historian that +he must not intrude upon history; that history is a science, and not +a province of literature; that the time has not come to draw any +conclusions or to summarise any tendencies; that picturesque narrative +is an offence against the spirit of Truth; that no one is as black or as +white as he is painted; and that to trifle with history is to commit a +sin compounded of the sin of Ananias and Simon Magus. The amateur runs +off, his hands over his ears, and henceforth hardly dares even to +read history, to say nothing of writing it. Perhaps I draw too harsh +a picture, but the truth is that I did, as a very young man, with no +training except that provided by a sketchy knowledge of the classics, +once attempt to write an historical biography. I shudder to think of +my method and equipment; I skipped the dull parts, I left all tiresome +documents unread. It was a sad farrago of enthusiasm and levity and +heady writing. But Jove's thunder rolled and the bolt fell. A just +man, whom I have never quite forgiven, to tell the truth, told me with +unnecessary rigour and acrimony that I had made a pitiable exhibition +of myself. But I have thanked God ever since, for I turned to literature +pure and simple. +</p> +<p> +Then, too, it is the same with art-criticism; here the amateur again, +who, poor fool, is on the look-out for what is beautiful, is told that +he must not meddle with art unless he does it seriously, which +means that he must devote himself mainly to the study of inferior +masterpieces, and schools, and tendencies. In literature it is the same; +he must not devote himself to reading and loving great books, he must +disentangle influences; he must discern the historical importance of +writers, worthless in themselves, who form important links. In theology +and in philosophy it is much the same: he must not read the Bible and +say what he feels about it; he must unravel Rabbinical and Talmudic +tendencies; he must acquaint himself with the heretical leanings of a +certain era, and the shadow cast upon the page by apocryphal tradition. +In philosophy he is still worse off, because he must plumb the depths of +metaphysical jargon and master the criticism of methods. +</p> +<p> +Now, this is in a degree both right and necessary, because the blind +must not attempt to lead the blind; but it is treating the whole thing +in too strictly scientific a spirit for all that. The misery of it is +that the work of the specialist in all these regions tends to set a +hedge about the law; it tends to accumulate and perpetuate a vast amount +of inferior work. The result of it is, in literature, for instance, +that an immense amount of second-rate and third-rate books go on being +reprinted; and instead of the principle of selection being applied to +great authors, and their inferior writings being allowed to lapse into +oblivion, they go on being re-issued, not because they have any +direct value for the human spirit, but because they have a scientific +importance from the point of view of development. Yet for the ordinary +human being it is far more important that he should read great +masterpieces in a spirit of lively and enthusiastic sympathy than +that he should wade into them through a mass of archaeological and +philological detail. As a boy I used to have to prepare, on occasions, +a play of Shakespeare for a holiday task. I have regarded certain plays +with a kind of horror ever since, because one ended by learning up the +introduction, which concerned itself with the origin of the play, and +the notes which illustrated the meaning of such words as "kerns and +gallowglasses," and left the action and the poetry and the emotion +of the play to take care of themselves. This was due partly to the +blighting influence of examination-papers set by men of sterile, +conscientious brains, but partly to the terrible value set by British +minds upon correct information. The truth really is that if one begins +by caring for a work of art, one also cares to understand the medium +through which it is conveyed; but if one begins by studying the medium +first, one is apt to end by loathing the masterpiece, because of the +dusty apparatus that it seems liable to collect about itself. +</p> +<p> +The result of the influence of the specialist upon literature is that +the amateur, hustled from any region where the historical and scientific +method can be applied, turns his attention to the field of pure +imagination, where he cannot be interfered with. And this, I believe, is +one of the reasons why belles-lettres in the more precise sense tend to +be deserted in favour of fiction. Sympathetic and imaginative criticism +is so apt to be stamped upon by the erudite, who cry out so lamentably +over errors and minute slips, that the novel seems to be the only safe +vantage-ground in which the amateur may disport himself. +</p> +<p> +But if the specialist is to the amateur what the hawk is to the dove, +let us go further, and in a spirit of love, like Mr. Chadband, inquire +what is the effect of specialism on the mind of the specialist. I +have had the opportunity of meeting many specialists, and I say +unhesitatingly that the effect largely depends upon the natural +temperament of the individual. As a general rule, the great specialist +is a wise, kindly, humble, delightful man. He perceives that though he +has spent his whole life upon a subject or a fraction of a subject, he +knows hardly anything about it compared to what there is to know. The +track of knowledge glimmers far ahead of him, rising and falling like a +road over solitary downs. He knows that it will not be given to him to +advance very far upon the path, and he half envies those who shall come +after, to whom many things that are dark mysteries to himself will be +clear and plain. But he sees, too, how the dim avenues of knowledge +reach out in every direction, interlacing and combining, and when he +contrasts the tiny powers of the most subtle brain with all the wide +range of law—for the knowledge which is to be, not invented, but +simply discovered, is all assuredly there, secret and complex as it +seems—there is but little room for complacency or pride. Indeed, +I think that a great savant, as a rule, feels that instead of being +separated by his store of knowledge, as by a wide space that he has +crossed, from smaller minds, he is brought closer to the ignorant by the +presence of the vast unknown. Instead of feeling that he has soared like +a rocket away from the ground, he thinks of himself rather as a flower +might think whose head was an inch or two higher than a great company +of similar flowers; he has perhaps a wider view; he sees the bounding +hedgerow, the distant line of hills, whereas the humbler flower sees +little but a forest of stems and blooms, with the light falling dimly +between. And a great savant, too, is far more ready to credit other +people with a wider knowledge than they possess. It is the lesser kind +of savant, the man of one book, of one province, of one period, who is +inclined to think that he is differentiated from the crowd. The great +man is far too much preoccupied with real progress to waste time and +energy in showing up the mistakes of others. It is the lesser kind of +savant, jealous of his own reputation, anxious to show his superiority, +who loves to censure and deride the feebler brother. If one ever sees a +relentless and pitiless review of a book—an exposure, as it is called, +by one specialist of another's work—one may be fairly certain that the +critic is a minute kind of person. Again, the great specialist is never +anxious to obtrude his subject; he is rather anxious to hear what is +going on in other regions of mental activity, regions which he would +like to explore but cannot. It is the lesser light that desires to +dazzle and bewilder his company, to tyrannise, to show off. It is the +most difficult thing to get a great savant to talk about his subject, +though, if he is kind and patient, will answer unintelligent questions, +and help a feeble mind along, it is one of the most delightful things +in the world. I seized the opportunity some little while ago, on finding +myself sitting next to a great physicist, of asking him a series of +fumbling questions on the subject of modern theories of matter; for an +hour I stumbled like a child, supported by a strong hand, in a dim and +unfamiliar world, among the mysterious essences of things. I should like +to try to reproduce it here, but I have no doubt I should reproduce it +all wrong. Still, it was deeply inspiring to look out into chaos, to +hear the rush and motion of atoms, moving in vast vortices, to learn +that inside the hardest and most impenetrable of substances there was +probably a feverish intensity of inner motion. I do not know that I +acquired any precise knowledge, but I drank deep draughts of wonder +and awe. The great man, with his amused and weary smile, was infinitely +gentle, and left me, I will say, far more conscious of the beauty and +the holiness of knowledge. I said something to him about the sense of +power that such knowledge must give. "Ah!" he said, "much of what I have +told you is not proved, it is only suspected. We are very much in the +dark about these things yet. Probably if a physicist of a hundred years +hence could overhear me, he would be amazed to think that a sensible man +could make such puerile statements. Power—no, it is not that! It rather +makes one realise one's feebleness in being so uncertain about things +that are absolutely certain and precise in themselves, if we could +but see the truth. It is much more like the apostle who said, 'Lord, I +believe; help Thou my unbelief.' The thing one wonders at is the courage +of the men who dare to think they KNOW." +</p> +<p> +In one region I own that I dread and dislike the tyranny of the +specialist, and that is the region of metaphysical and religious +speculation. People who indulge themselves in this form of speculation +are apt to be told by theologians and metaphysicians that they ought +to acquaint themselves with the trend of theological and metaphysical +criticism. It seems to me like telling people that they must not ascend +mountains unless they are accompanied by guides, and have studied the +history of previous ascents. "Yes," the professional says, "that is just +what I mean; it is mere foolhardiness to attempt these arduous places +unless you know exactly what you are about." +</p> +<p> +To that I reply that no one is bound to go up hills, but that every +one who reflects at all is confronted by religious and philosophical +problems. We all have to live, and we are all more or less experts in +life. When one considers the infinite importance to every human spirit +of these problems, and when one further considers how very little +theologians and philosophers have ever effected in the direction of +enlightening us as to the object of life, the problem of pain and evil, +the preservation of identity after death, the question of necessity and +free-will, surely, to attempt to silence people on these matters because +they have not had a technical training is nothing more than an attempt +wilfully to suppress evidence on these points? The only way in which it +may be possible to arrive at the solution of these things is to know +how they appeal to and affect normal minds. I would rather hear the +experience of a life-long sufferer on the problem of pain, or of a +faithful lover on the mystery of love, or of a poet on the influence of +natural beauty, or of an unselfish and humble saint on the question of +faith in the unseen, than the evidence of the most subtle theologian or +metaphysician in the world. Many of us, if we are specialists in nothing +else, are specialists in life; we have arrived at a point of view; some +particular aspect of things has come home to us with a special force; +and what really enriches the hope and faith of the world is the +experience of candid and sincere persons. The specialist has often +had no time or opportunity to observe life; all he has observed is the +thought of other secluded persons, persons whose view has been both +narrow and conventional, because they have not had the opportunity of +correcting their traditional preconceptions by life itself. +</p> +<p> +I call, with all the earnestness that I can muster, upon all +intelligent, observant, speculative people, who have felt the problems +of life weigh heavily upon them, not to be dismayed by the disapproval +of technical students, but to come forward and tell us what conclusions +they have formed. The work of the trained specialist is essentially, in +religion and philosophy, a negative work. He can show us how erroneous +beliefs, which coloured the minds of men at certain ages and eras, +grew up. He can show us what can be disregarded, as being only the +conventional belief of the time; he can indicate, for instance, how a +false conception of supernatural interference with natural law grew up +in an age when, for want of trained knowledge, facts seemed fortuitous +occurrences which were really conditioned by natural laws. The poet +and the idealist make and cast abroad the great vital ideas, which the +specialist picks up and analyses. But we must not stop at analysis; we +want positive progress as well. We want people to tell us, candidly and +simply, how their own soul grew, how it cast off conventional beliefs, +how it justified itself in being hopeful or the reverse. There never was +a time when more freedom of thought and expression was conceded to the +individual. A man is no longer socially banned for being heretical, +schismatic, or liberal-minded. I want people to say frankly what real +part spiritual agencies or religious ideas have played in their lives, +whether such agencies and ideas have modified their conduct, or have +been modified by their inclinations and habits. I long to know a +thousand things about my fellow-men—how they bear pain, how they +confront the prospect of death, the hopes by which they live, the fears +that overshadow them, the stuff of their lives, the influence of their +emotions. It has long been thought, and it is still thought by many +narrow precisians, indelicate and egotistical to do this. And the result +is that we can find in books all the things that do not matter, while +the thoughts that are of deep and vital interest are withheld. +</p> +<p> +Such books as Montaigne's Essays, Rousseau's Confessions, Mrs. Carlyle's +Letters, Mrs. Oliphant's Memoirs, the Autobiography of B. R. Haydon, to +name but a few books that come into my mind, are the sort of books that +I crave for, because they are books in which one sees right into the +heart and soul of another. Men can confess to a book what they cannot +confess to a friend. Why should it be necessary to veil this essence +of humanity in the dreary melodrama, the trite incident of a novel or +a play? Things in life do not happen as they happen in novels or plays. +Oliver Twist, in real life, does not get accidentally adopted by his +grandfather's oldest friend, and commit his sole burglary in the +house of his aunt. We do not want life to be transplanted into trim +garden-plots; we want to see it at home, as it grows in all its native +wildness, on the one hand; and to know the idea, the theory, the +principle that underlie it on the other. How few of us there are who +MAKE our lives into anything! We accept our limitations, we drift with +them, while we indignantly assert the freedom of the will. The best +sermon in the world is to hear of one who has struggled with life, bent +or trained it to his will, plucked or rejected its fruit, but all upon +some principle. It matters little what we do; it matters enormously how +we do it. Considering how much has been said, and sung, and written, and +recorded, and prated, and imagined, it is strange to think how little +is ever told us directly about life; we see it in glimpses and flashes, +through half-open doors, or as one sees it from a train gliding into +a great town, and looks into back windows and yards sheltered from the +street. We philosophise, most of us, about anything but life; and one +of the reasons why published sermons have such vast sales is because, +however clumsily and conventionally, it is with life that they try to +deal. +</p> +<p> +This kind of specialising is not recognised as a technical form of it at +all, and yet how far nearer and closer and more urgent it is for us than +any other kind. I have a hope that we are at the beginning of an era of +plain-speaking in these matters. Too often, with the literary standard +of decorum which prevails, such self-revelations are brushed aside as +morbid, introspective, egotistical. They are no more so than any other +kind of investigation, for all investigation is conditioned by the +personality of the investigator. All that is needed is that an observer +of life should be perfectly candid and sincere, that he should not +speak in a spirit of vanity or self-glorification, that he should try to +disentangle what are the real motives that make him act or refrain from +acting. +</p> +<p> +As an instance of what I mean by confession of the frankest order, +dealing in this case not only with literature but also with morality, +let me take the sorrowful words which Ruskin wrote in his Praeterita, as +a wearied and saddened man, when there was no longer any need for him +to pretend anything, or to involve any of his own thoughts or beliefs in +any sort of disguise. He took up Shakespeare at Macugnaga, in 1840, and +he asks why the loveliest of Shakespeare's plays should be "all mixed +and encumbered with languid and common work—to one's best hope +spurious certainly, so far as original, idle and disgraceful—and all +so inextricably and mysteriously that the writer himself is not only +unknowable, but inconceivable; and his wisdom so useless, that at this +time of being and speaking, among active and purposeful Englishmen, +I know not one who shows a trace of ever having felt a passion of +Shakespeare's, or learnt a lesson from him." +</p> +<p> +That is of course the sad cry of one who is interested in life +primarily, and in art only so far as it can minister to life. It may be +strained and exaggerated, but how far more vital a saying than to +expand in voluble and vapid enthusiasm over the insight and nobleness +of Shakespeare, if one has not really felt one's life modified by that +mysterious mind! +</p> +<p> +Of course such self-revelation as I speak of will necessarily fall into +the hands of unquiet, dissatisfied, melancholy people. If life is a +common-place and pleasant sort of business, there is nothing particular +to say or to think about it. But for all those—and they are many—who +feel that life misses, by some blind, inevitable movement, being the +gracious and beautiful thing it seems framed to be, how can such as +these hold their peace? And how, except by facing it all, and looking +patiently and bravely at it, can we find a remedy for its sore +sicknesses? That method has been used, and used with success in every +other kind of investigation, and we must investigate life too, even +if it turns out to be all a kind of Mendelism, moved and swayed by +absolutely fixed laws, which take no account of what we sorrowfully +desire. +</p> +<p> +Let us, then, gather up our threads a little. Let us first confront the +fact that, under present conditions, in the face of the mass of records +and books and accumulated traditions, arts and sciences must make +progress little by little, line by line, in skilled technical hands. +Fine achievement in every region becomes more difficult every day, +because there is so much that is finished and perfected behind us; and +if the conditions of our lives call us to some strictly limited path, +let us advance wisely and humbly, step by step, without pride or vanity. +But let us not forget, in the face of the frigidities of knowledge, +that if they are the mechanism of life, emotion and hope and love and +admiration are the steam. Knowledge is only valuable in so far as it +makes the force of life effective and vigorous. And thus if we have +breasted the strange current of life, or even if we have been ourselves +overpowered and swept away by it, let us try, in whatever region we +have the power, to let that experience have some value for ourselves +and others. If we can say it or write it, so much the better. There +are thousands of people moving through the world who are wearied and +bewildered, and who are looking out for any message of hope and joy that +may give them courage to struggle on; but if we cannot do that, we can +at least live life temperately and cheerfully and sincerely: if we have +bungled, if we have slipped, we can do something to help others not to +go light-heartedly down the miry path; we can raise them up if they +have fallen, we can cleanse the stains, or we can at least give them the +comfort of feeling that they are not sadly and insupportably alone. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VII. OUR LACK OF GREAT MEN +</h2> +<p> +It is often mournfully reiterated that the present age is not an age +of great men, and I have sometimes wondered if it is true. In the +first place I do not feel sure that an age is the best judge of its own +greatness; a great age is generally more interested in doing the things +which afterwards cause it to be considered great, than in wondering +whether it is great. Perhaps the fact that we are on the look-out for +great men, and complaining because we cannot find them, is the best +proof of our second-rateness; I do not imagine that the Elizabethan +writers were much concerned with thinking whether they were great or +not; they were much more occupied in having a splendid time, and in +saying as eagerly as they could all the delightful thoughts which came +crowding to the utterance, than in pondering whether they were worthy +of admiration. In the annals of the Renaissance one gets almost weary of +the records of brilliant persons, like Leo Battista Alberti and Leonardo +da Vinci, who were architects, sculptors, painters, musicians, athletes, +and writers all in one; who could make crowds weep by twanging a lute, +ride the most vicious horses, take standing jumps over the heads of tall +men, and who were, moreover, so impressionable that books were to them +as jewels and flowers, and who "grew faint at the sight of sunsets and +stately persons." Such as these, we may depend upon it, had little time +to give to considering their own effect upon posterity. When the sun +rules the day, there is no question about his supremacy; it is when we +are concerned with scanning the sky for lesser lights to rule the night +that we are wasting time. To go about searching for somebody to inspire +one testifies, no doubt, to a certain lack of fire and initiative. But, +on the other hand, there have been many great men whose greatness their +contemporaries did not recognise. We tend at the present time to honour +achievements when they have begun to grow a little mouldy; we seldom +accord ungrudging admiration to a prophet when he is at his best. +Moreover, in an age like the present, when the general average of +accomplishment is remarkably high, it is more difficult to detect +greatness. It is easier to see big trees when they stand out over a +copse than when they are lost in the depths of the forest. +</p> +<p> +Now there are two modes and methods of being great; one is by largeness, +the other by intensity. A great man can be cast in a big, magnanimous +mould, without any very special accomplishments or abilities; it may +be very difficult to praise any of his faculties very highly, but he +is there. Such men are the natural leaders of mankind; they effect +what they effect not by any subtlety or ingenuity. They see in a wide, +general way what they want, they gather friends and followers and +helpers round them, and put the right man on at the right piece of work. +They perform what they perform by a kind of voluminous force, which +carries other personalities away; for lesser natures, as a rule, do not +like supreme responsibility; they enjoy what is to ordinary people +the greatest luxury in the world, namely, the being sympathetically +commandeered, and duly valued. Inspiration and leadership are not common +gifts, and there are abundance of capable people who cannot strike out +a novel line of their own, but can do excellent work if they can be +inspired and led. I was once for a short time brought into close contact +with a man of this kind; it was impossible to put down on paper or to +explain to those who did not know him what his claim to greatness was. I +remember being asked by an incredulous outsider where his greatness +lay, and I could not name a single conspicuous quality that my hero +possessed. But he dominated his circle for all that, and many of them +were men of far greater intellectual force than himself. He had his +own way; if he asked one to do a particular thing, one felt proud to +be entrusted with it, and amply rewarded by a word of approval. It +was possible to take a different view from the view which he took of a +matter or a situation, but it was impossible to express one's dissent +in his presence. A few halting, fumbling words of his were more weighty +than many a facile and voluble oration. Personally I often mistrusted +his judgment, but I followed him with an eager delight. With such men +as these, posterity is often at a loss to know why they impressed their +contemporaries, or why they continue to be spoken of with reverence and +enthusiasm. The secret is that it is a kind of moral and magnetic +force, and the lamentable part of it is that such men, if they are not +enlightened and wise, may do more harm than good, because they tend to +stereotype what ought to be changed and renewed. +</p> +<p> +That is one way of greatness; a sort of big, blunt force that overwhelms +and uplifts, like a great sea-roller, yielding at a hundred small +points, yet crowding onwards in soft volume and ponderous weight. +</p> +<p> +Two interesting examples of this impressive and indescribable greatness +seem to have been Arthur Hallam and the late Mr. W. E. Henley. In the +case of Arthur Hallam, the eulogies which his friends pronounced upon +him seem couched in terms of an intemperate extravagance. The fact that +the most splendid panegyrics upon him were uttered by men of high +genius is not in itself more conclusive than if such panegyrics had been +conceived by men of lesser quality, because the greater that a man is +the more readily does he perceive and more magniloquently acknowledge +greatness. Apart from In Memoriam, Tennyson's recorded utterances about +Arthur Hallam are expressed in terms of almost hyperbolical laudation. +I once was fortunate enough to have the opportunity of asking Mr. +Gladstone about Arthur Hallam. Mr. Gladstone had been his close friend +at Eton and his constant companion. His eye flashed, his voice gathered +volume, and with a fine gesture of his hand he said that he could only +deliberately affirm that physically, intellectually, and morally, Arthur +Hallam approached more nearly to an ideal of human perfection than +any one whom he had ever seen. And yet the picture of Hallam at Eton +represents a young man of an apparently solid and commonplace type, with +a fresh colour, and almost wholly destitute of distinction or charm; +while his extant fragments of prose and poetry are heavy, verbose, and +elaborate, and without any memorable quality. It appears indeed as if +he had exercised a sort of hypnotic influence upon his contemporaries. +Neither does he seem to have produced a very gracious impression upon +outsiders who happened to meet him. There is a curious anecdote told +by some one who met Arthur Hallam travelling with his father on the +Continent only a short time before his sudden death. The narrator says +that he saw with a certain satisfaction how mercilessly the young +man criticised and exposed his father's statements, remembering how +merciless the father had often been in dealing summarily with the +arguments and statements of his own contemporaries. One asks oneself in +vain what the magnetic charm of his presence and temperament can have +been. It was undoubtedly there, and yet it seems wholly irrecoverable. +The same is true, in a different region, with the late Mr. W. E. Henley. +His literary performances, with the exception of some half-a-dozen +poetical pieces, have no great permanent value. His criticisms were +vehement and complacent, but represent no great delicacy of analysis +nor breadth of view. His treatment of Stevenson, considering the +circumstances of the case, was ungenerous and irritable. Yet those +who were brought into close contact with Henley recognised something +magnanimous, noble, and fiery about him, which evoked a passionate +devotion. I remember shortly before his death reading an appreciation +of his work by a faithful admirer, who described him as "another Dr. +Johnson," and speaking of his critical judgment, said, "Mr. Henley is +pontifical in his wrath; it pleased him, for example, to deny to De +Quincey the title to write English prose." That a criticism so arrogant, +so saugrenu, should be re-echoed with such devoted commendation is a +proof that the writer's independent judgment was simply swept away by +Henley's personality; and in both these cases one is merely brought face +to face with the fact that though men can earn the admiration of the +world by effective performance, the most spontaneous and enduring +gratitude is given to individuality. +</p> +<p> +The other way of greatness is the way of intensity, that focuses all +its impact at some brilliant point, like a rapier-thrust or a flash of +lightning. Men with this kind of greatness have generally some supreme +and dazzling accomplishment, and the rest of their nature is often +sacrificed to one radiant faculty. Their power, in some one single +direction, is absolutely distinct and unquestioned; and these are the +men who, if they can gather up and express the forces of some vague and +widespread tendency, some blind and instinctive movement of men's minds, +form as it were the cutting edge of a weapon. They do not supply the +force, but they concentrate it; and it is men of this type who are often +credited with the bringing about of some profound and revolutionary +change, because they summarise and define some huge force that is +abroad. Not to travel far for instances, such a man was Rousseau. The +air of his period was full of sentiments and emotions and ideas; he was +not himself a man of force; he was a dreamer and a poet; but he had +the matchless gift of ardent expression, and he was able to say +both trenchantly and attractively exactly what every one was vaguely +meditating. +</p> +<p> +Now let us take some of the chief departments of human effort, some of +the provinces in which men attain supreme fame, and consider what +kinds of greatness we should expect the present day to evoke. In the +department of warfare, we have had few opportunities of late to discover +high strategical genius. Our navy has been practically unemployed, +and the South African war was just the sort of campaign to reveal the +deficiencies of an elaborate and not very practical peace establishment. +Though it solidified a few reputations and pricked the bubble of some +few others, it certainly did not reveal any subtle adaptability in our +generals. It was Lord North, I think, who, when discussing with his +Cabinet a list of names of officers suggested for the conduct of a +campaign, said, "I do not know what effect these names produce upon you, +gentlemen, but I confess they make me tremble." The South African war +can hardly be said to have revealed that we have many generals who +closely corresponded to Wordsworth's description of the Happy Warrior, +but rather induced the tremulousness which Lord North experienced. +Still, if, in the strategical region, our solitary recent campaign +rather tends to prove a deficiency of men of supreme gifts, it at all +events proved a considerable degree of competence and devotion. I could +not go so far as a recent writer who regretted the termination of the +Boer War because it interrupted the evolution of tactical science, but +it is undoubtedly true that the growing aversion to war, the intense +dislike to the sacrifice of human life, creates an atmosphere +unfavourable to the development of high military genius; because great +military reputations in times past have generally been acquired by men +who had no such scruples, but who treated the material of their armies +as pawns to be freely sacrificed to the attainment of victory. +</p> +<p> +Then there is the region of statesmanship; and here it is abundantly +clear that the social conditions of the day, the democratic current +which runs with increasing spirit in political channels, is unfavourable +to the development of individual genius. The prize falls to the +sagacious opportunist; the statesman is less and less of a navigator, +and more and more of a pilot, in times when popular feeling is +conciliated and interpreted rather than inspired and guided. To be +far-seeing and daring is a disadvantage; the most approved leader is the +man who can harmonise discordant sections, and steer round obvious +and pressing difficulties. Geniality and bonhomie are more valuable +qualities than prescience or nobility of aim. The more representative +that government becomes, the more does originality give place to +malleability. The more fluid that the conceptions of a statesman are, +the greater that his adaptability is, the more acceptable he becomes. +Since Lord Beaconsfield, with all his trenchant mystery, and Mr. +Gladstone, with his voluble candour, there have been no figures of +unquestioned supremacy on the political stage. Even so, the effect in +both cases was to a great extent the effect of personality. The further +that these two men retire into the past, the more that they are +judged by the written record, the more does the tawdriness of Lord +Beaconsfield's mind, his absence of sincere convictions appear, as well +as the pedestrianism of Mr. Gladstone's mind, and his lack of critical +perception. I have heard Mr. Gladstone speak, and on one occasion I had +the task of reporting for a daily paper a private oration on a literary +subject. I was thrilled to the very marrow of my being by the address. +The parchment pallor of the orator, his glowing and blazing eyes, his +leonine air, the voice that seemed to have a sort of physical effect +on the nerves, his great sweeping gestures, all held the audience +spellbound. I felt at the time that I had never before realised the +supreme and vital importance of the subject on which he spoke. But when +I tried to reconstruct from the ashes of my industrious notes the +mental conflagration which I had witnessed, I was at a complete loss +to understand what had happened. The records were not only dull, they +seemed essentially trivial, and almost overwhelmingly unimportant. But +the magic had been there. Apart from the substance, the performance had +been literally enchanting. I do not honestly believe that Mr. Gladstone +was a man of great intellectual force, or even of very deep emotions. +He was a man of extraordinarily vigorous and robust brain, and he was a +supreme oratorical artist. +</p> +<p> +There is intellect, charm, humour in abundance in the parliamentary +forces; there was probably never a time when there were so many able and +ambitious men to be found in the rank and file of parliamentarians. +But that is not enough. There is no supremely impressive and commanding +figure on the stage; greatness seems to be distributed rather than +concentrated; but probably neither this, nor political conditions, would +prevent the generous recognition of supreme genius, if it were there to +recognise. +</p> +<p> +In art and literature, I am inclined to believe that we shall look back +to the Victorian era as a time of great activity and high performance. +The two tendencies here which militate against the appearance of the +greatest figures are, in the first place, the great accumulations of art +and literature, and in the second place the democratic desire to share +those treasures. The accumulation of pictures, music, and books makes +it undoubtedly very hard for a new artist, in whatever region, to gain +prestige. There is so much that is undoubtedly great and good for a +student of art and literature to make acquaintance with, that we are apt +to be content with the old vintages. The result is that there are a +good many artists who in a time of less productivity would have made +themselves an enduring reputation, and who now must be content to be +recognised only by a few. The difficulty can, I think, only be met by +some principle of selection being more rigidly applied. We shall have +to be content to skim the cream of the old as well as of the new, and +to allow the second-rate work of first-rate performers to sink into +oblivion. But at the same time there might be a great future before +any artist who could discover a new medium of utterance. It seems at +present, to take literature, as if every form of human expression had +been exploited. We have the lyric, the epic, the satire, the narrative, +the letter, the diary, conversation, all embalmed in art. But there is +probably some other medium possible which will become perfectly +obvious the moment it is seized upon and used. To take an instance from +pictorial art. At present, colour is only used in a genre manner, to +clothe some dramatic motive. But there seems no prima facie reason why +colour should not be used symphonically like music. In music we obtain +pleasure from an orderly sequence of vibrations, and there seems no real +reason why the eye should not be charmed with colour-sequences just as +the ear is charmed with sound-sequences. So in literature it would +seem as though we might get closer still to the expression of mere +personality, by the medium of some sublimated form of reverie, the +thought blended and tinged in the subtlest gradations, without the +clumsy necessity of sacrificing the sequence of thought to the barbarous +devices of metre and rhyme, or to the still more childish devices of +incident and drama. Flaubert, it will be remembered, looked forward to a +time when a writer would not require a subject at all, but would express +emotion and thought directly rather than pictorially. To utter the +unuttered thought—that is really the problem of literature in the +future; and if a writer could be found to free himself from all +stereotyped forms of expression, and to give utterance to the strange +texture of thought and fancy, which differentiates each single +personality so distinctly, so integrally, from other personalities, and +which we cannot communicate to our dearest and nearest, he might enter +upon a new province of art. +</p> +<p> +But the second tendency which at the present moment dominates writers +is, as I have said, the rising democratic interest in the things of the +mind. This is at present a very inchoate and uncultivated interest: +but in days of cheap publication and large audiences it dominates +many writers disastrously. The temptation is a grievous one—to take +advantage of a market—not to produce what is absolutely the best, but +what is popular and effective. It is not a wholly ignoble temptation. It +is not only the temptation of wealth, though in an age of comfort, which +values social respectability so highly, wealth is a great temptation. +But the temptation is rather to gauge success by the power of appeal. If +a man has ideas at all, he is naturally anxious to make them felt; and +if he can do it best by spreading his ideas rather thinly, by making +them attractive to enthusiastic people of inferior intellectual grip, +he feels he is doing a noble work. The truth is that in literature the +democracy desires not ideas but morality. All the best-known writers +of the Victorian age have been optimistic moralists, Browning, Ruskin, +Carlyle, Tennyson. They have been admired because they concealed their +essential conventionality under a slight perfume of unorthodoxy. They +all in reality pandered to the complacency of the age, in a way in which +Byron, Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats did not pander. The democracy +loves to be assured that it is generous, high-minded, and sensible. +It is in reality timid, narrow-minded, and Pharisaical. It hates +independence and originality, and loves to believe that it adores both. +It loves Mr. Kipling because he assures them that vulgarity is not a +sin; it loves Mr. Bernard Shaw because he persuades them that they are +cleverer than they imagined. The fact is that great men, in literature +at all events, must be content, at the present time, to be unrecognised +and unacclaimed. They must be content to be of the happy company of whom +Mr. Swinburne writes:— +</p> +<pre> + "In the garden of death, where the singers, whose names are deathless, + One with another make music unheard of men." +</pre> +<p> +Then there is the region of Science, and here I am not qualified +to speak, because I know no science, and have not even taught it, as Mr. +Arthur Sidgwick said. I do not really know what constitutes greatness +in science. I suppose that the great man of science is the man who to a +power of endlessly patient investigation joins a splendid imaginative, +or perhaps deductive power, like Newton or Darwin. But we who stand at +the threshold of the scientific era are perhaps too near the light, and +too much dazzled by the results of scientific discovery to say who is +great and who is not great. I have met several distinguished men of +science, and I have thought some of them to be men of obviously +high intellectual gifts, and some of them men of inert and secretive +temperaments. But that is only natural, for to be great in other +departments generally implies a certain knowledge of the world, or at +all events of the thought of the world; whereas the great man of +science may be moving in regions of thought that may be absolutely +incommunicable to the ordinary person. But I do not suppose that +scientific greatness is a thing which can be measured by the importance +of the practical results of a discovery. I mean that a man may hit upon +some process, or some treatment of disease, which may be of incalculable +benefit to humanity, and yet not be really a great man of science, only +a fortunate discoverer, and incidentally a great benefactor to humanity. +The unknown discoverers of things like the screw or the wheel, persons +lost in the mists of antiquity, could not, I suppose, be ranked as great +men of science. The great man of science is the man who can draw +some stupendous inference, which revolutionises thought and sets men +hopefully at work on some problem which does not so much add to the +convenience of humanity as define the laws of nature. We are still +surrounded by innumerable and awful mysteries of life and being; the +evidence which will lead to their solution is probably in our hands and +plain enough, if any one could but see the bearing of facts which are +known to the simplest child. There is little doubt, I suppose, that +the greatest reputations of recent years have been made in science; and +perhaps when our present age has globed itself into a cycle, we shall be +amazed at the complaint that the present era is lacking in great men. We +are busy in looking for greatness in so many directions, and we are apt +to suppose, from long use, that greatness is so inseparably connected +with some form of human expression, whether it be the utterance of +thought, or the marshalling of armies, that we may be overlooking a more +stable form of greatness, which will be patent to those that come +after. My own belief is that the condition of science at the present day +answers best to the conditions which we have learnt to recognise in +the past as the fruitful soil of greatness. I mean that when we put our +finger, in the past, on some period which seems to have been producing +great work in a great way, we generally find it in some knot or school +of people, intensely absorbed in what they were doing, and doing it with +a whole-hearted enjoyment, loving the work more than the rewards of +it, and indifferent to the pursuit of fame. Such it seems to me is the +condition of science at the present time, and it is in science, I am +inclined to think, that our heroes are probably to be found. +</p> +<p> +I do not, then, feel at all sure that we are lacking in great men, +though it must be admitted that we are lacking in men whose supremacy is +recognised. I suppose we mean by a great man one who in some region of +human performance is confessedly pre-eminent; and he must further have +a theory of his own, and a power of pursuing that theory in the face +of depreciation and even hostility. I do not think that great men have +often been indifferent to criticism. Often, indeed, by virtue of a +greater sensitiveness and a keener perception, they have been profoundly +affected by unpopularity and the sense of being misunderstood. Carlyle, +Tennyson, Ruskin, for instance, were men of almost morbid sensibility, +and lived in sadness; and, on the other hand, there are few great men +who have not been affected for the worse by premature success. The best +soil for greatness to grow up in would seem to be an early isolation, +sustained against the disregard of the world by the affection and +admiration of a few kindred minds. Then when the great man has learned +his method and his message, and learned too not to over-value the +popular verdict, success may mature and mellow his powers. Yet of how +many great men can this be said? As a rule, indeed, a great man's best +work has been done in solitude and disfavour, and he has attained his +sunshine when he can no longer do his best work. +</p> +<p> +The question is whether the modern conditions of life are unfavourable +to greatness; and I think that it must be confessed that they are. In +the first place, we all know so much too about each other, and there +is so eager a personal curiosity abroad, a curiosity about the +smallest details of the life of any one who seems to have any power of +performance, that it encourages men to over-confidence, egotism, +and mannerism. Again, the world is so much in love with novelty and +sensation of all kinds, that facile successes are easily made and as +easily obliterated. What so many people admire is not greatness, but the +realisation of greatness and its tangible rewards. The result of this is +that men who show any faculty for impressing the world are exploited and +caressed, are played with as a toy, and as a toy neglected. And then, +too, the age is deeply permeated by social ambitions. Men love to be +labelled, ticketed, decorated, differentiated from the crowd. Newspapers +pander to this taste; and then the ease and rapidity of movement tempt +men to a restless variety of experience, of travel, of society, of +change, which is alien to the settled and sober temper in which great +designs are matured. There is a story, not uncharacteristic, of modern +social life, of a hostess who loved to assemble about her, in the style +of Mrs. Leo Hunter, notabilities small and great, who was reduced to +presenting a young man who made his appearance at one of her gatherings +as "Mr. ——, whose uncle, you will remember, was so terribly mangled +in the railway accident at S——." It is this feverish desire to be +distinguished at any price which has its counterpart in the feverish +desire to find objects of admiration. Not so can solid greatness be +achieved. +</p> +<p> +The plain truth is that no one can become great by taking thought, and +still less by desiring greatness. It is not an attainable thing; fame +only is attainable. A man must be great in his own quiet way, and the +greater he is, the less likely is he to concern himself with fame. It is +useless to try and copy some one else's greatness; that is like trying +to look like some one else's portrait, even if it be a portrait by +Velasquez. Not that modesty is inseparable from greatness; there are +abundance of great men who have been childishly and grotesquely vain; +but in such cases it has been a greatness of performance, a marvellous +faculty, not a greatness of soul. Hazlitt says somewhere that modesty is +the lowest of the virtues, and a real confession of the deficiency +which it indicates. He adds that a man who underrates himself is justly +undervalued by others. This is a cynical and a vulgar maxim. It is true +that a great man must have a due sense of the dignity and importance +of his work; but if he is truly great, he will have also a sense of +relation and proportion, and not forget the minuteness of any individual +atom. If he has a real greatness of soul, he will not be apt to compare +himself with others, and he will be inclined to an even over-generous +estimate of the value of the work of others. In no respect was the +greatness of D. G. Rossetti more exemplified than in his almost +extravagant appreciation of the work of his friends; and it was to this +royalty of temperament that he largely owed his personal supremacy. +</p> +<p> +I would believe then that the lack of conspicuous greatness is due +at this time to the overabundant vitality and eagerness of the world, +rather than to any languor or listlessness of spirit. The rise of the +decadent school in art and literature is not the least sign of any +indolent or corrupt deterioration. It rather shows a desperate appetite +for testing sensation, a fierce hunger for emotional experience, a +feverish ambition to impress a point-of-view. It is all part of a revolt +against settled ways and conventional theories. I do not mean that +we can expect to find greatness in this direction, for greatness is +essentially well-balanced, calm, deliberate, and decadence is a sign of +a neurotic and over-vitalised activity. +</p> +<p> +Our best hope is that this excessive restlessness of spirit will produce +a revolt against itself. The essence of greatness is unconventionality, +and restlessness is now becoming conventional. In education, in art, +in literature, in politics, in social life, we lose ourselves in +denunciations of the dreamer and the loafer. We cannot bear to see a +slowly-moving, deliberate, self-contained spirit, advancing quietly on +its discerned path. Instead of being content to perform faithfully and +conscientiously our allotted task, which is the way in which we can best +help the world, we demand that every one should want to do good, to +be responsible for some one else, to exhort, urge, beckon, restrain, +manage. That is all utterly false and hectic. Our aim should be patience +rather than effectiveness, sincerity rather than adaptability, to learn +rather than to teach, to ponder rather than to persuade, to know the +truth rather than to create illusion, however comforting, however +delightful such illusion may be. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VIII. SHYNESS +</h2> +<p> +I have no doubt that shyness is one of the old, primitive, aboriginal +qualities that lurk in human nature—one of the crude elements that +ought to have been uprooted by civilisation, and security, and progress, +and enlightened ideals, but which have not been uprooted, and are only +being slowly eliminated. It is seen, as all aboriginal qualities are +seen, at its barest among children, who often reflect the youth of the +world, and are like little wild animals or infant savages, in spite of +all the frenzied idealisation that childhood receives from well-dressed +and amiable people. +</p> +<p> +Shyness is thus like those little bits of woods and copses which one +finds in a country-side that has long been subdued and replenished, +turned into arable land and pasture, with all the wildness and the +irregularity ploughed and combed out of it; but still one comes upon +some piece of dingle, where there is perhaps an awkward tilt in the +ground, or some ancient excavation, or where a stream-head has cut out a +steep channel, and there one finds a scrap of the old forest, a rood or +two that has never been anything but woodland. So with shyness; many +of our old, savage qualities have been smoothed out, or glazed over, +by education and inheritance, and only emerge in moments of passion and +emotion. But shyness is no doubt the old suspicion of the stranger, the +belief that his motives are likely to be predatory and sinister; it is +the tendency to bob the head down into the brushwood, or to sneak behind +the tree-bole on his approach. One sees a little child, washed +and brushed and delicately apparelled, with silken locks and clear +complexion, brought into a drawing-room to be admired; one sees the +terror come upon her; she knows by experience that she has nothing to +expect but attention, and admiration, and petting; but you will see her +suddenly cover her face with a tiny hand, relapse into dismal silence, +even burst into tears and refuse to be comforted, till she is safely +entrenched upon some familiar knee. +</p> +<p> +I have a breezy, boisterous, cheerful friend, of transparent simplicity +and goodness, who has never known the least touch of shyness from his +cradle, who always says, if the subject is introduced, that shyness +is all mere self-consciousness, and that it comes from thinking about +oneself. That is true, in a limited degree; but the diagnosis is no +remedy for the disease, because shyness is as much a disease as a cold +in the head, and no amount of effort can prevent the attacks of the +complaint; the only remedy is either to avoid the occasions of the +attacks,—and that is impossible, unless one is to abjure the society +of other people for good and all;—or else to practise resolutely the +hardening process of frequenting society, until one gets a sort of +courage out of familiarity. Yet even so, who that has ever really +suffered from shyness does not feel his heart sink as he drives up in +a brougham to the door of some strange house, and sees a grave butler +advancing out of an unknown corridor, with figures flitting to and fro +in the background; what shy person is there who at such a moment would +not give a considerable sum to be able to go back to the station and +take the first train home? Or who again, as he gives his name to a +servant in some brightly-lighted hall, and advances, with a hurried +glance at his toilet, into a roomful of well-dressed people, buzzing +with what Rossetti calls a "din of doubtful talk," would not prefer to +sink into the earth like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and be reckoned no +more among the living? +</p> +<p> +It is recorded in Tennyson's Life that he used to recommend to a younger +brother the thought of the stellar spaces, swarming with constellations +and traversed by planets at ineffable distances, as a cure for shyness; +and a lady of my acquaintance used to endeavour as a girl to stay her +failing heart on the thought of Eternity at such moments. It is all +in vain; at the urgent moment one cares very little about the stellar +motions, or the dim vistas of futurity, and very much indeed about the +cut of one's coat, and the appearance of one's collar, and the glances +of one's enemies; the doctrines of the Church, and the prospects of +ultimate salvation, are things very light in the scales in comparison +with the pressing necessities of the crisis, and the desperate need to +appear wholly unconcerned! +</p> +<p> +The wild and fierce shyness of childhood is superseded in most sensitive +people, as life goes on, by a very different feeling—the shyness +of adolescence, of which the essence, as has been well said, is "a +shamefaced pride." The shyness of early youth is a thing which springs +from an intense desire to delight, and impress, and interest other +people, from wanting to play a far larger and brighter part in the lives +of every one else than any one in the world plays in any one else's +life. Who does not recognise, with a feeling that is half contempt and +half compassion, the sight of the eager pretentiousness of youth, the +intense shame of confessing ignorance on any point, the deep desire +to appear to have a stake in the world, and a well-defined, respected +position? I met the other day a young man, of no particular force or +distinction, who was standing in a corner at a big social gathering, +bursting with terror and importance combined. He was inspired, I would +fain believe, by discerning a vague benevolence in my air and demeanour, +to fix his attention on me. He had been staying at a house where there +had been some important guests, and by some incredibly rapid +transition of eloquence he was saying to me in a minute or two, "The +Commander-in-Chief said to me the other day," and "The Archbishop +pointed out to me a few days ago," giving, as personal confidences, +scraps of conversation which he had no doubt overheard as an unwelcome +adjunct to a crowded smoking-room, with the busy and genial elders +wondering when the boys would have the grace to go to bed. My heart bled +for him as I saw the reflection of my own pushing and pretentious youth, +and I only desired that the curse should not fall upon him which has +so often fallen upon myself, to recall ineffaceably, with a blush that +still mantles my cheek in the silence and seclusion of my bedroom, in +a wakeful hour, the thought of some such piece of transparent and +ridiculous self-importance, shamefully uttered by myself, in a transport +of ambitious vanity, long years ago. How out of proportion to the +offence is the avenging phantom of memory which dogs one through the +years for such stupidities! I remember that as a youthful undergraduate +I went to stay in the house of an old family friend in the neighbourhood +of Cambridge. The only other male guest was a grim and crusty don, sharp +and trenchant in speech, and with a determination to keep young men in +their place. At Cambridge he would have taken no notice whatever of +me; but there, on alien ground, with some lurking impulse of far-off +civility, he said to me when the ladies retired, "I am going to have a +cigar; you know your way to the smoking-room?" I did not myself smoke +in those days, so foolish was I and innocent; but recalling, I suppose, +some similar remark made by an elderly and genial non-smoker under the +same circumstances, I said pompously—I can hardly bring myself even now +to write the words—"I don't smoke, but I will come and sit with you +for the pleasure of a talk." He gave a derisive snort, looked at me and +said, "What! not allowed to smoke yet? Pray don't trouble to come on +my account." It was not a genial speech, and it made me feel, as it was +intended to do, insupportably silly. I did not make matters better, +I recollect, on the following day, when on returning to Cambridge +I offered to carry his bag up from the station, for he insisted on +walking. He refused testily, and no doubt thought me, as in fact I was, +a very spiritless young man. +</p> +<p> +I remember, too, another incident of the same kind, happening about the +same time. I was invited by a fellow-undergraduate to come to tea in his +rooms, and to meet his people. After tea, in the lightness of his heart, +my friend performed some singular antics, such as standing on his head +like a clown, and falling over the back of his sofa, alighting on his +feet. I, who would not have executed such gambols for the world in the +presence of the fairer sex, but anxious in an elderly way to express my +sympathy with the performer, said, with what was meant to be a polite +admiration: "I can't think how you do that!" Upon which a shrewd +and trenchant maiden-aunt who was present, and was delighting in the +exuberance of her nephew, said to me briskly, "Mr. Benson, have you +never been young?" I should be ashamed to say how often since I have +arranged a neat repartee to that annoying question. At the same time +I think that the behaviour both of the don and the aunt was distinctly +unjust and unadvisable. I am sure that the one way to train young people +out of the miseries of shyness is for older people never to snub them +in public, or make them appear in the light of a fool. Such snubs fall +plentifully and naturally from contemporaries. An elder person is quite +within his rights in inflicting a grave and serious remonstrance in +private. I do not believe that young people ever resent that, if at the +same time they are allowed to defend themselves and state their case. +But a merciless elder who inflicts a public mortification is terribly +unassailable and impregnable. For the shy person, who is desperately +anxious to bear a sympathetic part, is quite incapable of retort; and +that is why such assaults are unpardonable, because they are the merest +bullying. +</p> +<p> +The nicest people that I have known in life have been the people +of kindly and sensible natures, who have been thoroughly spoilt as +children, encouraged to talk, led to expect not only toleration, but +active kindness and sympathy from all. The worst of it is that such +kindness is generally reserved for pretty and engaging children, and it +is the awkward, unpleasing, ungainly child who gets the slaps in public. +But, as in Tennyson-Turner's pretty poem of "Letty's Globe," a child's +hand should be "welcome at all frontiers." Only deliberate rudeness and +insolence on the part of children should be publicly rebuked; and as a +matter of fact both rudeness and insolence are far oftener the result of +shyness than is easily supposed. +</p> +<p> +After the shyness of adolescence there often follows a further stage. +The shy person has learnt a certain wisdom; he becomes aware how easily +he detects pretentiousness in other people, and realises that there is +nothing to be gained by claiming a width of experience which he does not +possess, and that the being unmasked is even more painful than feeling +deficient and ill-equipped. Then too he learns to suspect that when +he has tried to be impressive, he has often only succeeded in being +priggish; and the result is that he falls into a kind of speechlessness, +comforting himself, as he sits mute and awkward, unduly elongated, and +with unaccountable projections of limb and feature, that if only other +people were a little less self-absorbed, had the gift of perceiving +hidden worth and real character, and could pierce a little below the +surface, they would realise what reserves of force and tenderness lay +beneath the heavy shapelessness of which he is still conscious. Then is +the time for the shy person to apply himself to social gymnastics. He +is not required to be voluble; but if he will practise bearing a hand, +seeing what other people need and like, carrying on their line of +thought, constructing small conversational bridges, asking the right +questions, perhaps simulating an interest in the pursuits of others +which he does not naturally feel, he may unloose the burden from his +back. Then is the time to practise a sympathetic smile, or better still +to allow oneself to indicate and even express the sympathy one feels; +and the experimentalist will soon become aware how welcome such +unobtrusive sympathy is. He will be amazed at first to find that, +instead of being tolerated, he will be confided in; he will be regarded +as a pleasant adjunct to a party, and he will soon have the even +pleasanter experience of finding that his own opinions and adventures, +if they are not used to cap and surpass the opinions and adventures of +others, but to elicit them, will be duly valued. Yet, alas, a good many +shy people never reach that stage, but take refuge in a critical and +fastidious attitude. I had an elderly relative of this kind—who +does not know the type?—who was a man of wide interests and accurate +information, but a perfect terror in the domestic circle. He was too +shy to mingle in general talk, but sat with an air of acute observation, +with a dry smile playing over his face; later on, when the circle +diminished, it pleased him to retail the incautious statements made by +various members of the party, and correct them with much acerbity. +There are few things more terrific than a man who is both speechless and +distinguished. I have known several such, and their presence lies like a +blight over the most cheerful party. It is unhappily often the case that +shyness is apt to exist side by side with considerable ability, and a +shy man of this type regards distinction as a kind of defensive armour, +which may justify him in applying to others the contempt which he has +himself been conscious of incurring. One of the most disagreeable men I +know is a man of great ability, who was bullied in his youth. The result +upon him has been that he tends to believe that most people are inspired +by a vague malevolence, and he uses his ability and his memory, not to +add to the pleasure of a party, but to make his own power felt. I have +seen this particular man pass from an ungainly speechlessness into +brutal onslaughts on inoffensive persons; and it is one of the most +unpleasant transformations in the world. On the other hand, the modest +and amiable man of distinction is one of the most agreeable figures it +is possible to encounter. He is kind and deferential, and the indulgent +deference of a distinguished man is worth its weight in gold. +</p> +<p> +I was lately told a delightful story of a great statesman staying with +a humble and anxious host, who had invited a party of simple and +unimportant people to meet the great man. The statesman came in late +for dinner, and was introduced to the party; he made a series of +old-fashioned bows in all directions, but no one felt in a position +to offer any observations. The great man, at the conclusion of the +ceremony, turned to his host, and said, in tones that had often +thrilled a listening senate: "What very convenient jugs you have in your +bedrooms! They pour well!" The social frost broke up; the company were +delighted to find that the great man was interested in mundane matters +of a kind on which every one might be permitted to have an opinion, and +the conversation, starting from the humblest conveniences of daily +life, melted insensibly into more liberal subjects. The fact is that, +in ordinary life, kindness and simplicity are valued far more than +brilliance; and the best brilliance is that which throws a novel and +lambent light upon ordinary topics, rather than the brilliance which +disports itself in unfamiliar and exalted regions. The hero only ceases +to be a hero to his valet if he is too lofty-minded to enter into the +workings of his valet's mind, and cannot duly appraise the quality of +his services. +</p> +<p> +And then, too, to go back a little, there are certain defects, after +all, which are appropriate at different times of life. A certain +degree of shyness and even awkwardness is not at all a disagreeable +thing—indeed it is rather a desirable quality—in the young. A +perfectly self-possessed and voluble young man arouses in one a vague +sense of hostility, unless it is accompanied by great modesty and +ingenuousness. The artless prattler, who, in his teens, has an opinion +on all subjects, and considers that opinion worth expressing, is +pleasant enough, and saves one some embarrassment; but such people, +alas, too often degenerate into the bores of later life. If a man's +opinion is eventually going to be worth anything, he ought, I think, to +pass through a tumultuous and even prickly stage, when he believes that +he has an opinion, but cannot find the aplomb to formulate it. He ought +to be feeling his way, to be in a vague condition of revolt against what +is conventional. This is likely to be true not only in his dealings +with his elders, but also in his dealings with his contemporaries. Young +people are apt to regard a youthful doctrinaire, who has an opinion on +everything, with sincere abhorrence. He bores them, and to the young +boredom is not a condition of passive suffering, it is an acute form of +torture. Moreover, the stock of opinions which a young man holds are apt +to be parrot-cries repeated without any coherence from talks overheard +and books skimmed. But in a modest and ingenuous youth, filled to the +brim with eager interest and alert curiosity, a certain deference is +an adorable thing, one of the most delicate of graces; and it is a +delightful task for an older person, who feels the sense of youthful +charm, to melt stiffness away by kindly irony and gentle provocation, +as Socrates did with his sweet-natured and modest boy-friends, so many +centuries ago. +</p> +<p> +The aplomb of the young generally means complacency; but one who is +young and shy, and yet has the grace to think about the convenience and +pleasure of others, can be the most perfect companion in the world. One +has then a sense of the brave and unsophisticated freshness of youth, +that believes all things and hopes all things, the bloom of which has +not been rubbed away by the rough touch of the world. It is only when +that shyness is prolonged beyond the appropriate years, when it leaves +a well-grown and hard-featured man gasping and incoherent, jerky and +ungracious, that it is a painful and disconcerting deformity. The only +real shadow of early shyness is the quite disproportionate amount of +unhappiness that conscious gaucherie brings with it. Two incidents +connected with a ceremony most fruitful in nervousness come back to my +mind. +</p> +<p> +When I was an Eton boy, I was staying with a country squire, a most +courteous old gentleman with a high temper. The first morning, I +contrived to come down a minute or two late for prayers. There was +no chair for me. The Squire suspended his reading of the Bible with a +deadly sort of resignation, and made a gesture to the portly butler. +That functionary rose from his own chair, and with loudly creaking boots +carried it across the room for my acceptance. I sat down, covered with +confusion. The butler returned; and two footmen, who were sitting on a +little form, made reluctant room for him. The butler sat down on one end +of the form, unfortunately before his equipoise, the second footman, had +taken his place at the other end. The result was that the form tipped +up, and a cataract of flunkies poured down upon the floor. There was +a ghastly silence; then the Gadarene herd slowly recovered itself, +and resumed its place. The Squire read the chapter in an accent of +suppressed fury, while the remainder of the party, with handkerchiefs +pressed to their faces, made the most unaccountable sounds and motions +for the rest of the proceeding. I was really comparatively guiltless, +but the shadow of that horrid event sensibly clouded the whole of my +visit. +</p> +<p> +I was only a spectator of the other event. We had assembled for prayers +in the dimly-lighted hall of the house of a church dignitary, and the +chapter had begun, when a man of almost murderous shyness, who was +a guest, opened his bedroom door and came down the stairs. Our host +suspended his reading. The unhappy man came down, but, instead of +slinking to his place, went and stood in front of the fire, under the +impression that the proceedings had not taken shape, and addressed some +remarks upon the weather to his hostess. In the middle of one of his +sentences, he suddenly divined the situation, on seeing the row of +servants sitting in a thievish corner of the hall. He took his seat with +the air of a man driving to the guillotine, and I do not think I ever +saw any one so much upset as he was for the remainder of his stay. Of +course it may be said that a sense of humour should have saved a man +from such a collapse of moral force, but a sense of humour requires to +be very strong to save a man from the sense of having made a conspicuous +fool of himself. +</p> +<p> +I would add one more small reminiscence, of an event from which I can +hardly say with honesty that I have yet quite recovered, although it +took place nearly thirty years ago. I went, as a schoolboy, with my +parents, to stay at a very big country house, the kind of place to which +I was little used, where the advent of a stately footman to take away +my clothes in the morning used to fill me with misery. The first evening +there was a big dinner-party. I found myself sitting next my delightful +and kindly hostess, my father being on the other side of her. All went +well till dessert, when an amiable, long-haired spaniel came to my side +to beg of me. I had nothing but grapes on my plate, and purely out +of compliment I offered him one. He at once took it in his mouth, +and hurried to a fine white fur rug in front of the hearth, where he +indulged in some unaccountable convulsions, rolling himself about and +growling in an ecstasy of delight. My host, an irascible man, looked +round, and then said: "Who the devil has given that dog a grape?" He +added to my father, by way of explanation, "The fact is that if he can +get hold of a grape, he rolls it on that rug, and it is no end of a +nuisance to get the stain out." I sat crimson with guilt, and was just +about to falter out a confession, when my hostess looked up, and, seeing +what had happened, said, "It was me, Frank—I forgot for the moment what +I was doing." My gratitude for this angelic intervention was so great +that I had not even the gallantry to own up, and could only repay my +protectress with an intense and lasting devotion. I have no doubt that +she explained matters afterwards to our host; and I contrived to murmur +my thanks later in the evening. But the shock had been a terrible one, +and taught me not only wisdom, but the Christian duty of intervening, if +I could, to save the shy from their sins and sufferings. +</p> +<pre> + "Taught by the Power that pities me, + I learn to pity them." +</pre> +<p> +But the consideration that emerges from these reminiscences is the +somewhat bewildering one, that shyness is a thing which seems to be +punished, both by immediate discomfort and by subsequent fantastic +remorse, far more heavily than infinitely more serious moral lapses. +The repentance that follows sin can hardly be more poignant than the +agonising sense of guilt which steals over the waking consciousness +on the morning that follows some such social lapse. In fact it must +be confessed that most of us dislike appearing fools far more than we +dislike feeling knaves; so that one wonders whether one does not dread +the ridicule and disapproval of society more than one dreads the sense +of a lapse from morality; the philosophical outcome of which would seem +to be that the verdict of society upon our actions is at the base of +morality. We may feel assured that the result of moral lapses will +ultimately be that we shall have to face the wrath of our Creator; +but one hopes that side by side with justice will be found a merciful +allowance for the force of temptation. But the final judgment is in any +case not imminent, while the result of a social lapse is that we have to +continue to face a disapproving and even a contemptuous circle, who will +remember our failure with malicious pleasure, and whose sense of justice +will not be tempered by any appreciable degree of mercy. Here again is +a discouraging circumstance, that when we call to mind some similarly +compromising and grotesque adventure in the life of one of our friends, +in spite of the fact that we well know the distress that the incident +must have caused him, we still continue to hug, and even to repeat, our +recollection of the occasion with a rich sense of joy. Is it that we +do not really desire the peace and joy of others? It would seem so. How +many of us are not conscious of feeling extremely friendly and helpful +when our friend is in sorrow, or difficulty, or discredit, and yet of +having no taste for standing by and applauding when our friend is joyful +and successful! There is nothing, it seems, that we can render to our +friend in the latter case, except the praise of which he has already had +enough! +</p> +<p> +It seems then that the process of anatomising the nature and philosophy +of shyness only ends in stripping off, one by one, as from an onion, the +decent integuments of the human spirit, and revealing it every moment +more and more in its native rankness. Let me forbear, consoling myself +with the thought that the qualities of human beings are not meant to be +taken up one by one, like coins from a tray, and scrutinised; but that +what matters is the general effect, the blending, the grouping, the +mellowed surface, the warped line. I was only yesterday in an +old church, where I saw an ancient font-cover—a sort of carved +extinguisher—and some dark panels of a rood-screen. They had been, both +cover and panels, coarsely and brightly painted and gilt; and, horrible +to reflect, it flashed upon me that they must have once been both +glaring and vulgar. Yet to-day the dim richness of the effect, the +dints, the scaling-off of the flakes, the fading of the pigment, the +dulling of the gold, were incomparable; and I began to wonder if perhaps +that was not what happened to us in life; and that though we foolishly +regretted the tarnishing of the bright surfaces of soul and body with +our passions and tempers and awkwardnesses and feeblenesses, yet perhaps +it was, after all, that we were taking on an unsuspected beauty, and +making ourselves fit, some far-off day, for the Communion of Saints! +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + IX. EQUALITY +</h2> +<p> +It is often said that the Anglo-Saxon races suffer from a lack of +ideals, that they do not hold enough things sacred. But there is +assuredly one thing which the most elementary and barbarous Anglo-Saxon +holds sacred, beyond creed and Decalogue and fairplay and morality, and +that is property. At inquests, for instance, it may be noted how often +inquiries are solicitously made, not whether the deceased had religious +difficulties or was disappointed in love, but whether he had any +financial worries. We hold our own property to be very sacred indeed, +and our respect for other men's rights in the matter is based on the +fact that we wish our own rights to be respected. If I were asked what +other ideals were held widely sacred in England and America I should +find it very difficult to reply. I think that there is a good deal of +interest taken in America in education and culture; whereas in England I +do not believe that there is very much interest taken in either; almost +the only thing which is valued in England, romantically, and with a kind +of enthusiasm, besides property, is social distinction; the democracy +in England is sometimes said to be indignant at the existence of so +much social privilege; the word "class" is said to be abhorrent to the +democrat; but the only classes that he detests are the classes above him +in the social scale, and the democrat is extremely indignant if he is +assigned to a social station which he considers to be below his own. I +have met democrats who despise and contemn the social tradition of the +so-called upper classes, but I have never met a democrat who is not much +more infuriated if it is supposed that he has not social traditions of +his own vastly superior to the social traditions of the lowest grade of +precarious mendicity. The reason why socialism has never had any great +hold in England is because equality is only a word, and in no sense a +real sentiment in England. The reason why members of the lowest class +in England are not as a rule convinced socialists is because their one +ambition is to become members of the middle-class, and to have property +of their own; and while the sense of personal possession is so strong as +it is, no socialism worthy of the name has a chance. It is possible +for any intelligent, virtuous, and capable member of the lower class to +transfer himself to the middle class; and once there he does not +favour any system of social equality. Socialism can never prevail as a +political system, until we get a majority of disinterested men, who do +not want to purchase freedom from daily work by acquiring property, +and who desire the responsibility rather than the influence of +administrative office. But administrative office is looked upon in +England as an important if indirect factor in acquiring status and +personal property for oneself and one's friends. +</p> +<p> +I am myself a sincere believer in socialism; that is to say, I do not +question the right of society to deprive me of my private property if +it chooses to do so. It does choose to do so to a certain extent through +the medium of the income-tax. Such property as I possess has, I think +it as well to state, been entirely acquired by my own exertions. I +have never inherited a penny, or received any money except what I have +earned. I am quite willing to admit that my work was more highly paid +than it deserved; but I shall continue to cling tenaciously to that +property until I am convinced that it will be applied for the benefit +of every one; I should not think it just if it was taken from me for the +benefit of the idle and incompetent; and I should be reluctant to part +with it unless I felt sure that it would pass into the hands of those +who are as just-minded and disinterested as myself, and be fairly +administered. I should not think it just if it were taken from me by +people who intended to misuse it, as I have misused it, for their own +personal gratification. +</p> +<p> +It was made a matter of merriment in the case of William Morris that +he preached the doctrines of socialism while he was a prosperous +manufacturer; but I see that he was perfectly consistent. There is no +justice, for instance, about the principle of disarmament, unless all +nations loyally disarm at the same time. A person cannot be called upon +to strip himself of his personal property for disinterested reasons, if +he feels that he is surrounded by people who would use the spoils +for their own interest. The process must be carried out by a sincere +majority, who may then coerce the selfish minority. I have no conception +what I should do with my money if I determined that I ought not to +possess it. It ought not to be applied to any public purpose, because +under a socialist regime all public institutions would be supported by +the public, and they ought not to depend upon private generosity. Still +less do I think that it ought to be divided among individuals, because, +if they were disinterested persons, they ought to refuse to accept +it. The only good reason I should have for disencumbering myself of my +possessions would be that I might set a good example of the simple life, +by working hard for a livelihood, which is exactly what I do; and my +only misfortune is that my earnings and the interest of my accumulated +earnings produce a sum which is far larger than the average man ought +to possess. Thus the difficulty is a very real one. Moreover the evil of +personal property is that it tends to emphasise class-distinctions and +to give the possessors of it a sense of undue superiority. Now I am +democratic enough to maintain that I have no sense whatever of personal +superiority. I do not allow my possession of property to give me a life +of vacuous amusement, for the simple reason that my work amuses me far +more than any other form of occupation, If it is asked why I tend to +live by preference among what may be called my social equals, I reply +that the only people one is at ease with are the people whose social +traditions are the same as one's own, for the simple reason that one +does not then have to think about social traditions at all. I do not +think my social traditions are better than the social traditions of any +other stratum of society, whether it be described as above or below +my own; all I would say is that they are different from the social +traditions of other strata, and I much prefer to live without having to +consider such matters at all. The manners of the upper middle-class to +which scientifically I belong, are different from the manners of the +upper, lower-middle, and lower class, and I feel out of my element in +the upper class, just as I feel out of my element in the lower class. Of +course if I were perfectly simple-minded and sincere, this would not +be so; but, as it is, I am at ease with professional persons of my +own standing; I understand their point-of-view without any need of +explanation; in any class but my own, I am aware of the constant strain +of trying to grasp another point-of-view; and to speak frankly, it is +not worth the trouble. I do not at all desire to migrate out of my own +class, and I have never been able to sympathise with people who did. The +motive for doing so is not generally a good one, though it is of course +possible to conceive a high-minded aristocrat who from motives based +upon our common humanity might desire to apprehend the point-of-view of +an artisan, or a high-minded artisan who for the same motive desired to +apprehend the point-of-view of an earl. But one requires to feel sure +that this is based upon a strong sense of charity and responsibility, +and I can only say that I have not found that the desire to migrate into +a different class is generally based upon these qualities. +</p> +<p> +The question is, what ought a man who believes sincerely in the +principle of equality to do in the matter, if he is situated as I am +situated? What I admire and desire in life is friendly contact with my +fellows, interesting work, leisure for following the pursuits I enjoy, +such as art and literature. I honestly confess that I am not interested +in what are called Social Problems, or rather I am not at all interested +in the sort of people who study them. Such problems have hardly reached +the vital stage; they are in the highly technical stage, and are mixed +up with such things as political economy, politics, organisation, and +so forth, which, to be perfectly frank, are to me blighting and dreary +objects of study. I honour profoundly the people who engage in such +pursuits; but life is not long enough to take up work, however valuable, +from a sense of duty, if one realises one's own unfitness for such +labours. I wish with all my heart that all classes cared equally for +the things which I love. I should like to be able to talk frankly and +unaffectedly about books, and interesting people, and the beauties of +nature, and abstract topics of a mild kind, with any one I happened to +meet. But, as a rule, to speak frankly, I find that people of what I +must call the lower class are not interested in these things; people in +what I will call the upper class are faintly interested, in a horrible +and condescending way, in them—which is worse than no interest at all. +A good many people in my own class are impatient of them, and think +of them as harmless recreations; I fall back upon a few like-minded +friends, with whom I can talk easily and unreservedly of such +things, without being thought priggish or donnish or dilettanteish or +unintelligible. The subjects in which I find the majority of people +interested are personal gossip, money, success, business, politics. +I love personal gossip, but that can only be enjoyed in a circle well +acquainted with each other's faults and foibles; and I do not sincerely +care for talking about the other matters I have mentioned. Hitherto I +have always had a certain amount of educational responsibility, and that +has furnished an abundance of material for pleasant talk and interesting +thoughts; but then I have always suffered from the Anglo-Saxon failing +of disliking responsibility except in the case of those for whom one's +efforts are definitely pledged on strict business principles. I cannot +deliberately assume a sense of responsibility towards people in general; +to do that implies a sense of the value of one's own influence and +example, which I have never possessed; and, indeed, I have always +heartily disliked the manifestation of it in others. Indeed, I firmly +believe that the best and most fruitful part of a man's influence, is +the influence of which he is wholly unconscious; and I am quite sure +that no one who has a strong sense of responsibility to the world in +general can advance the cause of equality, because such a sense implies +at all events a consciousness of moral superiority. Moreover, my +educational experience leads me to believe that one cannot do much +to form character. The most one can do is to guard the young against +pernicious influences, and do one's best to recommend one's own +disinterested enthusiasms. One cannot turn a violet into a rose by any +horticultural effort; one can only see that the violet or the rose has +the best chance of what is horribly called self-effectuation. +</p> +<p> +My own belief is that these great ideas like Equality and Justice are +things which, like poetry, are born and cannot be made. That a number of +earnest people should be thinking about them shows that they are in +the air; but the interest felt in them is the sign and not the cause +of their increase. I believe that one must go forwards, trying to avoid +anything that is consciously harsh or pompous or selfish or base, and +the great ideas will take care of themselves. +</p> +<p> +The two great obvious difficulties which seem to me to lie at the root +of all schemes for producing a system of social equality are first the +radical inequality of character, temperament, and equipment in human +beings. No system can ever hope to be a practical system unless we can +eliminate the possibility of children being born, some of them perfectly +qualified for life and citizenship, and others hopelessly disqualified. +If such differences were the result of environment it would be a +remediable thing. But one can have a strong, vigorous, naturally +temperate child born and brought up under the meanest and most +sordid conditions, and, on the other hand, a thoroughly worthless and +detestable person may be the child of high-minded, well-educated people, +with every social advantage. My work as a practical educationalist +enforced this upon me. One would find a boy, born under circumstances +as favourable for the production of virtue and energy as any socialistic +system could provide, who was really only fitted for the lowest kind +of mechanical work, and whose instincts were utterly gross. Even if the +State could practise a kind of refined Mendelism, it would be impossible +to guard against the influences of heredity. If one traces back the +hereditary influences of a child for ten generations, it will be found +that he has upwards of two thousand progenitors, any one of whom may +give him a bias. +</p> +<p> +And secondly, I cannot see that any system of socialism is consistent +with the system of the family. The parents in a socialistic state +can only be looked upon as brood stock, and the nurture of the rising +generation must be committed to some State organisation, if one is to +secure an equality of environing influences. Of course, this is done to +a certain extent by the boarding-schools of the upper classes; and here +again my experience has shown me that the system, though a good one for +the majority, is not the best system invariably for types with marked +originality—the very type that one most desires to propagate. +</p> +<p> +These are, of course, very crude and elementary objections to the +socialistic scheme; all that I say is that until these difficulties seem +more capable of solution, I cannot throw myself with any interest into +the speculation; I cannot continue in the path of logical deduction, +while the postulates and axioms remain so unsound. +</p> +<p> +What then can a man who has resources that he cannot wisely dispose of, +and happiness that he cannot impart to others, but yet who would only +too gladly share his gladness with the world, do to advance the cause +of the general weal? Must he plunge into activities for which he has no +aptitude or inclination, and which have as their aim objects for which +he does not think that the world is ripe? Every one will remember the +figure of Mrs. Pardiggle in Bleak House, that raw-boned lady who enjoyed +hard work, and did not know what it was to be tired, who went about +rating inefficient people, and "boned" her children's pocket-money for +charitable objects. It seems to me that many of the people who work at +social reforms do so because, like Mrs. Pardiggle, they enjoy hard work +and love ordering other people about. In a society wisely and rationally +organised, there would be no room for Mrs. Pardiggle at all; the +question is whether things must first pass through the Pardiggle stage. +I do not in my heart believe it. Mrs. Pardiggle seems to me to be not +part of the cure of the disease, but rather one of the ugliest of its +symptoms. I think that she is on the wrong tack altogether, and leading +other people astray. I do know some would-be social reformers, whom I +respect and commiserate with all my heart, who see what is amiss, and +have no idea how to mend it, and who lose themselves, like Hamlet, in a +sort of hopeless melancholy about it all, with a deep-seated desire to +give others a kind of happiness which they ought to desire, but which, +as a matter of fact, they do not desire. Such men are often those upon +whom early youth broke, like a fresh wave, with an incomparable sense of +rapture, in the thought of all the beauty and loveliness of nature and +art; and who lived for a little in a Paradise of delicious experiences +and fine emotions, believing that there must be some strange mistake, +and that every one must in reality desire what seemed so utterly +desirable; and then, as life went on, there fell upon these the shadow +of the harsh facts of life; the knowledge that the majority of the human +race had no part or lot in such visions, but loved rather food and +drink and comfort and money and rude mirth; who did not care a pin what +happened to other people, or how frail and suffering beings spent their +lives, so long as they themselves were healthy and jolly. Then that +shadow deepens and thickens, until the sad dreamers do one of two +things—either immure themselves in a tiny scented garden of their own, +and try to drown the insistent noises without; or, on the other hand, if +they are of the nobler sort, lose heart and hope, and even forfeit their +own delight in things that are sweet and generous and pleasant and pure. +A mournful and inextricable dilemma! +</p> +<p> +Perhaps one or two of such visionaries, who are made of sterner stuff, +have deliberately embarked, hopefully and courageously, upon the +Pardiggle path; they have tried absurd experiments, like Ruskin, in +road-making and the formation of Guilds; they have taken to journalism +and committees like William Morris. But they have been baffled. I do not +mean to say that such lives of splendid renunciation may not have a deep +moral effect; but, on the other hand, it is little gain to humanity if +a richly-endowed spirit deserts a piece of work that he can do, to toil +unsuccessfully at a piece of work that cannot yet be done at all. +</p> +<p> +I myself believe that when Society is capable of using property and the +better pleasures, it will arise and take them quietly and firmly: and +as for the fine spirits who would try to organise things before they are +even sorted, well, they have done a noble, ineffectual thing, because +they could not do otherwise; and their desire to mend what is amiss +is at all events a sign that the impulse is there, that the sun has +brightened upon the peaks before it could warm the valleys. +</p> +<p> +I was reading to-day The Irrational Knot, an early book by Mr. +Bernard Shaw, whom I whole-heartedly admire because of his courage and +good-humour and energy. That book represents a type of the New Man, such +as I suppose Mr. Shaw would have us all to be; the book, in spite of +its radiant wit, is a melancholy one, because the novelist penetrates +so clearly past the disguises of humanity, and takes delight in dragging +the mean, ugly, shuddering, naked creature into the open. The New Man +himself is entirely vigorous, cheerful, affectionate, sensible, and +robust. He is afraid of nothing and shocked by nothing. I think it +would have been better if he had been a little more shocked, not in +a conventional way, but at the hideous lapses and failures of even +generous and frank people. He is too hard and confident to be an +apostle. He does not lead the flock like a shepherd, but helps them +along, like Father-o'-Flynn, with his stick. I would have gone to +Conolly, the hero of the book, to get me out of a difficulty, but I +could not have confided to him what I really held sacred. Moreover the +view of money, as the one essential world-force, so frankly confessed +in the book, puzzled me. I do not think that money is ever more than a +weapon in the hands of a man, or a convenient screening wall, and the +New Man ought to have neither weapons nor walls, except his vigour and +serenity of spirit. Again the New Man is too fond of saying what +he thinks, and doing what he chooses; and, in the new earth, that +independent instinct will surely be tempered by a sense, every bit as +instinctive, of the rights of other people. But I suppose Mr. Shaw's +point is that if you cannot mend the world, you had better make it serve +you, as in its folly and debility it will, if you bully it enough. I +suppose that Mr. Shaw would say that the brutality of his hero is the +shadow thrown on him by the vileness of the world, and that if we were +all alike courageous and industrious and good-humoured, that shadow +would disappear. +</p> +<p> +And this, I suppose, is after all the secret; that the world is not +going to be mended from without, but is mending itself from within; +and thus that the best kind of socialism is really the highest +individualism, in which a man leaves legislation to follow and express, +as it assuredly does, the growth of emotion, and sets himself, in his +own corner, to be as quiet and disinterested and kindly as he can, +choosing what is honest and pure, and rejecting what is base and vile; +and this is after all the socialism of Christ; only we are all in such +a hurry, and think it more effective to clap a ruffian into gaol than +to suffer his violence—the result of which process is to make men +sympathise with the ruffian—while, if we endure his violence, we touch +a spring in the hearts of ruffian and spectators alike, which is more +fruitful of good than the criminal's infuriated seclusion, and his just +quarrel with the world. Of course the real way is that we should each +of us abandon our own desires for private ease and convenience, in the +light of the hope that those who come after will be easier and happier; +whereas the Pardiggle reformer literally enjoys the presence of the +refuse, because his broom has something to sweep away. +</p> +<p> +And the strangest thing of all is that we move forward, in a bewildered +company, knowing that our every act and word is the resultant of ancient +forces, not one of which we can change or modify in the least degree, +while we live under the instinctive delusion, which survives the +severest logic, that we can always and at every moment do to a certain +extent what we choose to do. What the truth is that connects and +underlies these two phenomena, we have not the least conception; but +meanwhile each remains perfectly obvious and apparently true. To myself, +the logical belief is infinitely the more hopeful and sustaining of the +two; for if the movement of progress is in the hands of God, we are at +all events taking our mysterious and wonderful part in a great dream +that is being evolved, far more vast and amazing than we can comprehend; +whereas if I felt that it was left to ourselves to choose, and +that, hampered as we feel ourselves to be by innumerable chains of +circumstance, we could yet indeed originate action and impede the +underlying Will, I should relapse into despair before a problem full of +sickening complexities and admitted failures. Meanwhile, I do what I am +given to do; I perceive what I am allowed to perceive; I suffer what is +appointed for me to suffer; but all with a hope that I may yet see the +dawn break upon the sunlit sea, beyond the dark hills of time. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + X. THE DRAMATIC SENSE +</h2> +<p> +The other day I was walking along a road at Cambridge, engulfed in a +torrent of cloth-capped and coated young men all flowing one way—going +to see or, as it is now called, to "watch" a match. We met a little +girl walking with her governess in the opposite direction. There was a +baleful light of intellect in the child's eye, and a preponderance of +forehead combined with a certain lankness of hair betrayed, I fancy, +an ingenuous academical origin. The girl was looking round her with an +unholy sense of superiority, and as we passed she said to her governess +in a clear-cut, complacent tone, "We're quite exceptional, aren't we?" +To which the governess replied briskly, "Laura, don't be ridiculous!" +To which exhortation Laura replied with self-satisfied pertinacity, "No, +but we ARE exceptional, aren't we?" +</p> +<p> +Ah, Miss Laura, I thought to myself, you are one of those people with +a dramatic sense of your own importance. It will probably make you very +happy, and an absolutely insufferable person! I have little doubt that +the tiny prig was saying to herself, "I dare say that all these men are +wondering who is the clever-looking little girl who is walking in the +opposite direction to the match, and has probably something better to +do than look on at matches." It is a great question whether one ought to +wish people to nourish illusions about themselves, or whether one ought +to desire such illusions to be dispelled. They certainly add immensely +to people's happiness, but on the other hand, if life is an educative +progress, and if the aim of human beings is or ought to be the +attainment of moral perfection, then the sooner that these illusions are +dispelled the better. It is one of the many questions which depend upon +the great fact as to whether our identity is prolonged after death. If +identity is not prolonged, then one would wish people to maintain every +illusion which makes life happier; and there is certainly no illusion +which brings people such supreme and unfailing contentment as the sense +of their own significance in the world. This illusion rises superior to +all failures and disappointments. It makes the smallest and simplest act +seem momentous. The world for such persons is merely a theatre of gazers +in which they discharge their part appropriately and successfully. I +know several people who have the sense very strongly, who are conscious +from morning till night, in all that they do or say, of an admiring +audience; and who, even if their circle is wholly indifferent, find food +for delight in the consciousness of how skilfully and satisfactorily +they discharge their duties. I remember once hearing a worthy clergyman, +of no particular force, begin a speech at a missionary meeting by saying +that people had often asked him what was the secret of his smile; and +that he had always replied that he was unaware that his smile had any +special quality; but that if it indeed was so, and it would be idle +to pretend that a good many people had not noticed it, it was that he +imported a resolute cheerfulness into all that he did. The man, as I +have said, was not in any way distinguished, but there can be no doubt +that the thought of his heavenly smile was a very sustaining one, +and that the sense of responsibility that the possession of such a +characteristic gave him, undoubtedly made him endeavour to smile like +the Cheshire Cat, when he did not feel particularly cheerful. +</p> +<p> +It is not, however, common to find people make such a frank and candid +confession of their superiority. The feeling is generally kept for more +or less private consumption. The underlying self-satisfaction generally +manifests itself, for instance, with people who have no real illusions, +say, about their personal appearance, in leading them to feel, after a +chance glance at themselves in a mirror, that they really do not look +so bad in certain lights. A dull preacher will repeat to himself, with +a private relish, a sentence out of a very commonplace discourse of his +own, and think that that was really an original thought, and that +he gave it an impressive emphasis; or a student will make a very +unimportant discovery, press it upon the attention of some great +authority on the subject, extort a half-hearted assent, and will then go +about saying, "I mentioned my discovery to Professor A——; he was +quite excited about it, and urged the immediate publication of it." Or +a commonplace woman will give a tea-party, and plume herself upon the +eclat with which it went off. The materials are ready to hand in any +life; the quality is not the same as priggishness, though it is closely +akin to it; it no doubt exists in the minds of many really successful +people, and if it is not flagrantly betrayed, it is often an important +constituent of their success. But the happy part of it is that the +dramatic sense is often freely bestowed upon the most inconspicuous and +unintelligent persons, and fills their lives with a consciousness of +romance and joy. It concerns itself mostly with public appearances, upon +however minute a scale, and thus it is a rich source of consolation and +self-congratulation. Even if it falls upon one who has no social gifts +whatever, whose circle of friends tends to diminish as life goes on, +whose invitations tend to decrease, it still frequently survives in a +consciousness of being profoundly interesting, and consoles itself by +believing that under different circumstances and in a more perceptive +society the fact would have received a wider recognition. +</p> +<p> +But, after all, as with many things, much depends upon the way that +illusions are cherished. When this dramatic sense is bestowed upon a +heavy-handed, imperceptive, egotistical person, it becomes a terrible +affliction to other people, unless indeed the onlooker possesses the +humorous spectatorial curiosity; when it becomes a matter of delight to +find a person behaving characteristically, striking the hour punctually, +and being, as Mr. Bennet thought of Mr. Collins, fully as absurd as one +had hoped. It then becomes a pleasure, and not necessarily an unkind +one, because it gives the deepest satisfaction to the victim, to tickle +the egotist as one might tickle a trout, to draw him on by innocent +questions, to induce him to unfold and wave his flag high in the air. +I had once a worthy acquaintance whose occasional visits were to me a +source of infinite pleasure—and I may add that I have no doubt that +they gave him a pleasure quite as acute—because he only required the +simplest fly to be dropped on the pool, when he came heavily to the +top and swallowed it. I have heard him deplore the vast size of his +correspondence, the endless claims made upon him for counsel. I have +heard him say with a fatuous smile that there were literally hundreds of +people who day by day brought their pitcher of self-pity to be filled +at his pump of sympathy: that he wished he could have a little rest, but +that he supposed that it was a plain duty for him to minister thus to +human needs, though it took it out of him terribly. I suppose that some +sort of experience must have lain behind this confession, for my friend +was a decidedly moral man, and would not tell a deliberate untruth; the +only difficulty was that I could not conceive where he kept his stores +of sympathy, because I had never heard him speak of any subject except +himself, and I suppose that his method of consolation, if he was +consulted, was to relate some striking instance out of his own +experience in which grace triumphed over nature. +</p> +<p> +Sometimes, again, the dramatic sense takes the form of an exaggerated +self-depreciation. I was reading the other day the life of a very +devoted clergyman, who said on his death-bed to one standing by him, "If +anything is done in memory of me, let a plain slab be placed on my grave +with my initials and the date, and the words, 'the unworthy priest of +this parish'—that must be all." +</p> +<p> +The man's modesty was absolutely sincere; yet what a strange confusion +of modesty and vanity after all! If the humility had been PERFECTLY +unaffected, he would have felt that the man who really merited such +a description deserved no memorial at all; or again, if he had had no +sense of credit, he would have left the choice of a memorial to any who +might wish to commemorate him. If one analyses the feeling underneath +the words, it will be seen to consist of a desire to be remembered, +a hope almost amounting to a belief that his work was worthy of +commemoration, coupled with a sincere desire not to exaggerate its +value. And yet silence would have attested his humility far more +effectually than any calculated speech! +</p> +<p> +The dramatic sense is not a thing which necessarily increases as life +goes on; some people have it from the very beginning. I have an elderly +friend who is engaged on a very special sort of scientific research of +a wholly unimportant kind. He is just as incapable as my sympathetic +friend of talking about anything except his own interests; "You don't +mind my speaking about my work?" he says with a brilliant smile; "you +see it means so much to me." And then, after explaining some highly +technical detail, he will add: "Of course this seems to you very minute, +but it is work that has got to be done by some one; it is only laying a +little stone in the temple of science. Of course I often feel I should +like to spread my wings and take a wider flight, but I do seem to have +a special faculty for this kind of work, and I suppose it is my duty +to stick to it." And he will pass his hand wearily over his brow, and +expound another technical detail. He apologises ceaselessly for dwelling +on his own work; but in no place or company have I ever heard him do +otherwise; and he is certainly one of the happiest people I know. +</p> +<p> +But, on the other hand, it is a rather charming quality to find in +combination with a certain balance of mind. Unless a man is interesting +to himself he cannot easily be interesting to others; there is a +youthful and ingenuous sense of romance and drama which can exist side +by side with both modesty and sympathy, somewhat akin to the habit +common to imaginative children of telling themselves long stories in +which they are the heroes of the tale. But people who have this faculty +are generally mildly ashamed of it; they do not believe that their +fantastic adventures are likely to happen. They only think how pleasant +it would be if things arranged themselves so. It all depends whether +such dramatisation is looked upon in the light of an amusement, or +whether it is applied in a heavy-handed manner to real life. Imaginative +children, who have true sympathy and affection as well, generally end by +finding the real world, as they grow up into it, such an astonishing and +interesting place, that their horizon extends, and they apply to other +people, to their relationships and meetings, the zest and interest that +they formerly applied only to themselves. The kind of temperament that +falls a helpless victim to dramatic egotism is generally the priggish +and self-satisfied man, who has a fervent belief in his own influence, +and the duty of exercising it on others. Most of us, one may say +gratefully, are kept humble by our failures and even by our sins. If the +path of the transgressor is hard, the path of the righteous man is +often harder. If a man is born free from grosser temptations, vigorous, +active, robust, the chances are ten to one that he falls into the snare +of self-righteousness and moral complacency. He passes judgment +on others, he compares himself favourably with them. A spice of +unpopularity gives him a still more fatal bias, because he thinks that +he is persecuted for his goodness, when he is only disliked for his +superiority. He becomes content to warn people, and if they reject his +advice and get into difficulties, he is not wholly ill-pleased. Whereas +the diffident person, who tremblingly assumes the responsibility for +some one else's life, is beset by miserable regrets if his penitent +escapes him, and attributes it to his own mismanagement. The truth is +that moral indignation is a luxury that very few people can afford to +indulge in. And if it is true that a rich man can with difficulty enter +the kingdom of heaven, it is also true that the dramatic man finds it +still more difficult. He is impervious to criticism, because he bears +it with meekness. He has so good a conscience that he cannot believe +himself in the wrong. If he makes an egregious blunder, he says +to himself with infinite solemnity that it is right that his +self-satisfaction should be tenderly purged away, and glories in his own +humility. A far wholesomer frame of mind is that of the philosopher +who said, when complimented on the mellowness that advancing years had +brought him, that he still reserved to himself the right of damning +things in general. Because the truth is that the things which really +discipline us are the painful, dreary, intolerable things of life, the +results of one's own meanness, stupidity, and weakness, or the black +catastrophes which sometimes overwhelm us, and not the things which we +piously and cheerfully accept as ministering to our consciousness of +worth and virtue. +</p> +<p> +If I say that the dramatic failing is apt to be more common among the +clergy than among ordinary mortals, it is because the clerical vocation +is one that tempts men who have this temperament strongly developed +to enter it, and afterwards provides a good deal of sustenance to the +particular form of vanity that lies behind the temptation. The +dramatic sense loves public appearances and trappings, processions and +ceremonies. The instinctive dramatist, who is also a clergyman, tends +to think of himself as moving to his place in the sanctuary in a solemn +progress, with a worn spiritual aspect, robed as a son of Aaron. He +likes to picture himself as standing in the pulpit pale with emotion, +his eye gathering fire as he bears witness to the truth or testifies +against sin. He likes to believe that his words and intonations have +a thrilling quality, a fire or a delicacy, as the case may be, which +scorch or penetrate the sin-burdened heart. It may be thought that this +criticism is unduly severe; I do not for a moment say that the attitude +is universal, but it is commoner, I am sure, than one would like +to believe; and neither do I say that it is inconsistent with deep +earnestness and vital seriousness. I would go further, and maintain that +such a dramatic consciousness is a valuable quality for men who have to +sustain at all a spectacular part. It very often lends impressiveness to +a man, and convinces those who hear and see him of his sincerity; while +a man who thinks nothing of appearances often fails to convince his +audience that he cares more for his message than for the fact that he is +the mouthpiece of it. I find it very difficult to say whether it is +well for people who cherish such illusions about their personal +impressiveness to get rid of such illusions, when personal +impressiveness is a real factor in their success. To do a thing really +well it is essential to have a substantial confidence in one's aptitude +for the task. And undoubtedly diffidence and humility, however sincere, +are a bad outfit for a man in a public position. I am inclined to think +that self-confidence, and a certain degree of self-satisfaction, are +valuable assets, so long as a man believes primarily in the importance +of what he has to say and do, and only secondarily in his own power of, +and fitness for, saying and doing it. +</p> +<p> +There is an interesting story—I do not vouch for the truth of it—that +used to be told of Cardinal Manning, who undoubtedly had a strong sense +of dramatic effect. He was putting on his robes one evening in the +sacristy of the Cathedral at Westminster, when a noise was heard at the +door, as of one who was determined on forcing an entrance in spite of +the remonstrances of the attendants. In a moment a big, strongly-built +person, looking like a prosperous man of business, labouring under a +vehement and passionate emotion, came quickly in, looked about him, and +advancing to Manning, poured out a series of indignant reproaches. "You +have got hold of my boy," he said, "with your hypocritical and sneaking +methods; you have made him a Roman Catholic; you have ruined the +happiness and peace of our home; you have broken his mother's heart, +and overwhelmed us in misery." He went on in this strain at some length. +Manning, who was standing in his cassock, drew himself up in an attitude +of majestic dignity, and waited until the intruder's eloquence had +exhausted itself, and had ended with threatening gestures. Some of those +present would have intervened, but Manning with an air of command waved +them back, and then, pointing his hand at the man, he said: "Now, sir, +I have allowed you to have your say, and you shall hear me in reply. You +have traduced Holy Church, you have broken in upon the Sanctuary, you +have uttered vile and abominable slanders against the Faith; and I tell +you," he added, pausing for an instant with flashing eyes and marble +visage, "I tell you that within three months you will be a Catholic +yourself." He then turned sharply on his heel and went on with his +preparations. The man was utterly discomfited; he made as though +he would speak, but was unable to find words; he looked round, and +eventually slunk out of the sacristy in silence. +</p> +<p> +One of those present ventured to ask Manning afterwards about the +strange scene. "Had the Cardinal," he inquired, "any sudden premonition +that the man himself would adopt the Faith in so short a time?" Manning +smiled indulgently, putting his hand on the other's shoulder, and said: +"Ah, my dear friend, who shall say? You see, it was a very awkward +moment, and I had to deal with the situation as I best could." +</p> +<p> +That was an instance of supreme presence of mind and great dramatic +force; but one is not sure whether it was a wholly apostolical method of +handling the position. +</p> +<p> +But to transfer the question from the ecclesiastical region into the +region of common life, it is undoubtedly true that if a man or a woman +has a strong sense of moral issues, a deep feeling of responsibility +and sympathy, an anxious desire to help things forward, then a dramatic +sense of the value of manner, speech, gesture, and demeanour is a highly +effective instrument. It is often said that people who wield a great +personal influence have the gift of making the individual with whom they +are dealing feel that his case is the most interesting and important +with which they have ever come in contact, and of inspiring and +maintaining a special kind of relationship between themselves and their +petitioner. That is no doubt a very encouraging thing for the applicant +to feel, even though he is sensible enough to realise that his case is +only one among many with which his adviser is dealing, and probably +not the most significant. Upon such a quality as this the success of +statesmen, lawyers, physicians largely depends. But where the dramatic +sense is combined with egotism, selfishness, and indifference to the +claims of others, it is a terrible inheritance. It ministers, as I have +said before, to its possessor's self-satisfaction; but on the other hand +it is a failing which goes so deep and which permeates so intimately the +whole moral nature, that its cure is almost impossible without the gift +of what the Scripture calls "a new heart." Such self-complacency is a +fearful shield against criticism, and particularly so because it gives +as a rule so few opportunities for any outside person, however intimate, +to expose the obliquity of such a temperament. The dramatic egotist is +careful as a rule not to let his egotism appear, but to profess to be, +and even to believe that he is, guided by the highest motives in all his +actions and words. A candid remonstrance is met by a calm tolerance, and +by the reply that the critic does not understand the situation, and +is trying to hinder rather than to help the development of beneficent +designs. +</p> +<p> +I used to know a man of this type, who was insatiably greedy of +influence and recognition. It is true that he was ready to help other +people with money or advice. He was wealthy, and of a good position; and +he would take a great deal of trouble to obtain appointments for friends +who appealed to him, or to unravel a difficult situation; though the +object of his diligence was not to help his applicants, but to obtain +credit and power for himself. He did not desire that they should be +helped, but that they should depend upon him for help. Nothing could +undeceive him as to his own motive, because he gave his time and his +money freely; yet the result was that most of the people whom he helped +tended to resent it in the end, because he demanded services in return, +and was jealous of any other interference. Chateaubriand says that it is +not true gratitude to wish to repay favours promptly and still less is +it true benevolence to wish to retain a hold over those whom one has +benefited. +</p> +<p> +Sometimes indeed the two strains are almost inextricably intertwined, +real and vital sympathy with others, combined with an overwhelming +sense of personal significance; and then the problem is an inconceivably +complicated one. For I suppose it must be frankly confessed that the +basis of the dramatic sense is not a very wholesome one; it is, of +course, a strong form of individualism. But while it is true that we +suffer from taking ourselves too seriously, it is also possible to +suffer from not taking ourselves seriously enough. If effectiveness is +the end of life, there is no question that a strong sense of what we +like to call responsibility, which is generally nothing more than a +sense of one's own importance, decorously framed and glazed, is +an immense factor in success. I myself cherish the heresy that +effectiveness is very far from being the end of life, and that the only +effectiveness that is worth anything is unintentional effectiveness. I +believe that a man or woman who is humble and sincere, who loves and is +loved, is higher on the steps of heaven than the adroitest lobbyist; but +it may be that the world's criterion of what it admires and respects is +the right one; and indeed it is hard to see how so strong an instinct is +implanted in the human race, the instinct to value strength and success +above everything, unless it is put there by our Maker. At the same time +one cherishes the hope that there is a better criterion somewhere, in +the Divine Mind, in the fruitful future; the criterion that it is not +what a man actually effects that matters, but what he makes of the +resources that are given him to work with. +</p> +<p> +The effectiveness of the dramatic sense is beyond question. One can see +a supreme instance of it in the case of the Christian Science movement, +in which a woman of strong personality, by lighting upon an idea latent +in a large number of minds, an idea moreover of real and practical +vitality, and by putting it in a form which has all the definiteness +required by brains of a hazy and emotional order, has contrived to +effect an immense amount of good, besides amassing a colossal +fortune, and assuming almost Divine pretensions, without being widely +discredited. The human race is, speaking generally, so anxious for any +leading that it can get, that if a man or woman can persuade themselves +that they have a mission to humanity, and maintain a pontifical air, +they will generally be able to attract a band of devoted adherents, +whose faith, rising superior to both intelligence and common-sense, +will endorse almost any claim that the prophet or prophetess likes to +advance. +</p> +<p> +But the danger for the prophet himself is great. Arrogance, complacency, +self-confidence, all the Pharisaical vices flourish briskly in such a +soil. He loses all sense of proportion, all sense of dependence. Instead +of being a humble learner in a mysterious world, he expects to find +everything made after the pattern revealed to him in the Mount. The good +that he does may be permanent and fruitful; but in some dark valley of +humiliation and despair he will have to learn that God tolerates us and +uses us; He does not need us, "He delighteth not in any man's legs," as +the Psalmist said with homely vigour. To save others and be oneself +a castaway is the terrible fate of which St. Paul saw so clearly the +possibility; and thus any one who is conscious of the dramatic sense, +or even dimly suspects that it is there, ought to pray very humbly to +be delivered from it, as he would from any other darling bosom-sin. He +ought to eschew diplomacy and practise frankness, he ought to welcome +failure and to rejoice when he makes humiliating mistakes. He ought +to be grateful even for palpable faults and weaknesses and sins and +physical disabilities. For if we have the hope that God is educating us, +is moulding a fair statue out of the frail and sordid clay, such a +faith forbids us to reject any experience, however disagreeable, however +painful, however self-revealing it may be, as of no import; and thus we +can grow into a truer sense of proportion, till at last we may come +</p> +<pre> + "to learn that Man + Is small, and not forget that Man is great." +</pre> +<a name="2H_4_0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XI. KELMSCOTT AND WILLIAM MORRIS +</h2> +<p> +I had been at Fairford that still, fresh, April morning, and had enjoyed +the sunny little piazza, with its pretty characteristic varieties of +pleasant stone-built houses, solid Georgian fronts interspersed with +mullioned gables. But the church! That is a marvellous place; its +massive lantern-tower, with solid, softly-moulded outlines—for the +sandy oolite admits little fineness of detail—all weathered to a +beautiful orange-grey tint, has a mild dignity of its own. Inside it is +a treasure of mediaevalism. The screens, the woodwork, the monuments, +all rich, dignified, and spacious. And the glass! Next to King's College +Chapel, I suppose, it is the noblest series of windows in England, and +the colour of it is incomparable. Azure and crimson, green and orange, +yet all with a firm economy of effect, the robes of the saints set and +imbedded in a fine intricacy of white tabernacle-work. As to the design, +I hardly knew whether to smile or weep. The splendid, ugly faces of the +saints, depicted, whether designedly or artlessly I cannot guess, as men +of simple passions and homely experience, moved me greatly, so unlike +the mild, polite, porcelain visages of even the best modern glass. But +the windows are as thick with demons as a hive with bees; and oh! the +irresponsible levity displayed in these merry, grotesque, long-nosed +creatures, some flame-coloured and long-tailed, some green and scaly, +some plated like the armadillo, all going about their merciless work +with infinite gusto and glee! Here one picked at the white breast of a +languid, tortured woman who lay bathed in flame; one with a glowing +hook thrust a lamentable big-paunched wretch down into a bath of molten +liquor; one with pleased intentness turned the handle of a churn, from +the top of which protruded the head of a fair-haired boy, all distorted +with pain and terror. What could have been in the mind of the designer +of these hateful scenes? It is impossible to acquit him of a strong +sense of the humorous. Did he believe that such things were actually in +progress in some infernal cavern, seven times heated? I fear it may have +been so. And what of the effect upon the minds of the village folk +who saw them day by day? It would have depressed, one would think, an +imaginative girl or boy into madness, to dream of such things as being +countenanced by God for the heathen and the unbaptized, as well as for +the cruel and sinful. If the vile work had been represented as being +done by cloudy, sombre, relentless creatures, it would have been more +tolerable. But these fantastic imps, as lively as grigs and full to +the brim of wicked laughter, are certainly enjoying themselves with an +extremity of delight of which no trace is to be seen in the mournful +and heavily lined faces of the faithful. Autres temps, autres moeurs! +Perhaps the simple, coarse mental palates of the village folk were none +the worse for this realistic treatment of sin. One wonders what the +saintly and refined Keble, who spent many years of his life as his +father's curate here, thought of it all. Probably his submissive and +deferential mind accepted it as in some ecclesiastical sense symbolical +of the merciless hatred of God for the desperate corruption of humanity. +It gave me little pleasure to connect the personality of Keble with the +place, patient, sweet-natured, mystical, serviceable as he was. It seems +hard to breathe in the austere air of a mind like Keble's, where the +wind of the spirit blows chill down the narrow path, fenced in by the +high, uncompromising walls of ecclesiastical tradition on the one hand, +and stern Puritanism on the other. An artificial type, one is tempted to +say!—and yet one ought never, I suppose, so to describe any flower that +has blossomed fragrantly upon the human stock; any system that seems to +extend a natural and instinctive appeal to certain definite classes of +human temperament. +</p> +<p> +I sped pleasantly enough along the low, rich pastures, thick with +hedgerow elms, to Lechlade, another pretty town with an infinite variety +of habitations. Here again is a fine ancient church with a comely spire, +"a pretty pyramis of stone," as the old Itinerary says, overlooking a +charming gabled house, among walled and terraced gardens, with stone +balls on the corner-posts and a quaint pavilion, the river running +below; and so on to a bridge over the yet slender Thames, where the +river water spouted clear and fragrant into a wide pool; and across the +flat meadows, bright with kingcups, the spire of Lechlade towered over +the clustered house-roofs to the west. +</p> +<p> +Then further still by a lonely ill-laid road. And thus, with a mind +pleasantly attuned to beauty and a quickening pulse, I drew near to +Kelmscott. The great alluvial flat, broadening on either hand, with low +wooded heights, "not ill-designed," as Morris said, to the south. Then +came a winding cross-track, and presently I drew near to a straggling +village, every house of which had some charm and quality of style, with +here and there a high gabled dovecot, and its wooden cupola, standing up +among solid barns and stacks. Here was a tiny and inconspicuous church, +with a small stone belfry; and then the road pushed on, to die away +among the fields. But there, at the very end of the village, stood the +house of which we were in search; and it was with a touch of awe, with a +quickening heart, that I drew near to a place of such sweet and gracious +memories, a place so dear to more than one of the heroes of art. +</p> +<p> +One comes to the goal of an artistic pilgrimage with a certain sacred +terror; either the place is disappointing, or it is utterly unlike what +one anticipates. I knew Kelmscott so well from Rossetti's letters, from +Morris's own splendid and loving description, from pictures, from the +tales of other pilgrims, that I felt I could not be disappointed; and I +was not. It was not only just like what I had pictured it to be, but +it had a delicate and natural grace of its own as well. The house was +larger and more beautiful, the garden smaller and not less beautiful, +than I had imagined. I had not thought it was so shy, so rustic a place. +It is very difficult to get any clear view of the Manor. By the road are +cottages, and a big building, half storehouse, half wheelwright's shop, +to serve the homely needs of the farm. Through the open door one could +see a bench with tools; and planks, staves, spokes, waggon-tilts, +faggots, were all stacked in a pleasant confusion. Then came a walled +kitchen-garden, with some big shrubs, bay and laurustinus, rising +plumply within; beyond which the grey house, spread thin with plaster, +held up its gables and chimneys over a stone-tiled roof. To the left, +big barns and byres—a farm-man leading in a young bull with a pole at +the nose-ring; beyond that, open fields, with a dyke and a flood-wall of +earth, grown over with nettles, withered sedges in the watercourse, +and elms in which the rooks were clamorously building. We met with the +ready, simple Berkshire courtesy; we were referred to a gardener who was +in charge. To speak with him, we walked round to the other side of the +house, to an open space of grass, where the fowls picked merrily, and +the old farm-lumber, broken coops, disused ploughs, lay comfortably +about. "How I love tidiness!" wrote Morris once. Yet I did not feel that +he would have done other than love all this natural and simple litter of +the busy farmstead. +</p> +<p> +Here the venerable house appeared more stately still. Through an open +door in a wall we caught a sight of the old standards of an orchard, and +borders with the spikes of spring-flowers pushing through the mould. The +gardener was digging in the gravelly soil. He received us with a grave +and kindly air; but when we asked if we could look into the house, +he said, with a sturdy faithfulness, that his orders were that no one +should see it, and continued his digging without heeding us further. +</p> +<p> +Somewhat abashed we retraced our steps; we got one glimpse of the fine +indented front, with its shapely wings and projections. I should like +to have seen the great parlour, and the tapestry-room with the story of +Samson that bothered Rossetti so over his work. I should like to have +seen the big oak bed, with its hangings embroidered with one of Morris's +sweetest lyrics: +</p> +<pre> + "The wind's on the wold, + And the night is a-cold." +</pre> +<p> +I should like to have seen the tapestry-chamber, and the room where +Morris, who so frankly relished the healthy savour of meat and drink, +ate his joyful meals, and the peacock yew-tree that he found in his days +of failing strength too hard a task to clip. I should like to have +seen all this, I say; and yet I am not sure that tables and chairs, +upholsteries and pictures, would not have come in between me and the +sacred spirit of the place. +</p> +<p> +So I turned to the church. Plain and homely as its exterior is, inside +it is touched with the true mediaeval spirit, like the "old febel +chapel" of the Mort d'Arthur. Its bare walls, its half-obliterated +frescoes, its sturdy pillars, gave it an ancient, simple air. But I did +not, to my grief, see the grave of Morris, though I saw in fancy the +coffin brought from Lechlade in the bright farm-waggon, on that day of +pitiless rain. For there was going on in the churchyard the only thing I +saw that day that seemed to me to strike a false note; a silly posing +of village girls, self-conscious and overdressed, before the camera of a +photographer—a playing at aesthetics, bringing into the village life +a touch of unwholesome vanity and the vulgar affectation of the world. +That is the ugly shadow of fame; it makes conventional people curious +about the details of a great man's life and surroundings, without +initiating them into any sympathy with his ideals and motives. The price +that the real worshippers pay for their inspiration is the slavering +idolatry of the unintelligent; and I withdrew in a mournful wonder from +the place, wishing I could set an invisible fence round the scene, a +fence which none should pass but the few who had the secret and the key +in their hearts. +</p> +<p> +And here, for the pleasure of copying the sweet words, let me transcribe +a few sentences from Morris's own description of the house itself: +</p> +<p> +"A house that I love with a reasonable love, I think; for though my +words may give you no idea of any special charm about it, yet I assure +you that the charm is there; so much has the old house grown up out of +the soil and the lives of those that lived on it: some thin thread of +tradition, a half-anxious sense of the delight of meadow and acre +and wood and river; a certain amount (not too much, let us hope) of +common-sense, a liking for making materials serve one's turn, and +perhaps at bottom some little grain of sentiment—this, I think, was +what went to the making of the old house." +</p> +<p> +And again: +</p> +<p> +"My feet moved along the road they knew. The raised way led us into a +little field, bounded by a backwater of the river on one side; on the +right hand we could see a cluster of small houses and barns, and before +us a grey stone barn and a wall partly overgrown with ivy, over which +a few grey gables showed. The village road ended in the shallow of the +backwater. We crossed the road, and my hand raised the latch of a door +in the wall, and we stood presently on a stone path which led up to the +old house. The garden between the wall and the house was redolent of +the June flowers, and the roses were rolling over one another with that +delicious superabundance of small well-tended gardens which at first +sight takes away all thought save that of beauty. The blackbirds were +singing their loudest, the doves were cooing on the roof-ridge, the +rooks in the high elm trees beyond were garrulous among the young +leaves, and the swifts wheeled whirring about the gables. And the house +itself was a fit guardian for all the beauty of this heart of summer. +</p> +<p> +"O me! O me! How I love the earth, and the seasons, and weather, and +all things that deal with it, and all that grows out of it—as this has +done! The earth and the growth of it and the life of it! If I could but +say or show how I love it!" +</p> +<p> +The pure lyrical beauty of these passages makes one out of conceit +with one's own clumsy sentences. But still, I will say how all that +afternoon, among the quiet fields, with the white clouds rolling up +over the lip of the wolds, I was haunted with the thought of that burly +figure; the great head with its curly hair and beard; the eyes that +seemed so guarded and unobservant, and that yet saw and noted every +smallest detail; the big clumsy hands, apt for such delicacy of work; to +see him in his rough blue suit, his easy rolling gait, wandering about, +stooping to look at the flowers in the beds, or glancing up at the +sky, or sauntering off to fish in the stream, or writing swiftly in +the parlour, or working at his loom; so bluff, so kindly, so blunt in +address, so unaffected, loving all that he saw, the tide of full-blooded +and restless life running so vigorously in his veins; or, further +back, Rossetti, with his wide eyes, half bright, half languorous, +pale, haunted with impossible dreams, pacing, rapt in feverish thought, +through the lonely fields. The ghosts of heroes! And whether it was that +my own memories and affections and visions stirred my brain, or that +some tide of the spirit still sets from the undiscovered shores to the +scenes of life and love, I know not, but the place seemed thronged with +unseen presences and viewless mysteries of hope. Doubtless, loving as +we do the precise forms of earthly beauty, the wide green pastures, the +tender grace of age on gable and wall, the springing of sweet flowers, +the clear gush of the stream, we are really in love with some deeper +and holier thing; yet even about the symbols themselves there lingers a +consecrating power; and that influence was present with me to-day, as +I went homewards in the westering light, with the shadows of house and +tree lengthening across the grass in the still afternoon. +</p> +<p> +Heroes, I said? Well, I will not here speak of Rossetti, though his +impassioned heart and wayward dreams were made holy, I think, through +suffering: he has purged his fault. But I cannot deny the name of hero +to Morris. Let me put into words what was happening to him at the very +time at which he had made this sweet place his home. He had already +done as much in those early years as many men do in a lifetime. He +had written great poems, he had loved and wedded, he had made abundant +friends, his wealth was growing fast; he loved every detail of his +work, designing, weaving, dyeing; he had a band of devoted workers and +craftsmen under him. He could defy the world; he cared nothing at all +for society or honours. He had magnificent vitality, a physique which +afforded him every kind of wholesome momentary enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +In the middle of all this happy activity a cloud came over his mind, +blotting out the sunshine. Partly, perhaps, private sorrows had +something to do with it; partly, perhaps, a weakening of physical fibre, +after a life of enormous productivity and restless energy, made itself +felt. But these were only incidental causes. What began to weigh upon +him was the thought of all the toiling thousands of humanity, whose +lives of labour precluded them from the enjoyment of all or nearly all +of the beautiful things that were to him the very essence of life; +and, what was worse still, he perceived that the very faculty of higher +enjoyment was lacking, the instinct for beauty having been atrophied +and almost eradicated by sad inheritance, He saw that not only did the +workers not feel the joyful love of art and natural beauty, but that +they could not have enjoyed such pleasures, even if they were to be +brought near to them; and then came the further and darker thought, that +modern art was, after all, a hollow and a soulless thing. He saw around +him beautiful old houses like his own, old churches which spoke of a +high natural instinct for fineness of form and detail. These things +seemed to stand for a widespread and lively joy in simple beauty which +seemed to have vanished out of the world. In ancient times it was +natural to the old builders if they had, say, a barn to build, to make +it strong and seemly and graceful; to buttress it with stone, to bestow +care and thought upon coign and window-ledge and dripstone, to prop the +roof on firm and shapely beams, and to cover it with honest stone tiles, +each one of which had an individuality of its own. But now he saw that +if people built naturally, they ran up flimsy walls of brick, tied them +together with iron rods, and put a curved roof of galvanised iron on the +top. It was bad enough that it should be built so, but what was worse +still was that no one saw or heeded the difference; they thought the +new style was more convenient, and the question of beauty never entered +their minds at all. They remorselessly pulled down, or patched meanly +and sordidly, the old work. And thus he began to feel that modern +art was an essentially artificial thing, a luxury existing for a few +leisurely people, and no longer based on a deep universal instinct. +He thought that art was wounded to death by competition and hurry and +vulgarity and materialism, and that it must die down altogether before a +sweet natural product could arise from the stump. +</p> +<p> +Then, too, Morris was not an individualist; he cared, one may think, +about things more than people. A friend of his once complained that, if +he were to die, Morris would no doubt grieve for him and even miss him, +but that it would make no gap in his life, nor interrupt his energy of +work. He cared for movements, for classes, for groups of men, more than +he cared for persons. And thus the idea came to him, in a mournful year +of reflection, that it was not only a mistake, but of the nature of sin, +to isolate himself in a little Paradise of art of his own making, and to +allow the great noisy, ugly, bewildered world to go on its way. It was +a noble grief. The thought of the bare, uncheered, hopeless lives of the +poor came to weigh on him like an obsession, and he began to turn over +in his mind what he could do to unravel the knotted skein. +</p> +<p> +"I am rather in a discouraged mood," he wrote on New Year's Day 1880, +"and the whole thing seems almost too tangled to see through and too +heavy to move." And again: +</p> +<p> +"I have of late been somewhat melancholy (rather too strong a word, but +I don't know another); not so much so as not to enjoy life in a way, but +just so much as a man of middle age who has met with rubs (though less +than his share of them) may sometimes be allowed to be. When one is just +so much subdued one is apt to turn more specially from thinking of one's +own affairs to more worthy matters; and my mind is very full of the +great change which I hope is slowly coming over the world." +</p> +<p> +And so he plunged into Socialism. He gave up his poetry and much of his +congenial work. He attended meetings and committees; he wrote leaflets +and pamphlets; he lavished money; he took to giving lectures and +addresses; he exposed himself to misunderstandings and insults. He spoke +in rain at street corners to indifferent loungers; he pushed a little +cart about the squares selling Socialist literature; he had collisions +with the police; he was summoned before magistrates: the "poetic +upholsterer," as he was called, became an object of bewildered contempt +to friends and foes alike. The work was not congenial to him, but he +did it well, developing infinite tolerance and good-humour, and even +tactfulness, in his relations with other men. The exposure to the +weather, the strain, the neglect of his own physical needs, brought on, +undoubtedly, the illness of which he eventually died; and worst of all +was the growing shadow of discouragement, which made him gradually aware +that the times were not ripe, and that even if the people could seize +the power they desired, they could not use it. He became aware that the +worker's idea of rising in the social scale was not the idea of gaining +security, leisure, independence, and love of honest work, but the hope +of migrating to the middle class, and becoming a capitalist on a small +scale. That was the last thing that Morris desired. Most of all he felt +the charge of inconsistency that was dinned into his ears. It was held +ridiculous that a wealthy capitalist and a large employer of labour, +living, if not in luxury, at least in considerable stateliness, should +profess Socialist ideas without attempting to disencumber himself of his +wealth. He wrote in answer to a loving remonstrance: +</p> +<p> +"You see, my dear, I can't help it. The ideas which have taken hold of +me will not let me rest; nor can I see anything else worth thinking +of. How can it be otherwise, when to me society, which to many seems +an orderly arrangement for allowing decent people to get through their +lives creditably and with some pleasure, seems mere cannibalism; nay, +worse (for there ought to be hope in that), is grown so corrupt, so +steeped in hypocrisy and lies, that one turns from one stratum of it to +another with hopeless loathing.... Meantime, what a little ruffles me +is this, that if I do a little fail in my duty some of my friends will +praise me for failing instead of blaming me." +</p> +<p> +And then at last, after every sordid circumstance of intrigue and +squabble and jealousy, one after another of the organisations he joined +broke down. Half gratefully and half mournfully he disengaged himself, +not because he did not believe in his principles, but because he saw +that the difficulties were insuperable. He came back to the old life; he +flung himself with renewed ardour into art and craftsmanship. He began +to write the beautiful and romantic prose tales, with their enchanting +titles, which are, perhaps, his most characteristic work. He learnt by +slow degrees that a clean sweep of an evil system cannot be made in a +period or a lifetime by an individual, however serious or strenuous +he may be; he began to perceive that, if society is to put ideas in +practice, the ideas must first be there, clearly defined and widely +apprehended; and that it is useless to urge men to a life of which they +have no conception and for which they have no desire. He had always +held it to be a sacred duty for people to live, if possible, in whatever +simplicity, among beautiful things; and it may be said that no one man +in one generation has ever effected so much in this direction. He +has, indeed, leavened and educated taste; he has destroyed a vile and +hypocritical tradition of domestic art; by his writings he has opened a +door for countless minds into a remote and fragrant region of unspoilt +romance; and, still more than this, he remains an example of one who +made a great and triumphant resignation of all that he held most +dear, for the sake of doing what he thought to be right. He was not an +ascetic, giving up what is half an incumbrance and half a terror; nor +was he naturally a melancholy and detached person; but he gave up +work which he loved passionately, and a life which he lived in a +full-blooded, generous way, that he might try to share his blessings +with others, out of a supreme pity for those less richly endowed than +himself. +</p> +<p> +How, then, should not this corner of the world, which he loved so +dearly, speak to the spirit with a voice and an accent far louder and +more urgent than its own tranquil habit of sunny peace and green-shaded +sweetness! "You know my faith," wrote Morris from Kelmscott in a +bewildered hour, "and how I feel I have no sort of right to revenge +myself for any of my private troubles on the kind earth; and here I feel +her kindness very specially, and am bound not to meet it with a long +face." Noble and high-hearted words! for he of all men seemed made by +nature to enjoy security and beauty and the joys of living, if ever man +was so made. His very lack of personal sensitiveness, his unaptness to +be moved by the pathetic appeal of the individual, might have been made +a shield for his own peace; but he laid that shield down, and bared +his breast to the sharp arrows; and in his noble madness to redress the +wrongs of the world he was, perhaps, more like one of his great generous +knights than he himself ever suspected. +</p> +<p> +This, then, I think is the reason why this place—a grey grange at the +end of a country lane, among water meadows—has so ample a call for the +spirit. A place of which Morris wrote, "The scale of everything of the +smallest, but so sweet, so unusual even; it was like the background +of an innocent fairy-story." Yes, it might have been that! Many of the +simplest and quietest of lives had been lived there, no doubt, before +Morris came that way. But with him came a realisation of its virtues, a +perception that in its smallness and sweetness it yet held imprisoned, +like the gem that sits on the smallest finger of a hand, an ocean of +light and colour. The two things that lend strength to life are, in the +first place, an appreciation of its quality, a perception of its intense +and awful significance—the thought that we here hold in our hands, +if we could but piece it all together, the elements and portions of a +mighty, an overwhelming problem. The fragments of that mighty mystery +are sorrow, sin, suffering, joy, hope, life, death. Things of their +nature sharply opposed, and yet that are, doubtless, somehow and +somewhere, united and composed and reconciled. It is at this sad point +that many men and most artists stop short. They see what they love and +desire; they emphasise this and rest upon it; and when the surge of +suffering buffets them away, they drown, bewildered, struggling for +breath, complaining. +</p> +<p> +But for the true man it is otherwise. He is penetrated with the desire +that all should share his joy and be emboldened by it. It casts a cold +shadow over the sunshine, it mars the scent of the roses, it wails +across the cooing of the doves—the sense that others suffer and toil +unhelped; and still more grievous to him is the thought that, were these +duller natures set free from the galling yoke, their mirth would be evil +and hideous, they would have no inkling of the sweeter and the purer +joy. And then, if he be wise, he tries his hardest, in slow and wearied +hours, to comfort, to interpret, to explain; in much heaviness and +dejection he labours, while all the time, though he knows it not, the +sweet ripple of his thoughts spreads across the stagnant pool. He may be +flouted, contemned, insulted, but he heeds it not; while all the strands +of the great mystery, dark and bright alike, work themselves, delicately +and surely, into the picture of his life, and the picture of other lives +as well. Larger and richer grows the great design, till it is set in +some wide hall or corridor of the House of Life; and the figure of +the toil-worn knight, with armour dinted and brow dimmed with dust +and sweat, kneeling at the shrine, makes the very silence of the place +beautiful; while those that go to and fro rejoice, not in the suffering +and weariness, not in the worn face and the thin, sun-browned hands, but +in the thought that he loved all things well; that his joy was pure and +high, that his clear eyes pierced the dull mist that wreathed cold field +and dripping wood, and that, when he sank, outworn and languid after the +day's long toil, the jocund trumpets broke out from the high-walled town +in a triumphant concert, because he had done worthily, and should now +see greater things than these. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0013"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XII. A SPEECH-DAY +</h2> +<p> +In the course of the summer it was my lot to attend the Speech-Day +festivities of a certain school—indeed, I attended at more than one +such gathering, vocatus atque non vocatus, as Horace says. They are not +the sort of entertainments I should choose for pleasure; one feels +too much like a sheep, driven from pen to pen, kindly and courteously +driven, but still driven. One is fed rather than eats. One meets a +number of charming and interesting people, and one has no time to +talk to them. But I am always glad to have gone, and one carries away +pleasant memories of kindness and courtesy, of youth and hope. +</p> +<p> +This particular occasion was so very typical that I am going to try and +gather up my impressions and ideas. It was an old school and a famous +school, though not one of the most famous. The buildings large and +effective, full of modern and up-to-date improvements, with a mellow +core of antiquity, in the shape of a venerable little courtyard in +the centre. There were green lawns and pleasant gardens and umbrageous +trees; and it was a beautiful day, too, sunny and fresh, so that one was +neither baked nor boiled. The first item was a luncheon, at which I +sate between two very pleasant strangers and exchanged cautious views +on education. We agreed that the value of the classics as a staple of +mental training was perhaps a little overrated, and that possibly too +much attention was nowadays given to athletics; but that after all the +public-school system was the backbone of the country, and taught boys +how to behave like gentlemen, and how to govern subject races. We +agreed that they were ideal training-grounds for character, and that our +public-schools were the envy of the civilised world. In such profound +and suggestive interchange of ideas the time sped rapidly away. +</p> +<p> +Then we were gathered into a big hall. It was pleasant to see proud +parents and charming sisters, wearing their best, clustered excitedly +round some sturdy and well-brushed young hero, the hope of the race; +pleasant to see frock-coated masters, beaming with professional +benevolence, elderly gentlemen smilingly recalling tales of youthful +prowess, which had grown quite epical in the lapse of time; it was +inspiriting to feel one of a big company of people, all bent on being +for once as good-humoured and cheerful as possible, and all inspired by +a vague desire to improve the occasion. +</p> +<p> +The prizes were given away to the accompaniment of a rolling thunder +of applause; we had familiar and ingenuous recitations from youthful +orators, who desired friends, Romans, and countrymen to lend them their +ears, or accepted the atrocious accusation of being a young man; +and then a Bishop, who had been a schoolmaster himself, delivered an +address. It was delightful to see and hear the good man expatiate. I did +not believe much in what he said, nor could I reasonably endorse many +of his statements; but he did it all so genially and naturally that one +felt almost ashamed to question the matter of his discourse. Yet I could +not help wondering why it is thought advisable always to say exactly the +same things on these occasions. The good man began by asserting that +the boys would never be so happy or so important again in their lives as +they were at school, and that all grown-up people were envying them. I +don't know whether any one believed that; I am sure the boys did not, +if I can judge by what my own feelings used to be on such occasions. +Personally I used to think my school a very decent sort of place, but I +looked forward with excitement and interest to the liberty and life of +the larger world; and though perhaps in a way we elders envied the boys +for having the chances before them that we had so many of us neglected +to seize, I don't suppose that with the parable of Vice Versa before us +we would really have changed places with them. Would any one ever return +willingly to discipline and barrack-life? [Yes—ed.] Would any one under +discipline refuse independence if it were offered him on easy terms? I +doubt it! +</p> +<p> +Then the Bishop went on to talk about educational things; and he said +with much emphasis that in spite of all that was said about modern +education, we most of us realised as we grew older that all culture was +really based upon the Greek and Latin classics. We all stamped on the +ground and cheered at that, I as lustily as the rest, though I am quite +sure it is not true. All that the Bishop really meant was that such +culture as he himself possessed had been based on the classics. Now the +Bishop is a robust, genial, and sensible man, but he is not a strictly +cultured man. He is only sketchily varnished with culture. He thinks +that German literature is nebulous, and French literature immoral. +I don't suppose he ever reads an English book, except perhaps an +ecclesiastical biography; he would say that he had no time to read a +novel; probably he glances at the Christian Year on Sundays, and peruses +a Waverley novel if he is kept in bed by a cold. Yet he considers +himself, and would be generally considered, a well-educated man. I +believe myself that the reason why we as a nation love good literature +so little is because we are starved at an impressionable age on a diet +of classics; and to persist in regarding the classics as the high-water +mark of the human intellect seems to me to argue a melancholy want +of faith in the progress of the race. However, for the moment we all +believed ourselves to be men of a high culture, soundly based on the +corner-stone of Latin and Greek. Then the Bishop went on to speak of +athletics with a solemn earnestness, and he said, with deep conviction, +that experience had taught him that whatever was worth doing was worth +doing well. He did not argue the point as to whether all games were +worth playing, or whether by filling up all the spare time of boys +with them, by crowning successful athletes with glory and worship, by +engaging masters who will talk with profound seriousness about bowling +and batting, rowing and football, one might not be developing a +perfectly false sense of proportion. He told the boys to play games +with all their might, and he left on their minds the impression that +athletics were certainly things to be ranked among the Christian +graces. Of course he sincerely believed in them himself. He would have +maintained that they developed manliness and vigour, and discouraged +loafing and uncleanness. I am not at all sure myself that games as at +present organised do minister directly to virtue. The popularity of the +athlete is a dangerous thing if he is not virtuously inclined; while +the excessive organisation of games discourages individuality, and +emphasises a very false standard of success in the minds of many boys. +But the Bishop was not invited that he might say unconventional things. +He was asked on purpose to bless things as they were, and he blessed +them with all his might. +</p> +<p> +Then he went on to say that the real point after all was character and +conduct; that intellect was a gift of God, and that conspicuous athletic +capacity was a gift—he did not like to say of God, so he said of +Providence; but that in one respect we were all equal, and that was in +our capacity for moral effort; and that the boy who came to the front +was not always the distinguished scholar or the famous athlete, but the +industrious, trustworthy, kindly, generous, public-spirited boy. This he +said with deep emotion, as though it were rather a daring and unexpected +statement, but discerned by a vigilant candour; and all this with the +air that he was testifying faithfully to the true values of life, and +sweeping aside with a courageous hand the false glow and glamour of +the world. We did not like to applaud at this, but we made a subdued +drumming with our heels, and uttered a sort of murmurous assent to a +noble and far from obvious proposition. +</p> +<p> +But here again I felt that the thing was somehow not quite as +high-minded as it seemed. The goal designated was, after all, the goal +of success. It was not suggested that the unrewarded and self-denying +life was perhaps the noblest. The point was to come to the front +somehow, and it was only indicating a sort of waiting game for the boys +who were conscious neither of intellectual nor athletic capacity. It was +a sort of false socialism, this pretence of moral equality, a kind of +consolation prize that was thus emphasised. And I felt that here again +the assumption was an untrue one. That is the worst of life, if one +examines it closely, that it is by no means wholly run on moral lines. +It is strength that is rewarded, rather than good desires. The Bishop +seemed to have forgotten the ancient maxim that prosperity is the +blessing of the Old Testament, and affliction the blessing of the +New. These qualities that were going to produce ultimate +success—conscientiousness, generosity, modesty, public spirit—they +are, after all, as much gifts as any other gifts of intellect and bodily +skill. How often has one seen boys who are immodest, idle, frivolous, +mean-spirited, and ungenerous attain to the opposite virtues? Not often, +I confess. Who does not know of abundant instances of boys who have +been selfish, worthless, grasping, unprincipled, who have yet achieved +success intellectually and athletically, and have also done well for +themselves, amassed money, and obtained positions for themselves in +after life. Looking back on my own school days, I cannot honestly say +that the prizes of life have fallen to the pure-minded, affectionate, +high-principled boys. The boys I remember who have achieved conspicuous +success in the world have been hard-hearted, prudent, honourable +characters with a certain superficial bonhomie, who by a natural +instinct did the things that paid. Stripped of its rhetoric, the +Bishop's address resolved itself into a panegyric of success, and +the morality of it was that if you could not achieve intellectual +and athletic prominence, you might get a certain degree of credit by +unostentatious virtue. What I felt was that somehow the goal proposed +was—dare I hint it?—a vulgar one; that it was a glorification of +prudence and good-humoured self-interest; and yet if the Bishop had +preached the gospel of disinterestedness and quiet faithfulness and +devotion, he would have had few enthusiastic hearers. If he had said +that an awkward and surly manner, no matter what virtues it concealed, +was the greatest bar to ultimate mundane success, it would have been +quite true, though perhaps not particularly edifying. But what I desired +was not startling paradox or cynical comment, but something more really +manly, more just, more unconventional, more ardent, more disinterested. +The boys were not exhorted to care for beautiful things for the sake of +their beauty; but to care for attractive things for the sake of their +acceptability. +</p> +<p> +And yet in a way it did us all good to listen to the great man. He was +so big and kindly and fatherly and ingenuous; he had made virtue pay; I +do not suppose he had ever had a low or an impure or a spiteful thought; +but his path had been easy from the first; he was a scholar and an +athlete, and he had never pursued success, for the simple reason that it +had fallen from heaven like manna round about his dwelling, with perhaps +a few dozen quails as well! Boys, parents, masters, young and old alike, +were assembled that day to worship success, and the Bishop prophesied +good concerning them. It entered no one's head that success, in its +simplest analysis, means thrusting some one else aside from a place +which he desires to fill. But why on such a day should one think of the +feelings of others? we were all bent on virtuously gratifying our own +desires. The boys who were left out were the weak and the timid, the +ailing and the erring, the awkward and the unpopular, the clumsy and the +stupid; they were not bidden to take courage, they were rather bidden +to envy the unattainable, and to submit with such grace as they could +muster. But we pushed all such vague and unsatisfactory thoughts in the +background; we sounded the clarion and filled the fife, and were at case +in Zion, while we worshipped the great, brave, glittering world. +</p> +<p> +What I desired was that, in the height of our jubilant self-gratulation, +some sweet and gracious figure, full of heavenly wisdom, could have +twitched the gaudy curtain aside for a moment and shown us other things +than these; who could have assured us that we all, however stupid and +dreary and awkward and indolent, however vexed with low dreams and ugly +temptations, yet had our share and place in the rich inheritance of +life; and that even if it was to be all a record of dull failure, +commonplace sinfulness cheered by no joyful triumph, no friendly +smile—yet if we fought the fault and did the dull task faithfully, +and desired to be but a little better, a little stronger, a little more +unselfish, that the pilgrimage with all its sandy tracts and terrifying +spectres would not be traversed in vain; and then I think we might have +been brought together with a sense of sweeter and truer unity, and might +have thought of life as a thing to be shared, and joy as a thing to be +lavished, and not have rather conceived of the world as a place full +of fine things, of which we were all to gather sedulously as many as we +could grasp and retain. +</p> +<p> +Or even if the good Bishop had taken a simpler line and told the boys +some old story, like the story of Polycrates of Samos, I should have +been more comfortable. Polycrates was the tyrant with whom everything +went well that he set his hand to, so that to avoid the punishment of +undue prosperity he threw his great signet-ring into the sea; but when +he was served a day or two later with a slice of fish at his banquet, +there was the ring sticking in its ribs. The Bishop might have said that +this should teach us not to try and seize all the good things we could, +and that the reason of it was not, as the old Greeks thought, that the +gods envied the prosperity of mortals, but that our prosperity was often +dashed very wisely and tenderly from our lips, because one of the worst +foes that a man can have, one of the most blinding and bewildering of +faults, is the sense of self-sufficiency and security. That would not +have spoilt the pleasure of those brisk boys, but would have given them +something wholesome to take away and think about, like the prophet's +roll that was sweet in the mouth and bitter in the belly. +</p> +<p> +It may be thought that I have thus dilated on the Bishop's address for +the sole purpose of showing what a much better address I could have +made. That is not the case at all. I could not have done the thing at +all to start with, and, given both the nerve and the presence and the +practice of the man, I could not have done it a quarter as well, because +he was in tune with his audience and I should not have been. That was +to me part of the tragedy. The Bishop's voice fell heavily and steadily, +like a stream of water from a great iron pipe that fills a reservoir. +The audience, too, were all in the most elementary mood. Boys of course +frankly desire success without any disguise. And parents less frankly +but no less hungrily, in an almost tigerish way, desire it for their +children. The intensity of belief felt by a parent in a stupid or even +vicious boy would be one of the most pathetic things I know, if it were +not also one of the primal forces of the world. +</p> +<p> +And thus the tide being high the Bishop went into harbour at the top of +the flood. I don't even complain of the nature of the address; it was +frankly worldly, such as might have been given by a Sadducee in the +time of Christ. But the interesting thing about it was that most of +the people present believed it to be an ethical and even a religious +address. It was the ethic of a professional bowler and the religion of +a banker. If a boy had been for all intents and purposes a professional +bowler to the age of twenty-three, and a professional banker afterwards, +he would almost exactly have fulfilled the Bishop's ideal. I do not +think it is a bad ideal either. I only say that it is not an exalted +ideal, and it is not a Christian ideal. It is the world in disguise, +the wolf in sheep's clothing over again. We were taken in. We said to +ourselves, "This is an animal certainly clothed as a sheep—and we must +remember the old proverb and be careful." But as the Bishop's address +proceeded, and the fragrant oil fell down to the skirts of our clothing, +we said, "There is certainly a sheep inside." +</p> +<p> +Then a choir of strong, rough, boyish voices sang an old glee or +two—"Glorious Apollo" and "Hail smiling Morn," and a school song about +the old place that made some of us bite our lips and furtively brush +away an unexpected and inexplicable moisture from our eyes, at the +thought of the fine fellows we had ourselves sat side by side with +thirty and forty years ago, now scattered to all ends of the earth, and +some of them gone from the here to the everywhere, as the poet says. And +then we adjourned to see the School Corps inspected—such solemn little +soldiers, marching past in their serviceable uniforms, the line rising +and falling with the inequalities of the ground, and bowing out a good +deal in the centre, at the very moment that the good-natured old Colonel +was careful to look the other way. Then there was a leisurely game +of cricket, with a lot of very old boys playing with really amazing +agility; and then I fell in with an old acquaintance, and we strolled +about together, and got a friendly master to show us over the +schoolrooms and one of the houses, and admired the excellent +arrangements, and peeped into some studies crowded with pleasant +boyish litter, and talked to some of the boys with an attempt at light +juvenility, and enjoyed ourselves in a thoroughly absurd and leisurely +fashion. And then I was left alone, and walking about, abandoned myself +to sentiment pure and simple; it was hard to analyse that feeling which +was stirred by the sight of all those fresh-faced boys, flowing like +a stream through the old buildings, and just leaving their own little +mark, for good or evil, on the place—a painted name on an Honours +board, initials cut in desk or panel, a memory or two, how soon to +grow dim in the minds of the new generation, who would be so full of +themselves and of the present, turning the sweet-scented manuscript of +youth with such eager fingers, that they could give but little thought +to the future and none at all to the past. And then one remembered, +with a curious sense of wistful pain, how rapidly the cards of life were +being dealt out to one, and how long it was since one had played the +card of youth so heedlessly and joyfully away; that at least could not +return. And then there came the thought of all the hope and love that +centred upon these children, and all the possibilities which lay before +them. And I began to think of my own contemporaries and of how little +on the whole they had done; it was not fair perhaps to say that most +of them had made a mess of their lives, because they were honest, +honourable citizens many of them. It was not the poor thing called +success that I was thinking of, but a sort of high-hearted and generous +dealing with life, making the most of one's faculties and qualities, +diffusing a glow of love and enthusiasm and brave zest about one—how +few of us had done that! We had grown indolent and money-loving and +commonplace. Some of those we looked to to redeem and glorify the world +had failed most miserably, through unchecked faults of temperament. Some +had declined with a sort of unambitious comfort, some had fallen +into the trough of Toryism, and spent their time in holding fast to +conventional and established things; one or two had flown like Icarus so +near the sun that their waxen wings had failed them; and yet some of us +had missed greatness by so little. Was it to be always so? Was it always +to be a battle against hopeless odds? Was defeat, earlier or later, +inevitable? The tamest defeat of all was to lapse smoothly into easy +conventional ways, to adopt the standards of the world, and rake +together contentedly and seriously the straws and dirt of the street. +If that was to be the destiny of most, why were we haunted in youth with +the sight of that cloudy, gleaming crown within our reach, that sense +of romance, that phantom of nobleness? What was the significance of the +aspirations that made the heart beat high on fresh sunlit mornings, +the dim and beautiful hopes that came beckoning as we looked from our +windows in a sunset hour, with the sky flushing red behind the old +towers, the sense of illimitable power, of stainless honour, that came +so bravely, when the organ bore the voices aloft in the lighted chapel +at evensong? Was all that not a real inspiration at all, but a mere +accident of boyish vigour? No, it was not a delusion—that was life as +it was meant to be lived, and the best victory was to keep that hope +alive in the heart amid a hundred failures, a thousand cares. +</p> +<p> +As I walked thus full of fancies, the boys singly or in groups kept +passing me, smiling, full of delighted excitement and chatter, all +intent on themselves and their companions. I heard scraps of their +talk, inconsequent names, accompanied with downright praise or blame, +unintelligible exploits, happy nonsense. How odd it is to note that when +we Anglo-Saxons are at our happiest and most cheerful, we expend so much +of our steam in frank derision of each other! Yet though I can hardly +remember a single conversation of my school days, the thought of +my friendships and alliances is all gilt with a sense of delightful +eagerness. Now that I am a writer of books, it matters even more how I +say a thing than what I say. But then it was the other way. It was what +we felt that mattered, and talk was but the sparkling outflow of trivial +thought. What heroes we made of sturdy, unemphatic boys, how we repeated +each other's jokes, what merciless critics we were of each other, how +little allowance we made for weakness or oddity, how easily we condoned +all faults in one who was good-humoured and strong! How the little web +of intrigue and gossip, of likes and dislikes, wove and unwove +itself! What hopeless Tories we were! How we stood upon our rights and +privileges! I have few illusions as to the innocence or the justice +or the generosity of boyhood; what boys really admire are grace and +effectiveness and readiness. And yet, looking back, one has parted +with something, a sort of zest and intensity that one would fain +have retained. I felt that I would have given much to be able to have +communicated a few of the hard lessons of experience that I have learnt +by my errors and mistakes, to these jolly youngsters; but there again +comes in the pathos of boyhood, that one can make no one a present of +experience, and that virtue cannot be communicated, or it ceases to be +virtue. They were bound, all those ingenuous creatures, to make their +own blunders, and one could not save them a single one, for all one's +hankering to help. That is of course the secret, that we are here for +the sake of experience, and not for the sake of easy happiness. Yet one +would keep the hearts of these boys pure and untarnished and strong, if +one could, though even as one walked among them one could see faces on +which temptation and sin had already written itself in legible signs. +</p> +<p> +The cricket drew to an end; the shadows began to lengthen on the turf. +The mimic warriors were disbanded. The tea-tables made their appearance +under the elms, where one was welcomed and waited upon by cheerful +matrons and neat maidservants, and delightfully zealous and inefficient +boys. One had but to express a preference to have half-a-dozen +plates pressed upon one by smiling Ganymedes. If schools cannot alter +character, they certainly can communicate to our cheerful English boys +the most delightful manners in the world, so unembarrassed, +courteous, easy, graceful, without the least touch of exaggeration or +self-consciousness. I suppose one has insular prejudices, for we are +certainly not looked upon as models of courtesy or consideration by our +Continental neighbours. I suppose we reserve our best for ourselves. +I expressed a wish to look at some of the new buildings, and a young +gentleman of prepossessing exterior became my unaffected cicerone. He +was not one who dealt in adjectives; his highest epithet of praise was +"pretty decent," but one detected an honest and unquestioning pride in +the place for all that. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps the best point of all about these schools of ours, is that the +aspect of the place and the tone of the dwellers in it does not vary +appreciably on days of festival and on working days. The beauty of it is +a little focused and smartened, but that is all. There is no covering up +of deficiencies or hiding desolation out of sight. If one goes down to +a public-school on an ordinary day, one finds the same brave life, the +same unembarrassed courtesy prevailing. There is no sense of being taken +by surprise; the life is all open to inspection on any day and at any +hour. We do not reserve ourselves for occasions in England. The meat +cuts wholesomely and pleasantly wherever it is sampled. +</p> +<p> +The disadvantage of this is that we are misjudged by foreigners because +we are seen, not at our best, but as we are. We do not feel the need of +recommending ourselves to the favourable consideration of others; +not that that is a virtue, it is rather the shadow of complacency and +patriotism. +</p> +<p> +But at last a feeling begins to arise in the minds both of hosts +and guests that the play is played out for the day, that the little +festivity is over. On the part of our hosts that feeling manifests +itself in a tendency to press departing guests to stay a little longer. +An old acquaintance of mine, a shy man, once gave a large garden-party +and had a band to play. He did his best for a time and times and +half-a-time; but at last he began to feel that the strain was becoming +intolerable. With desperate ingenuity he sought out the band-master, +told him to leave out the rest of the programme, and play "God Save the +King,"—the result being a furious exodus of his guests. Today no such +device is needed. We melt away, leaving our kind entertainers to the +pleasant weariness that comes of sustained geniality, and to the sense +that three hundred and sixty-four days have to elapse before the next +similar festival. +</p> +<p> +And, for myself, I carry away with me a gracious memory of a day +thrilled by a variety of conflicting and profound emotions; and if I +feel that perhaps life would be both easier and simpler, if we could +throw off a little more of our conventional panoply of thought, could +face our problems with a little more candour and directness, yet I +have had a glimpse of a community living an eager, full, vigorous life, +guarded by sufficient discipline to keep the members of it wholesomely +and honourably obedient, and yet conceding as much personal liberty of +thought and action as the general interest of the body can admit. I have +seen a place full of high possibilities and hopes, bestowing a treasure +of bright memories of work, of play, of friendship, upon the majority of +its members, and upholding a Spartan ideal of personal subordination to +the common weal, an ideal not enforced by law so much as sustained by +honour, an institution which, if it does not encourage originality, is +yet a sound reflection of national tendencies, and one in which the +men who work it devote themselves unaffectedly and ungrudgingly to +the interests of the place, without sentiment perhaps, but without +ostentation or priggishness. A place indeed to which one would wish +perhaps to add a certain intellectual stimulus, a mental liberty, yet +from which there is little that one would desire to take away. For if +one would like to see our schools strengthened, amplified and expanded, +yet one would wish the process to continue on the existing lines, and +not on a different method. So, in our zeal for cultivating the further +hope, let us who would fain see a purer standard of morals, a more +vigorous intellectual life prevail in our schools, not overlook the +marvellous progress that is daily and hourly being made, and keep the +taint of fretful ingratitude out of our designs; and meanwhile let +us, in the spirit of the old Psalm, wish Jerusalem prosperity "for our +brethren and companions' sakes." +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0014"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XIII. LITERARY FINISH +</h2> +<p> +I had two literary men staying with me a week ago, both of them +accomplished writers, and interested in their art, not professionally +and technically only, but ardently and enthusiastically. I here label +them respectively Musgrave and Herries. Musgrave is a veteran writer, +a man of fifty, who makes a considerable income by writing, and +has succeeded in many departments—biography, criticism, poetry, +essay-writing; he lacks, however, the creative and imaginative gift; his +observation is acute, and his humour considerable; but he cannot infer +and deduce; he cannot carry a situation further than he can see it. +Herries on the other hand is a much younger man, with an interest in +human beings that is emotional rather than spectacular; while Musgrave +is interested mainly in the present, Herries lives in the past or the +future. Musgrave sees what people do and how they behave, while Herries +is for ever thinking how they must have behaved to produce their +present conditions, or how they would be likely to act under different +conditions. Musgrave's one object is to discover what he calls the +truth; Herries thrives and battens upon illusions. Musgrave is fond +of the details of life, loves food and drink, conviviality and social +engagements, new people and unfamiliar places—Herries is quite +indifferent to the garniture of life, lives in great personal +discomfort, dislikes mixed assemblies and chatter, and has a fastidious +dislike of the present, whatever it is, from a sense that possibilities +are so much richer than performances. Musgrave admits that he has been +more successful as a writer than he deserves; Herries is likely, I +think, to disappoint the hopes of his friends, and will not do justice +to his extraordinary gifts, from a certain dreaminess and lack of +vitality. Musgrave loves the act of writing, and is always full to the +brim of matter. Herries dislikes composition, and is yet drawn to it by +a sense of fearful responsibility. Neither have, fortunately, the least +artistic jealousy. Herries regards a man like Musgrave with a sort of +incredulous stupefaction, as a stream of inexplicable volume. Herries +has to Musgrave all the interest of a very delicate and beautiful type, +whose fastidiousness he can almost envy. As a rule, literary men will +not discuss their art among themselves; they have generally arrived at +a sort of method of their own, which may not be ideal, but which is the +best practical solution for themselves, and they would rather not be +disquieted about it; literary talk, too, tends to partake of the +nature of shop, and busy men, as a rule, like to talk the shop of their +recreations rather than the shop of their employment. But Musgrave will +discuss anything; and as for Herries, writing is not an occupation, so +much as a divine vocation which he regards with a holy awe. +</p> +<p> +The discussion began at dinner, and I was amused to see how it affected +the two men. Musgrave, by an incredible mental agility, contrived to +continue to take a critical interest in the meal and the argument at +the same time; Herries thrust away an unfinished plate, refused what +was offered to him, pushed his glasses about as if they were +chessmen, filled the nearest with water at intervals—he is a rigid +teetotaller—and drank out of them alternately with an abstracted air. +</p> +<p> +The point was the question of literary finish, and the degree to which +it can or ought to be practised. Herries is of the school of Flaubert, +and holds that there may be several ways of saying a thing, but only one +best way, and that it is alike the duty and the goal of the writer to +find that way. This he enunciated with some firmness. +</p> +<p> +"No," said Musgrave, "I think that is only a theory, and breaks down, as +all theories do, when it is put in practice: look at all the really big +writers: look at Shakespeare—to me his work gives the impression of +being both hasty and uncorrected. If he says a thing in one way, and +while he is doing it thinks of a more telling form of expression, he +doesn't erase the first statement; he merely says it over again more +effectively. He is full of lapses and inappropriate passages—and it is +that very thing which gives him such an air of reality." +</p> +<p> +"Well, there is a good deal in that," said Herries, "but I do not see +how you are going to prove that it is not deliberate. Shakespeare wrote +like that in his plays, breathlessly and eagerly, because that was the +aim he had in view; if he makes one of his people say a thing tamely, +and then more pointedly, it is because it is exactly what people do in +real life, and Shakespeare was thinking with their mind for the time +being. He is behind the person he has made, moving his arms, looking +through his eyes, breathing through his mouth; and just as life itself +is hurried and inconsequent, so the perfection of art is, not to be +hurried and inconsequent, but to give one the impression of being so. I +don't believe he left his work uncorrected out of mere impatience. Look +at the way he wrote when he was writing in a different manner—look at +the Sonnets, for instance—there is plenty of calculated art there!" +</p> +<p> +"Yes," I said, "there is art there, but I don't think it is very +deliberate art. I don't believe they were written SLOWLY. Of course +one can hardly be breathless in a sonnet. The rhymes are all stretched +across the ground, like wires, and one has to pick one's way among +them." +</p> +<p> +"Well, take another instance," said Musgrave. "Look at Scott. He speaks +himself of his 'hurried frankness of execution.' His proof-sheets are +the most extraordinary things, full of impossible sentences, lapses +of grammar, and so forth. He did not do much correcting himself, but I +believe I am right in saying that his publishers did, and spent hours in +reducing the chaos to order." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, of course I don't deny," said Herries, "that volume and vitality +are what matters most. Scott's imagination was at once prodigious and +profound. He seems to me to have said to his creations, 'Let the young +men now arise and play before us.' But I don't think his art was the +better for his carelessness. Great and noble as the result was, I think +it would have been greater if he had taken more pains. Of course +one regards men of genius like Scott and Shakespeare with a kind of +terror—one can forgive them anything; but it is because they do by a +sort of prodigal instinct what most people have to do by painful +effort. If one's imagination has the poignant rightness of Scott's or +Shakespeare's, one's hurried work is better than most people's finished +work. But people of lesser force and power, if they get their stitches +wrong, have to unpick them and do it all over again. Sometimes I have +an uneasy sense, when I am writing, that my characters are feeling as if +their clothes do not fit. Then they have to be undressed, so to speak, +that one may see where the garments gall them. Now, take a book like +Madame Bovary, painfully and laboriously constructed—it seems obvious +enough, yet the more one reads it the more one becomes aware how every +stroke and detail tell. What almost appals me about that book is the way +in which the end is foreseen in the beginning, the way in which Flaubert +seems to have carried the whole thing in his head all the time, to have +known exactly where he was going and how fast he was going." +</p> +<p> +"That is perfectly true," I said. "But take an instance of another of +Flaubert's books, Bouvard et Pecuchet, where the same method is pursued +with what I can only call deplorable results. Every detail is perfect of +its kind. The two grotesque creatures take up one pursuit after another, +agriculture, education, antiquities, horticulture, distilling perfumes, +making jam. In each they make exactly the absurd mistakes that such +people would have made; but one loses all sense of reality, because one +feels that they would not have taken up so many things; it is only a +collection of typical absurdities. Given the men and the particular +pursuit, it is all natural enough, but one wearies of the same process +being applied an impossible number of times, just as Flaubert was often +so intolerable in real life, because he ran a joke to death, and never +knew when to put it down. The result in Bouvard et Pecuchet is a lack of +proportion and subordination. It is like one of the early Pre-Raphaelite +pictures, in which every detail is painted with minute perfection. It +was all there, no doubt, and it was all exactly like that; but that is +not how the human eye apprehends a scene. The human mind takes a central +point, and groups the accessories round it. In art, I think everything +depends upon centralisation. Two lovers part, and the birds' faint chirp +from the leafless tree, the smouldering rim of the sunset over misty +fields, are true and symbolical parts of the scene; but if you deal in +botany and ornithology and meteorology at such a moment, you cloud and +dim the central point—you digress when you ought only to emphasise." +</p> +<p> +"Oh yes," said Herries with a sigh, "that is all right enough—it all +depends upon proportion; and the worst of all these discussions on +points of art is that each person has to find his own standard—one +can't accept other people's standards. To me Bouvard et Pecuchet is +a piece of almost flawless art—it is there—it lives and breathes. I +don't like it all, of course, but I don't doubt that it happened so. +There must be an absolute rightness behind all supreme writing. Art must +have laws as real and immutable and elaborate as those of science and +metaphysics and religion—that is the central article of my creed." +</p> +<p> +"But the worst of that theory is," I said, "that one lays down canons +of taste, which are very neat and pretty; and then there comes some +new writer of genius, knocks all the old canons into fragments, and +establishes a new law. Canons of art seem to me sometimes nothing more +than classifications of the way that genius works. I find it very hard +to believe that there is a pattern, so to speak, for the snuffers and +the candlesticks, revealed to Moses in the mount. It was Moses' idea of +a pair of snuffers, when all is said." +</p> +<p> +"I entirely agree," said Musgrave; "the only ultimate basis of all +criticism is, 'I like it because I like it'—and the connoisseurs of any +age are merely the people who have the faculty of agreeing, I won't say +with the majority, but with the majority of competent critics." +</p> +<p> +"No, no," said Herries, raising his mournful eyes to Musgrave's face, +"don't talk like that! You take my faith away from me. Surely there must +be some central canon of morality in art, just as there is in ethics. +For instance, in ethics, is it conceivable that cruelty might become +right, if only enough people thought it was right? Is there no absolute +principle at all? In art, what about the great pictures and the great +poems, which have approved themselves to the best minds in generation +after generation? Their rightness and their beauty are only attested by +critics, they are surely not created by them? My view is that there +is an absolute law of beauty, and that we grow nearer to it by slow +degrees. Sometimes, as with the Greeks, people got very near to it +indeed. Is it conceivable, for instance, that men could ever come to +regard the Venus of Milo as ugly?" +</p> +<p> +"Why yes," said Musgrave, laughing, "I suppose that if humanity +developed on different lines, and a new type of beauty became desirable, +we might come to look upon the Venus of Milo as a barbarous and savage +kind of object, a dreadful parody of what we had become, like a female +chimpanzee. To a male chimpanzee, the wrinkled brow, the long upper lip, +the deeply indented lines from nose to mouth, of a female chimpanzee in +the prime of adolescence, is, I suppose, almost intolerably dazzling and +adorable—beauty can only be a relative thing, when all is said." +</p> +<p> +"We are drifting away from our point," I said. "The question really is +whether, as art expands, the principles become fewer or more numerous. +My own belief is that the principles do become fewer, but the varieties +of expression more numerous. Keats tried to sum it up by saying, 'Beauty +is Truth, Truth Beauty'; but it is not a successful maxim, because, as a +peevish philosopher said, 'Why in that case have two words for the same +thing?'" +</p> +<p> +"But it is true, in a sense, for all that," said Herries. "What we HAVE +learnt is that the subject is of very little importance in art—it is +the expression that matters. Genre pictures, plots of novels, incidents +of plays—they are all rather elementary things. Flaubert looked forward +to a time in art when there should be no subjects at all, when art +should aspire to the condition of music, and express the intangible." +</p> +<p> +"I confess," said Musgrave, laughing, "that that statement conveys +nothing to me. A painter, on that line, would depict nothing, but simply +produce a sort of harmony of colour. A picture would become simply +a texture of colour-vibrations. My own view is rather that it is a +question of accurate observation, followed by an extreme delicacy and +suggestiveness of expression. Some people would say that it was all a +question of reality; and that the point is that the writer shall suggest +a reality to his reader, even though the picture he evoked in the +reader's mind was not the same as the picture in his own mind—but that +is to me pure symbolism." +</p> +<p> +"Exactly," said Herries, "and the more symbolical that art becomes, the +purer it becomes—that is precisely what I am aiming at." +</p> +<p> +"Well," I said, "that gives me an opportunity of making a confession. +I have never really been able to understand what technical symbolism +in art is. A symbol in the plain sense is something which recalls +or suggests to you something else; and thus the whole of art is pure +symbolism. The flick of colour gives you a distant woodland, the phrase +gives you a scene or an emotion. Five printed words upon a page make one +suffer or rejoice imaginatively; and my idea of the most perfect art is +not the art which gives one a sense of laborious finish, but the art +in which you never think of the finish at all, but only of the thing +described. The end of effort is to conceal effort, as the old adage +says. Some people, I suppose, attain it through a series of misses; but +the best art of all goes straight to the heart of the thing." +</p> +<p> +"Yes," said Musgrave, "my own feeling is that the mistake is to consider +it can only be done in one way. Each person has his own way; but I agree +in thinking that the best art is the most effortless." +</p> +<p> +"From the point of view of the onlooker, perhaps," said Herries, "but +not from the point of view of the craftsman. The pleasure of art, for +the craftsman, is to see what the difficulty was, and to discern how the +artist triumphed over it. Think of the delightful individual roughness +of old work as opposed to modern machine-made things. There is an +appropriate irregularity, according to the medium employed. The +workmanship of a gem is not the same as that of a building; the essence +of the gem is to be flawless; but in the building there is a pleasure in +the tool-dints, like the pleasure of the rake-marks on the gravel +path. Of course music must be flawless too—firm, resolute, inevitable, +because the medium demands it; but in a big picture—why, the other day +I saw a great oil-painting, a noble piece of art—I came upon it in +the Academy, by a side door close upon it. The background was a great +tangled mass of raw crude smears, more like coloured rags patched +together than paint; but a few paces off, the whole melted into a great +river-valley, with deep water-meadows of summer grass and big clumps +of trees. That is the perfect combination. The man knew exactly what he +wanted—he got his effect—the structure was complete, and yet there +was the added pleasure of seeing how he achieved it. That is the kind of +finish I desire." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, of course," said Musgrave, "we should all agree about that; but my +feeling would be that the way to do it is for the artist to fill himself +to the brim with the subject, and to let it burst out. I do not at all +believe in the painful pinching and pulling together of a particular bit +of work. That sort of process is excellent practice, but it seems to me +like the receipt in one of Edwin Lear's Nonsense Books for making some +noisome dish, into which all sorts of ingredients of a loathsome kind +were to be put; and the directions end with the words: 'Serve up in a +cloth, and throw all out of the window as soon as possible.' It is an +excellent thing to take all the trouble, if you throw it away when it is +done; you will do your next piece of real work all the better; but for +a piece of work to have the best kind of vitality, it must flow, I +believe, easily and sweetly from the teeming mind. Take such a book as +Newman's Apologia, written in a few weeks, a piece of perfect art—but +then it was written in tears." +</p> +<p> +"But on the other hand," said I, "look at Ariosto's Orlando; it took ten +years to write and sixteen more to correct—and there is not a forced or +a languid line in the whole of it." +</p> +<p> +"Yes," said Musgrave, "it is true, of course, that people must do things +in their own way. But, on the whole, the best work is done in speed +and glow, and derives from that swift handling a unity, a curve, +that nothing else can give. What matters is to have a clear sense +of structure, and that, at all events, cannot be secured by poky and +fretful treatment. That is where intellectual grasp comes in. But, even +so, it all depends upon what one likes, and I confess that I like large +handling better than perfection of detail." +</p> +<p> +"I believe," I said, "that we really all agree. We all believe in +largeness and vitality as the essential qualities. But in the lesser +kinds of art there is a delicacy and a perfection which are appropriate. +An attention to minutiae which the graving of a gem or the making of a +sonnet demands is out of place in a cathedral or an epic. We none of us +would approve of hasty, slovenly, clumsy work anywhere; all that is to +be demanded is that such irregularity as can be detected should not be +inappropriate irregularity. What we disagree about is only the precise +amount of finish which is appropriate to the particular work. Musgrave +would hold, in the case of Flaubert, that he was, in his novels, trying +to give to the cathedral the finish of the gem, and polishing a colossal +statue as though it were a tiny statuette." +</p> +<p> +"Yes," said Herries mournfully, "I suppose that is right; though when +I read of Flaubert spending hours of torture in the search for a single +epithet, I do not feel that the sacrifice was made in vain if only the +result was achieved." +</p> +<p> +"But I," said Musgrave, "grudge the time so spent. I would rather have +more less-finished work than little exquisite work—though I suppose +that we shall come to the latter sometime, when the treasures of art +have accumulated even more hopelessly than now, and when nothing but +perfect work will have a chance of recognition. Then perhaps a man +will spend thirty years in writing a short story, and twenty more in +polishing it! But at present there is much that is unsaid which may +well be said, and I confess that I do not hanker after this careful and +troubled work. It reminds me of the terrible story of the Chinaman who +spent fifty years in painting a vase which cracked in the furnace. It +seems to me like the worst kind of waste." +</p> +<p> +"And I, on the other hand," said Herries gravely, "think that such a +life is almost as noble a one as I can well conceive." +</p> +<p> +His words sounded to me like a kind of pontifical blessing pronounced +at the end of a liturgical service; and, dinner now being over, we +adjourned to the library. Then Musgrave entertained us with an +account of a squabble he had lately had with a certain editor, who had +commissioned him to write a set of papers on literary subjects, and then +had objected to his treatment. Musgrave had trailed his coat before +the unhappy man, laid traps for him by dint of asking him ingenuous +questions, had written an article elaborately constructed to parody +derisively the editor's point of view, had meekly submitted it as one +of the series, and then, when the harried wretch again objected, had +confronted him with illustrative extracts from his own letters. It was a +mirthful if not a wholly good-natured performance. Herries had listened +with ill-concealed disgust, and excused himself at the end of the +recital on the plea of work. +</p> +<p> +As the door closed behind him, Musgrave said with a wink, "I am afraid +my story has rather disgusted our young transcendentalist. He has no +pleasure in a wholesome row; he thinks the whole thing vulgar—and I +believe he is probably right; but I can't live on his level, though I am +sure it is very fine and all that." +</p> +<p> +"But what do you really think of his work?" I said. "It is very +promising, isn't it?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes," said Musgrave reflectively, "that is just what it is—he has got +a really fine literary gift; but he is too uncompromising. Idealism in +art is a deuced fine thing, and every now and then there comes a man +who can keep it up, and can afford to do so. But what Herries does +not understand is that there are two sides to art—the theory and the +practice. It is just the same with a lot of things—education, for +instance, and religion. But the danger is that the theorists become +pedantic. They get entirely absorbed in questions of form, and the plain +truth is that however good your form is, you have got to get hold of +your matter too. The point after all is the application of art to life, +and you have got to condescend. Things of which the ultimate end is to +affect human beings must take human beings into account. If you aim at +appealing only to other craftsmen, it becomes an erudite business: you +become like a carpenter who makes things which are of no use except to +win the admiration of other carpenters. Of course it may be worth doing +if you are content with indicating a treatment which other people can +apply and popularise. But if you isolate art into a theory which has no +application to life, you are a savant and not an artist. You can't be +an artist without being a man, and therefore I hold that humanity comes +first. I don't mean that one need be vulgar. Of course I am a mere +professional, and my primary aim is to earn an honest livelihood. +I frankly confess that I don't pose, even to myself, as a public +benefactor. But Herries does not care either about an income, or about +touching other people. Of course I should like to raise the standard. +I should like to see ordinary people capable of perceiving what is good +art, and not so wholly at the mercy of conventional and melodramatic +art. But Herries does not care twopence about that. He is like the +Calvinist who is sure of his own salvation, has his doubts about the +minister, and thinks every one else irreparably damned. As I say, it is +a lofty sort of ideal, but it is not a good sign when that sort of thing +begins. The best art of the world—let us say Homer, Virgil, Dante, +Shakespeare—was contributed by people who probably did not think about +it as art at all. Fancy Homer going in for questions of form! It is +always, I believe, a sign of decadence when formalism begins. It is just +like religion, which starts with a teacher who has an overwhelming sense +of the beauty of holiness; and then that degenerates into theology. +These young men are to art what the theologians are to religion. +They lose sight of the object of the whole thing in codification and +definition. My own idea of a great artist is a man who finds beauty so +hopelessly attractive and desirable that he can't restrain his speech. +It all has to come out; he cannot hold his peace. And then a number of +people begin to see that it was what they had been vaguely admiring and +desiring all the time; and then a few highly intellectual people think +that they can analyse it, and produce the same effects by applying their +analysis. It can't be done so; art must have a life of its own." +</p> +<p> +"Yes," I said, "I think you are right. Herries is ascetic and +eremitical—a beautiful thing in many ways; but there is no transmission +of life in such art; it is a sterile thing after all, a seedless +flower." +</p> +<p> +"Let us express the vulgar hope," said Musgrave, "that he may fall in +love; that will bring him to his moorings! And now," he added, "we will +go to the music-room and I will see if I cannot tempt the shy bird from +his roost." And so we did—Musgrave is an excellent musician. We flung +the windows open; he embarked upon a great Bach "Toccata"; and before +many bars were over, our idealist crept softly into the room, with an +air of apologetic forgiveness. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XIV. A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM +</h2> +<p> +I suppose that every one knows by experience how certain days in one's +life have a power of standing out in the memory, even in a tract of +pleasant days, all lit by a particular brightness of joy. One does not +always know at the time that the day is going to be so crowned; but the +weeks pass on, and the one little space of sunlight, between dawn and +eve, has orbed itself +</p> +<pre> + "into the perfect star + We saw not, when we moved therein." +</pre> +<p> +The thing that in my own case most tends to produce this "grace +of congruity," as the schoolmen say, is the presence of the right +companion, and it is no less important that he should be in the right +mood. Sometimes the right companion is tiresome when he should be +gracious, or boisterous when he should be quiet; but when he is in the +right mood, he is like a familiar and sympathetic guide on a mountain +peak. He helps one at the right point; his desire to push on or to stop +coincides with one's own; he is not a hired assistant, but a brotherly +comrade. On the day that I am thinking of I had just such a companion. +He was cheerful, accessible, good-humoured. He followed when I wanted +to lead, he led when I was glad to follow. He was not ashamed of +being unaffectedly emotional, and he was not vaporous or quixotically +sentimental. He did not want to argue, or to hunt an idea to death; and +we had the supreme delight of long silences, during which our thoughts +led us to the same point, the truest test that there is some subtle +electrical affinity at work, moving viewlessly between heart and brain. +</p> +<p> +What no doubt heightened the pleasure for me was that I had been passing +through a somewhat dreary period. Things had been going wrong, had tied +themselves into knots. Several people whose fortunes had been bound +up with my own had been acting perversely and unreasonably—at least I +chose to think so. My own work had come to a standstill. I had pushed +on perhaps too fast, and I had got into a bare sort of moorland tract of +life, and could not discern the path in the heather. There did not +seem any particular task for me to undertake; the people whom it was +my business to help, if I could, seemed unaccountably and aggravatingly +prosperous and independent. Not only did no one seem to want my opinion, +but I did not feel that I had any opinions worth delivering. Who +does not know the frame of mind? When life seems rather an objectless +business, and one is tempted just to let things slide; when energy +is depleted, and the springs of hope are low; when one feels like +the family in one of Mrs. Walford's books, who all go out to dinner +together, and of whom the only fact that is related is that "nobody +wanted them." So fared it with my soul. +</p> +<p> +But that morning, somehow, the delicious sense had returned, of its own +accord, of a beautiful quality in common things. I had sought it in vain +for weeks; it had behaved as a cat behaves, the perverse, soft, pretty, +indifferent creature. It had stared blankly at my beckoning hand; it had +gambolled away into the bushes when I strove to capture it, and looked +out at me when I desisted with innocent grey eyes; and now it had +suddenly returned uncalled, to caress me as though I had been a +long-lost friend, diligently and anxiously sought for in vain. That +morning the very scent of breakfast being prepared came to my nostrils +like the smoke of a sacrifice in my honour; the shape and hue of the +flowers were full of gracious mystery; the green pasture seemed a +place where a middle-aged man might almost venture to dance. The sharp +chirping of the birds in the shrubbery seemed a concert arranged for my +ear. We were soon astir. Like Wordsworth we said that this one day +we would give to idleness, though the profane might ask to what that +leisurely poet consecrated the rest of his days. +</p> +<p> +We found ourselves deposited, by a brisk train—the very stoker seemed +to be engaged in the joyful conspiracy—at the little town of St. Ives. +I should like to expatiate upon the charms of St. Ives, its clear, +broad, rush-fringed river, its quaint brick houses, with their little +wharf-gardens, where the trailing nasturtium mirrors itself in the slow +flood, its embayed bridge, with the ancient chapel buttressed over the +stream—but I must hold my hand; I must not linger over the beauties of +the City of Destruction, which I have every reason to believe was a very +picturesque place, when our hearts were set on pilgrimage. Suffice it +to say that we walked along a pretty riverside causeway, under enlacing +limes, past the fine church, under the hanging woods of Houghton +Hill—and here we found a mill, a big, timbered place, with a tiled +roof, odd galleries and projecting pent-houses, all pleasantly dusted +with flour, where a great wheel turned dripping in a fern-clad cavern +of its own, with the scent of the weedy river-water blown back from +the plunging leat. Oh, the joyful place of streams! River and leat and +back-water here ran clear among willow-clad islands, all fringed deep +with meadow-sweet and comfrey and butterbur and melilot. The sun shone +overhead among big, white, racing clouds; the fish poised in mysterious +pools among trailing water-weeds; and there was soon no room in my heart +for anything but the joy of earth and the beauty of it. What did the +weary days before and behind matter? What did casuistry and determinism +and fate and the purpose of life concern us then, my friend and me? As +little as they concerned the gnats that danced so busily in the golden +light, at the corner where the alder dipped her red rootlets to drink +the brimming stream. +</p> +<p> +There we chartered a boat, and all that hot forenoon rowed lazily on, +the oars grunting and dripping, the rudder clicking softly through +avenues of reeds and water-plants, from reach to reach, from pool to +pool. Here we had a glimpse of the wide-watered valley rich in grass, +here of silent woods, up-piled in the distance, over which quivered the +hot summer air. Here a herd of cattle stood knee-deep in the shallow +water, lazily twitching their tails and snuffing at the stream. The +birds were silent now in the glowing noon; only the reeds shivered and +bowed. There, beside a lock with its big, battered timbers, the water +poured green and translucent through a half-shut sluice. Now and then +the springs of thought brimmed over in a few quiet words, that came and +passed like a breaking bubble—but for the most part we were silent, +content to converse with nod or smile. And so we came at last to our +goal; a house embowered in leaves, a churchyard beside the water, and +a church that seemed to have almost crept to the brink to see itself +mirrored in the stream. The place mortals call Hemingford Grey, but +it had a new name for me that day which I cannot even spell—for the +perennial difficulty that survives a hundred disenchantments, is to +feel that a romantic hamlet seen thus on a day of pilgrimage, with its +clustering roofs and chimneys, its waterside lawns, is a real place at +all. I suppose that people there live dull and simple lives enough, +buy and sell, gossip and back-bite, wed and die; but for the pilgrim it +seems an enchanted place, where there can be no care or sorrow, nothing +hard, or unlovely, or unclean, but a sort of fairy-land, where men seem +to be living the true and beautiful life of the soul, of which we are +always in search, but which seems to be so strangely hidden away. It +must have been for me and my friend that the wise and kindly artist +who lives there in a paradise of flowers had filled his trellises with +climbing roses, and bidden the tall larkspurs raise their azure spires +in the air. How else had he brought it all to such perfection for that +golden hour? Perhaps he did not even guess that he had done it all for +my sake, which made it so much more gracious a gift. And then we learned +too from a little red-bound volume which I had thought before was a +guide-book, but which turned out to-day to be a volume of the Book of +Life, that the whole place was alive with the calling of old voices. At +the little church there across the meadows the portly, tender-hearted, +generous Charles James Fox had wedded his bride. Here, in the pool +below, Cowper's dog had dragged out for him the yellow water-lily that +he could not reach; and in the church itself was a little slab where two +tiny maidens sleep, the sisters of the famous Miss Gunnings, who set +all hearts ablaze by their beauty, who married dukes and earls, and had +spent their sweet youth in a little ruined manor-house hard by. I wonder +whether after all the two little girls, who died in the time of roses, +had not the better part; and whether the great Duchess, who showed +herself so haughty to poor Boswell, when he led his great dancing Bear +through the grim North, did not think sometimes in her state of the +childish sisters with whom she had played, before they came to be laid +in the cool chancel beside the slow stream. +</p> +<p> +And then we sate down for a little on the churchyard wall, and watched +the water-grasses trail and the fish poise. In that sweet corner of the +churchyard, at a certain season of the year, grow white violets; they +had dropped their blooms long ago; but they were just as much alive as +when they were speaking aloud to the world with scent and colour; I can +never think of flowers and trees as not in a sense conscious; I believe +all life to be conscious of itself, and I am sure that the flowering +time is the happy time for flowers as much as it is for artists. +</p> +<p> +Close to us here was a wall, with a big, solid Georgian house peeping +over, blinking with its open windows and sun-blinds on to a smooth, +shaded lawn, full of green glooms and leafy shelters. Why did it all +give one such a sense of happiness and peace, even though one had no +share in it, even though one knew that one would be treated as a rude +and illegal intruder if one stepped across and used it as one's own? +</p> +<p> +This is a difficult thing to analyse. It all lies in the imagination; +one thinks of a long perspective of sunny afternoons, of leisurely +people sitting out in chairs under the big sycamore, reading perhaps, +or talking quietly, or closing the book to think, the memory re-telling +some old and pretty tale; and then perhaps some graceful girl comes out +of the house with a world of hopes and innocent desires in her wide-open +eyes; or a tall and limber boy saunters out bare-headed and flannelled, +conscious of life and health, and steps down to the punt that lies +swinging at its chain—one hears it rattle as it is untied and flung +into the prow; and then the dripping pole is plunged and raised, and the +punt goes gliding away, through zones of glimmering light and shadow, +to the bathing-pool. All that comes into one's mind; one takes life, and +subtracts from it all care and anxiety, all the shadow of failure and +suffering, sees it as it might be, and finds it good. That is the first +element of the charm. And then there comes into the picture a further +and more reflective charm, that which Tennyson called the passion of the +past; the thought that all this beautiful life is slipping away, even +as it forms itself, that one cannot stay it for an instant, but that the +shadow creeps across the dial, and the church-clock tells the hours of +the waning day. It is a mistake to think that such a sense comes of age +and experience; it is rather the other way, for never is the regretful +sense of the fleeting quality of things realised with greater poignancy +than when one is young. When one grows older one begins to expect a good +deal of dissatisfaction and anxiety to be mingled with it all, one finds +the old Horatian maxim becoming true: +</p> +<pre> + "Vitae summa brevis nos spem vitat inchoare longam," +</pre> +<p> +and one learns to be grateful for the sunny hour; but when one is young, +one feels so capable of enjoying it all, so impatient of shadow and +rain, that one cannot bear that the sweet wine of life should be +diluted. +</p> +<p> +That is, I believe, the analysis of the charm of such a scene; the +possibility of joy, and permanence, tinged with the pathos that it +has no continuance, but rises and falls and fades like a ripple in the +stream. +</p> +<p> +The disillusionment of experience is a very different thing from the +pathos of youth; for in youth the very sense of pathos is in itself an +added luxury of joy, giving it a delicate beauty which, if it were not +so evanescent, it could not possess. +</p> +<p> +But then comes the real trouble, the heavy anxiety, the illness, the +loss; and those things, which looked so romantic in the pages of poets +and the scenes of story-writers, turn out not to be romantic at all, +but frankly and plainly disagreeable and intolerable things. The boy +who swept down the shining reaches with long, deft strokes becomes a +man—money runs short, his children give him anxiety, his wife becomes +ailing and fretful, he has a serious illness; and when after a day of +pain he limps out in the afternoon to the shadow of the old plane-tree, +he must be a very wise and tranquil and patient man, if he can still +feel to the full the sweet influences of the place, and be still +absorbed and comforted by them. +</p> +<p> +And here lies the weakness of the epicurean and artistic attitude, that +it assorts so ill with the harder and grimmer facts of life. Life has +a habit of twitching away the artistic chair with all its cushions from +under one, with a rude suddenness, so that one has, if one is wise, to +learn a mental agility and to avoid the temptation of drowsing in the +land where it is always afternoon. The real attitude is to be able to +play a robust and manful part in the world, and yet to be able to banish +the thought of the bank-book and the ledger from the mind, and to submit +oneself to the sweet influences of summer and sun. +</p> +<pre> + "He who of such delights can judge, and spare + To interpose them oft is not unwise." +</pre> +<p> +So sang the old Puritan poet; and there is a large wisdom in the word +OFT which I have abundantly envied, being myself an anxious-minded man! +</p> +<p> +The solution is BALANCE—not to think that the repose of art is all, +and yet on the other hand not to believe that life is always jogging +and hustling one. The way in which one can test one's progress is by +considering whether activities and tiresome engagements are beginning to +fret one unduly, for if so one is becoming a hedonist; and on the other +hand by being careful to observe whether one becomes incapable of taking +a holiday; if one becomes bored and restless and hipped in a cessation +of activities, then one is suffering from the disease of Martha in the +Gospel story; and of the two sisters we may remember that Martha was the +one who incurred a public rebuke. +</p> +<p> +What one has to try to perceive is that life is designed not wholly for +discomfort, or wholly for ease, but that we are here as learners, one +and all. Sometimes the lesson comes whispering through the leaves of the +plane-tree, with the scent of violets in the air; sometimes it comes in +the words and glances of a happy circle full of eager talk, sometimes +through the pages of a wise book, and sometimes in grim hours, when +one tosses sleepless on one's bed under the pressure of an intolerable +thought—but in each and every case we do best when we receive the +lesson as willingly and large-heartedly as we can. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps, in some of my writings, those who have read them have thought +that I have unduly emphasised the brighter, sweeter, more tranquil side +of life. I have done so deliberately, because I believe that we should +follow innocent joy as far as we can. But it is not because I am unaware +of the other side. I do not think that any of the windings of the dark +wood of which Dante speaks are unknown to me, and there are few tracts +of dreariness that I have not trodden reluctantly. I have had physical +health and much seeming prosperity; but to be acutely sensitive to the +pleasures of happiness and peace is generally to be morbidly sensitive +to the burden of cares. Unhappiness is a subjective thing. As Mrs. +Gummidge so truly said, when she was reminded that other people had +their troubles, "I feel them more." And if I have upheld the duty of +seeking peace, it has been like a preacher who preaches most urgently +against his own bosom-sins. But I am sure of this, that however +impatiently one mourns one's fault and desires to be different, the +secret of growth lies in that very sorrow, perhaps in the seeming +impotence of that sorrow. What one must desire is to learn the truth, +however much one may shudder at it; and the longer that one persists in +one's illusions, the longer is one's learning-time. Is it not a bitter +comfort to know that the truth is there, and that what we believe or do +not believe about it makes no difference at all? Yes, I think it is +a comfort; at all events upon that foundation alone is it possible to +rest. +</p> +<p> +How far one drifts in thought away from the sweet scene which grows +sweeter every hour. The heat of the day is over now; the breeze curls +on the stream, the shadow of the tower falls far across the water. My +companion rises and smiles, thinking me lost in indolent content; he +hardly guesses how far I have been voyaging +</p> +<pre> + "On strange seas of thought alone." +</pre> +<p> +Does he guess that as I look back over my life, pain has so far +preponderated over happiness that I would not, if I could, live it +again, and that I would not in truth, if I could choose, have lived it +at all? And yet, even so, I recognise that I am glad not to have the +choice, for it would be made in an indolent and timid spirit, and I do +indeed believe that the end is not yet, and that the hour will assuredly +come when I shall rejoice to have lived, and see the meaning even of my +fears. +</p> +<p> +And then we retrace our way, and like the Lady of Shalott step down into +the boat, to glide along the darkling water-way in the westering light. +Why cannot I speak to my friend of such dark things as these? It would +be better perhaps if I could, and yet no hand can help us to bear our +own burden. +</p> +<p> +But the dusk comes slowly on, merging reed and pasture and gliding +stream in one indistinguishable shade; the trees stand out black against +the sunset, thickening to an emerald green. A star comes out over the +dark hill, the lights begin to peep out in the windows of the clustering +town as we draw nearer. As we glide beneath the dark houses, with their +gables and chimneys dark against the glowing sky, how everything that +is dull and trivial and homely is blotted out by the twilight, leaving +nothing but a sense of romantic beauty of mysterious peace! The little +town becomes an enchanted city full of heroic folk; the figure that +leans silently over the bridge to see us pass, to what high-hearted +business is he vowed, burgher or angel? A spell is woven of shadow and +falling light, and of chimes floating over meadow and stream. Yet +this sense of something remotely and unutterably beautiful, this +transfiguration of life, is as real and vital an experience as the +daily, dreary toil, and to be welcomed as such. Nay, more! it is better, +because it gives one a deepened sense of value, of significance, of +eternal greatness, to which we must cling as firmly as we may, because +it is there that the final secret lies; not in the poor struggles, the +anxious delays, which are but the incidents of the voyage, and not the +serene life of haven and home. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XV. SYMBOLS +</h2> +<p> +The present time is an era when intellectual persons are ashamed of +being credulous. It is the perfectly natural and desirable result of +the working of the scientific spirit. Everything is relentlessly +investigated, the enormous structure of natural law is being discovered +to underlie all the most surprising, delicate, and apparently fortuitous +processes, and no one can venture to forecast where the systematisation +will end. The result is a great inrush of bracing and invigorating +candour. It is not that our liberty of reflection and action is +increased. It is rather increasingly limited. But at least we are +growing to discern where our boundaries are, and it is deeply refreshing +to find that the boundaries erected by humanity are much closer and more +cramping than the boundaries determined by God. We are no longer bound +by human authority, by subjective theories, by petty tradition. We +are no longer required to tremble before thaumaturgy and conjuring and +occultism. It is true that science has hitherto confined itself mainly +to the investigation of concrete phenomena; but the same process is sure +to be applied to metaphysics, to sociology, to psychology; and the day +will assuredly come when the human race will analyse the laws which +govern progress, which regulate the exact development of religion and +morality. +</p> +<p> +The demolition of credulity is, as I have said, a wholly desirable and +beneficial thing. Most intelligent people have found some happiness in +learning that the dealings of God—that is, the creative and originative +power behind the universe—are at all events not whimsical, however +unintelligible they may be. No one at all events is now required to +reconcile with his religious faith a detailed belief in the Mosaic +cosmogony, or to accept the fact that a Hebrew prophet was enabled to +summon bears from a wood to tear to pieces some unhappy boys who found +food for mirth in his personal appearance. That is a pure gain. But +side by side with this entirely wholesome process, there are a good +many people who have thrown overboard, together with their credulity, a +quality of a far higher and nobler kind, which may be called faith. Men +who have seen many mysteries explained, and many dark riddles solved in +nature, have fallen into what is called materialism, from the mistaken +idea that the explanation of material phenomena will hold good for +the discernment of abstract phenomena. Yet any one who approaches the +results of scientific investigation in a philosophical and a poetical +spirit, sees clearly enough that nothing has been attempted but +analysis, and that the mystery which surrounds us is only thrust a +little further off, while the darkness is as impenetrable and profound +as ever. All that we have learnt is how natural law works; we have +not come near to learning why it works as it does. All we have really +acquired is a knowledge that the audacious and unsatisfactory theories, +such, for instance, as the old-fashioned scheme of redemption, by which +men have attempted with a pathetic hopefulness to justify the ways +of God to man, are, and are bound to be, despairingly incomplete. The +danger of the scientific spirit is not that it is too agnostic, but that +it is not agnostic enough: it professes to account for everything when +it only has a very few of the data in its grasp. The materialistic +philosophy tends to be a tyranny which menaces liberty of thought. Every +one has a right to deduce what theory he can from his own experience. +The one thing that we have no sort of right to do is to enforce that +theory upon people whose experience does not confirm it. We may invite +them to act upon our assumptions, but we must not blame them if they end +by considering them to be baseless. I was talking the other day to an +ardent Roman Catholic, who described by a parable the light in which he +viewed the authority of the Church. He said that it was as if he were +half-way up a hill, prevented from looking over into a hidden valley by +the slope of the ground. On the hill-top, he said, might be supposed to +stand people in whose good faith and accuracy of vision he had complete +confidence. If they described to him what they saw in the valley beyond, +he would not dream of mistrusting them. But the analogy breaks down at +every point, because the essence of it is that every one who reached +the hill-top would inevitably see the same scene. Yet in the case of +religion, the hill-top is crowded by people, whose good faith is +equally incontestable, but whose descriptions of what lies beyond are at +hopeless variance. Moreover all alike confess that the impressions they +derive are outside the possibility of scientific or intellectual tests, +and that it is all a matter of inference depending upon a subjective +consent in the mind of the discerner to accept what is incapable of +proof. The strength of the scientific position is that the scientific +observer is in the presence of phenomena confirmed by innumerable +investigations, and that, up to a certain point, the operation of a +law has been ascertained, which no reasonable man has any excuse for +doubting. Whenever that law conflicts with religious assumptions, which +in any case cannot be proved to be more than subjective assumptions, +the unverifiable theory must go down before the verifiable. Religion may +assume, for instance, that life is an educative process; but that theory +cannot be considered proved in the presence of the fact that many +human beings close their eyes upon the world before they are capable of +exercising any moral or intellectual choice whatever. +</p> +<p> +It may prove, upon investigation, that all religious theories and all +creeds are nothing more than the desperate and pathetic attempts of +humanity, conscious of an instinctive horror of suffering, and of an +inalienable sense of their right to happiness, to provide a solution for +the appalling fact that many human beings seem created only to suffer +and to be unhappy. The mystery is a very dark one; and philosophy is +still not within reach of explaining how it is that a sense of justice +should be implanted in man by the Power that appears so often to violate +that conception of justice. +</p> +<p> +The fact is that the progress of science has created an immense demand +for the quality of faith and hopefulness, by revealing so much that is +pessimistic in the operation of natural law. If we are to live with any +measure of contentment or tranquillity, we must acquire a confidence +that God has not, as science tends to indicate, made all men for nought. +We must, if we can, acquire some sort of hope that it is not in mere +wantonness and indifference that He confronts us with the necessity for +bearing the things that He has made us most to dread. It may be easy +enough for robust, vigorous, contented persons to believe that God means +us well; but the only solution that is worth anything is a solution that +shall give us courage, patience, and even joy, at times when everything +about us seems to speak of cruelty and terror and injustice. One of +the things that has ministered comfort in large measure to souls so +afflicted is the power of tracing a certain beauty and graciousness +in the phenomena that surround us. Who is there who in moments of +bewildered sorrow has not read a hint of some vast lovingness, moving +dimly in the background of things, in the touch of familiar hands or in +the glances of dear eyes? Surely, they have said to themselves, if love +is the deepest, strongest, and most lasting force in the world, the same +quality must be hidden deepest in the Heart of God. This is the unique +strength of the Christian revelation, the thought of the Fatherhood of +God, and His tender care for all that he has made. Again, who is there +who in depression and anxiety has not had his load somewhat lightened +by the sight of the fresh green of spring foliage against a blue sky, by +the colour and scent of flowers, by the sweet melody of musical chords? +The aching spirit has said, "They are there—beauty, and peace, and +joy—if I could but find the way to them." Who has not had his fear of +death alleviated by the happy end of some beloved life, when the dear +one has made, as it were, solemn haste to be gone, falling gently into +slumber? Who is there, who, speeding homewards in the sunset, has seen +the dusky orange veil of flying light drawn softly westward over misty +fields, where the old house stands up darkling among the glimmering +pastures, and has not felt the presence of some sweet secret waiting for +him beyond the gates of life and death? All these things are symbols, +because the emotions they arouse are veritably there, as indisputable a +phenomenon as any fact which science has analysed. The miserable mistake +that many intellectual people make is to disregard what they would call +vague emotions in the presence of scientific truth. Yet such emotions +have a far more intimate concern for us than the dim sociology of bees, +or the concentric forces of the stars. Our emotions are far more true +and vivid experiences for us than indisputable laws of nature which +never cut the line of our life at all. We may wish, perhaps, that the +laws of such emotions were analysed and systematised too, for it is a +very timid and faltering spirit that thinks that definiteness is the +same as profanation. We may depend upon it that the deeper we can probe +into such secrets, the richer will our conceptions of life and God +become. +</p> +<p> +The mistake that is so often made by religious organisations, which +depend so largely upon symbolism, is the terrible limiting of this +symbolism to traditional ceremonies and venerable ritual. It has been +said that religion is the only form of poetry accessible to the poor; +and it is true in the sense that anything which hallows and quickens the +most normal and simple experiences of lives divorced from intellectual +and artistic influences is a very real and true kind of symbolism. It +may be well to give people such symbolism as they can understand, and +the best symbols of all are those that deal with the commonest emotions. +But it is a lean wisdom that emphasises a limited range of emotions at +the expense of a larger range; and the spirit which limits the sacred +influences of religion to particular buildings and particular rites is +very far removed from the spirit of Him who said that neither at Gerizim +nor in Jerusalem was the Father to be worshipped, but in spirit and in +truth. At the same time the natural impatience of one who discerns a +symbolism all about him, in tree and flower, in sunshine and rain, and +who hates to see the range restricted, is a feeling that a wise and +tolerant man ought to resist. It is ill to break the pitcher because +the well is at hand! One does not make a narrow soul broader by breaking +down its boundaries, but by revealing the beauty of the further horizon. +Even the false feeling of compassion must be resisted. A child is more +encouraged by listening patiently to its tale of tiny exploits, than by +casting ridicule upon them. +</p> +<p> +But on the other hand it is a wholly false timidity for one who has been +brought up to love and reverence the narrower range of symbols, to choke +and stifle the desires that stir in his heart for the wider range, out +of deference to authority and custom. One must not discard a cramping +garment until one has a freer one to take its place; but to continue +in the confining robe with the larger lying ready to one's hand, from +a sense of false pathos and unreasonable loyalty, is a piece of +foolishness. +</p> +<p> +There are, I believe, hundreds of men and women now alive, who have +outgrown their traditional faith, through no fault of their own; but who +out of terror at the vague menaces of interested and Pharisaical persons +do not dare to break away. One must of course weigh carefully whether +one values comfort or liberty most. But what I would say is that it is +of the essence of a faith to be elastic, to be capable of development, +to be able to embrace the forward movement of thought. Now so far am I +from wishing to suggest that we have outgrown Christianity, that I would +assert that we have not yet mastered its simplest principles. I believe +with all my soul that it is still able to embrace the most daring +scientific speculations, for the simple reason that it is hardly +concerned with them at all. Where religious faith conflicts with science +is in the tenacity with which it holds to the literal truth of the +miraculous occurrences related in the Scriptures. Some of these present +no difficulty, some appear to be scientifically incredible. Yet these +latter seem to me to be but the perfectly natural contemporary setting +of the faith, and not to be of the essence of Christianity at all. +Miracles, whether they are true or not, are at all events unverifiable, +and no creed that claims to depend upon the acceptance of unverifiable +events can have any vitality. But the personality, the force, the +perception of Christ Himself emerges with absolute distinctness from the +surrounding details. We may not be in a position to check exactly what +He said and what He did not say, but just as no reasonable man can hold +that He was merely an imaginative conception invented by people who +obviously did not understand Him, so the general drift of His teaching +is absolutely clear and convincing. +</p> +<p> +What I would have those do who can profess themselves sincerely +convinced Christians, in spite of the uncertainty of many of the +recorded details, is to adopt a simple compromise; to claim their part +in the inheritance of Christ, and the symbols of His mysteries, but not +to feel themselves bound by any ecclesiastical tradition. No one can +forbid, by peevish regulations, direct access to the spirit of Christ +and to the love of God. Christ's teaching was a purely individualistic +teaching, based upon conduct and emotion, and half the difficulties of +the position lie in His sanction and guidance having been claimed for +what is only a human attempt to organise a society with a due deference +for the secular spirit, its aims and ambitions. The sincere Christian +should, I believe, gratefully receive the simple and sweet symbols of +unity and forgiveness; but he should make his own a far higher and +wider range of symbols, the symbols of natural beauty and art and +literature—all the passionate dreams of peace and emotion that have +thrilled the yearning hearts of men. Wherever those emotions have led +men along selfish, cruel, sensual paths, they must be distrusted, just +as we must distrust the religious emotions which have sanctioned such +divergences from the spirit of Christ. We must believe that the essence +of religion is to make us alive to the love of God, in whatever writing +of light and air, of form and fragrance it is revealed; and we must +further believe that religion is meant to guide and quicken the tender, +compassionate, brotherly emotions, by which we lean to each other in +this world where so much is dark. But to denounce the narrower forms +of religion, or to abstain from them, is utterly alien to the spirit +of Christ. He obeyed and reverenced the law, though He knew that the +expanding spirit of His own teaching would break it in pieces. Of +course, since liberty is the spirit of the Gospel, a liberty conditioned +by the sense of equality, there may be occasions when a man is bound to +resist what appears to him to be a moral or an intellectual tyranny. But +short of that, the only thing of which one must beware is a conscious +insincerity; and the limits of that a man must determine for himself. +There are occasions when consideration for the feelings of others seems +to conflict with one's own sense of sincerity; but I think that one +is seldom wrong in preferring consideration for others to the personal +indulgence of one's own apparent sincerity. +</p> +<p> +Peace and gentleness always prevail in the end over vehemence and +violence, and a peaceful revolution brings about happier results for +a country, as we have good reason to know, than a revolution of force. +Even now the narrower religious systems prevail more in virtue of the +gentleness and goodwill and persuasion of their ministers than through +the spiritual terrors that they wield—the thunders are divorced from +the lightning. +</p> +<p> +Thus may the victories of faith be won, not by noise and strife, but by +the silent motion of a resistless tide. Even now it creeps softly +over the sand and brims the stagnant pools with the freshening and +invigorating brine. +</p> +<p> +But in the worship of the symbol there is one deep danger; and that +is that if one rests upon it, if one makes one's home in the palace of +beauty or philosophy or religion, one has failed in the quest. It is the +pursuit not of the unattained but of the unattainable to which we are +vowed. Nothing but the unattainable can draw us onward. It is rest that +is forbidden. We are pilgrims yet; and if, intoxicated and bemused by +beauty or emotion or religion, we make our dwelling there, it is as +though we slept in the enchanted ground. Enough is given us, and no +more, to keep us moving forwards. To be satisfied is to slumber. The +melancholy that follows hard in the footsteps of art, the sadness +haunting the bravest music, the aching, troubled longing that creeps +into the mind at the sight of the fairest scene, is but the warning +presence of the guide that travels with us and fears that we may linger. +Who has not seen across a rising ground the gables of the old house, +the church tower, dark among the bare boughs of the rookery in a smiling +sunset, and half lost himself at the thought of the impossibly beautiful +life that might be lived there? To-day, just when the western sun began +to tinge the floating clouds with purple and gold, I saw by the roadside +an old labourer, fork on back, plodding heavily across a ploughland all +stippled with lines of growing wheat. Hard by a windmill whirled its +clattering arms. How I longed for something that would render permanent +the scene, sight, and sound alike. It told me somehow that the end +was not yet. What did it stand for? I hardly know; for life, slow and +haggard with toil, hard-won sustenance, all overhung with the crimson +glories of waning light, the wet road itself catching the golden hues of +heaven. A little later, passing by the great pauper asylum that stands +up so naked among the bare fields, I looked over a hedge, and there, +behind the engine-house with its heaps of scoriae and rubbish, lay a +little trim ugly burial-ground, with a dismal mortuary, upon which +some pathetic and tawdry taste had been spent. There in rows lay +the mouldering bones of the failures of life and old sin; not even a +headstone over each with a word of hope, nothing but a number on a tin +tablet. Nothing more incredibly sordid could be devised. One thought of +the sad rite, the melancholy priest, the handful of relatives glad at +heart that the poor broken life was over and the wretched associations +at an end. Yet even that sight too warned one not to linger, and that +the end was not yet. Presently, in the gathering twilight, I was making +my way through the streets of the city. The dusk had obliterated all +that was mean and dreary. Nothing but the irregular housefronts stood up +against the still sky, the lighted windows giving the sense of home and +ease. A quiet bell rang for vespers in a church tower, and as I passed +I heard an organ roll within. It all seemed a sweetly framed message to +the soul, a symbol of joy and peace. +</p> +<p> +But then I reflected that the danger was of selecting, out of the +symbols that crowded around one on every side, merely those that +ministered to one's own satisfaction and contentment. The sad horror of +that other place, the little bare place of desolate graves—that must be +a symbol as well, that must stand as a witness of some part of the awful +mind of God, of the strange flaw or rent that seems to run through His +world. It may be more comfortable, more luxurious to detach the symbol +that testifies to the satisfaction of our needs; but not thus do we draw +near to truth and God. And then I thought that perhaps it was best, when +we are secure and careless and joyful, to look at times steadily into +the dark abyss of the world, not in the spirit of morbidity, not with +the sense of the macabre—the skeleton behind the rich robe, death at +the monarch's shoulder; but to remind ourselves, faithfully and wisely, +that for us too the shadow waits; and then that in our moments of +dreariness and heaviness we should do well to seek for symbols of our +peace, not thrusting them peevishly aside as only serving to remind us +of what we have lost and forfeited, but dwelling on them patiently and +hopefully, with a tender onlooking to the gracious horizon with all +its golden lights and purple shadows. And thus not in a mercantile +mood trafficking for our delight in the mysteries of life—for not by +prudence can we draw near to God—but in a childlike mood, valuing the +kindly word, the smile that lights up the narrow room and enriches +the austere fare, and paying no heed at all to the jealousies and the +covetous ingathering that turns the temple of the Father into a house of +merchandise. +</p> +<p> +For here, deepest of all, lies the worth of the symbol; that this life +of ours is not a little fretful space of days, rounded with a sleep, but +an integral part of an inconceivably vast design, flooding through and +behind the star-strewn heavens; that there is no sequence of events as +we conceive, that acts are not done or words said, once and for all, and +then laid away in the darkness; but that it is all an ever-living thing, +in which the things that we call old are as much present in the mind of +God as the things that shall be millions of centuries hence. There is no +uncertainty with Him, no doubt as to what shall be hereafter; and if we +once come near to that truth, we can draw from it, in our darkest hours, +a refreshment that cannot fail; for the saddest thought in the mind of +man is the thought that these things could have been, could be other +than they are; and if we once can bring home to ourselves the knowledge +that God is unchanged and unchangeable, our faithless doubts, our +melancholy regrets melt in the light of truth, as the hoar-frost fades +upon the grass in the rising sun, when every globed dewdrop flashes like +a jewel in the radiance of the fiery dawn. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XVI. OPTIMISM +</h2> +<p> +We Anglo-Saxons are mostly optimists at heart; we love to have things +comfortable, and to pretend that they are comfortable when they +obviously are not. The brisk Anglo-Saxon, if he cannot reach the grapes, +does not say that the grapes are sour, but protests that he does not +really care about grapes. A story is told of a great English proconsul +who desired to get a loan from the Treasury of the Government over which +he practically, though not nominally, presided. He went to the Financial +Secretary and said: "Look here, T——, you must get me a loan for a +business I have very much at heart." The secretary whistled, and then +said: "Well, I will try; but it is not the least use." "Oh, you +will manage it somehow," said the proconsul, "and I may tell you +confidentially it is absolutely essential." The following morning the +secretary came to report: "I told you it was no use, sir, and it wasn't; +the Board would not hear of it." "Damnation!" said the proconsul, and +went on writing. A week after he met the secretary, who felt a little +shy. "By the way, T——," said the great man, "I have been thinking over +that matter of the loan, and it was a mercy you were not successful; +it would have been a hopeless precedent, and we are much better without +it." +</p> +<p> +That is the true Anglo-Saxon spirit of optimism. The most truly British +person I know is a man who will move heaven and earth to secure a post +or to compass an end; but when he fails, as he does not often fail, he +says genially that he is more thankful than he can say; it would have +been ruin to him if he had been successful. The same quality runs +through our philosophy and our religion. Who but an Anglo-Saxon would +have invented the robust theory, to account for the fact that prayers +are often not granted, that prayers are always directly answered whether +you attain your desire or not? The Greeks prayed that the gods would +grant them what was good even if they did not desire it, and withhold +what was evil even if they did desire it. The shrewd Roman said: "The +gods will give us what is most appropriate; man is dearer to them than +to himself." But the faithful Anglo-Saxon maintains that his prayer is +none the less answered even if it be denied, and that it is made up to +him in some roundabout way. It is inconceivable to the Anglo-Saxon that +there may be a strain of sadness and melancholy in the very mind of +God; he cannot understand that there can be any beauty in sorrow. To the +Celt, sorrow itself is dear and beautiful, and the mournful wailing +of winds, the tears of the lowering cloud, afford him sweet and even +luxurious sensations. The memory of grief is one of the good things +that remains to him, as life draws to its close; for love is to him +the sister of grief rather than the mother of joy. But this is to +the Anglo-Saxon mind a morbid thing. The hours in which sorrow has +overclouded him are wasted, desolated hours, to be forgotten and +obliterated as soon as possible. There is nothing sacred about them; +they are sad and stony tracts over which he has made haste to cross, and +the only use of them is to heighten the sense of security and joy. And +thus the sort of sayings that satisfy and sustain the Anglo-Saxon mind +are such irrepressible outbursts of poets as "God's in His heaven; +all's right with the world"—the latter part of which is flagrantly +contradicted by experience; and, as for the former part, if it be true, +it lends no comfort to the man who tries to find his God in the world. +Again, when Browning says that the world "means intensely and means +good," he is but pouring oil upon the darting flame of optimism, because +there are many people to whom the world has no particular meaning, and +few who can re-echo the statement that it means good. That some rich +surprise, in spite of palpable and hourly experience to the contrary, +may possibly await us, is the most that some of us dare to hope. +</p> +<p> +My own experience, the older I grow, and the more I see of life, is that +I feel it to be a much more bewildering and even terrifying thing than +I used to think it. To use a metaphor, instead of its being a patient +educational process, which I would give all that I possessed to be able +sincerely to believe it to be, it seems to me arranged far more upon +the principle of a game of cricket—which I have always held to be, in +theory, the most unjust and fortuitous of games. You step to the wicket, +you have only a single chance; the boldest and most patient man may make +one mistake at the outset, and his innings is over; the timid tremulous +player may by undeserved good luck contrive to keep his wicket up, +till his heart has got into the right place, and his eye has wriggled +straight, and he is set. +</p> +<p> +That is the first horrible fact about life—that carelessness is often +not penalised at all, whereas sometimes it is instantly and fiercely +penalised. One boy at school may break every law, human and divine, and +go out into the world unblemished. Another timid and good-natured child +may make a false step, and be sent off into life with a permanent +cloud over him. School life often emphasises the injustice of the world +instead of trying to counteract it. Schoolmasters tend to hustle the +weak rather than to curb the strong. +</p> +<p> +And then we pass into the larger world, and what do we see? A sad +confusion everywhere. We see an innocent and beautiful girl struck down +by a long and painful disease—a punishment perhaps appropriate to some +robust and hoary sinner, who has gathered forbidden fruit with both his +hands, and the juices of which go down to the skirts of his clothing; +or a brave and virtuous man, with a wife and children dependent on him, +needed if ever man was, kind, beneficent, strong, is struck down out of +life in a moment. On the other hand, we see a mean and cautious sinner, +with no touch of unselfishness and affection, guarded and secured in +material contentment. Let any one run over in his mind the memories of +his own circle, fill up the gaps, and ask himself bravely and frankly +whether he can trace a wise and honest and beneficent design all +through. He may try to console himself by saying that the disasters of +good people, after all, are the exceptions, and that, as a rule, courage +and purity of heart are rewarded, while cowardice and filthiness are +punished. But what room is there for exceptions in a world governed by +God Whom we must believe to be all-powerful, all-just, and all-loving? +It is the wilful sin of man, says the moralist, that has brought these +hard things upon him. But that is no answer, for the dark shadow lies +as sombrely over irresponsible nature, which groans over undeserved +suffering. And then, to make the shadow darker still, we have all the +same love of life, the same inalienable sense of our right to happiness, +the same inheritance of love. If we could but see that in the end pain +and loss would be blest, there is nothing that we would not gladly bear. +Yet that sight, too, is denied us. +</p> +<p> +And yet we live and laugh and hope, and forget. We take our fill of +tranquil days and pleasant companies, though for some of us the thought +that it is all passing, passing, even while we lean towards it smiling, +touches the very sunlight with pain. "How morbid, how self-tormenting!" +says the prudent friend, if such thoughts escape us. "Why not enjoy the +delight and bear the pain? That is life; we cannot alter it." But not on +such terms, can I, for one, live. To know, to have some assurance—that +is the one and only thing that matters at all. For if I once believed +that God were careless, or indifferent, or impotent, I would fly from +life as an accursed thing; whereas I would give all the peace, and +joy, and contentment, that may yet await me upon earth, and take up +cheerfully the heaviest burden that could be devised of darkness and +pain, if I could be sure of an after-life that will give us all the +unclouded serenity, and strength, and love, for which we crave every +moment. Sometimes, in a time of strength and calm weather, when the +sun is bright and the friend I love is with me, and the scent of +the hyacinths blows from the wood, I have no doubt of the love and +tenderness of God; and, again, when I wake in the dreadful dawn to the +sharp horror of the thought that one I love is suffering and crying out +in pain and drifting on to death, the beauty of the world, the familiar +scene, is full of a hateful and atrocious insolence of grace and +sweetness; and then I feel that we are all perhaps in the grip of some +relentless and inscrutable law that has no care for our happiness +or peace at all, and works blindly and furiously in the darkness, +bespattering some with woe and others with joy. Those are the blackest +and most horrible moments of life; and yet even so we live on. +</p> +<p> +As I write at my ease I see the velvety grass green on the rich pasture; +the tall spires of the chestnut perch, and poise, and sway in the sun; a +thrush sings hidden in the orchard; it is all caressingly, enchantingly +beautiful, and I am well content to be alive. Looking backwards, I +discern that I have had my share, and more than my share, of good +things. But they are over; they are mine no longer. And even as I think +the thought, the old church clock across the fields tells out another +hour that is fallen softly into the glimmering past. If I could discern +any strength or patience won from hours of pain and sorrow it would be +easier; but the memory of pain makes me dread pain the more, the thought +of past sorrow makes future sorrow still more black. I would rather have +strength than tranquillity, when all is done; but life has rather taught +me my weakness, and struck the garland out of my reluctant hand. +</p> +<p> +To-day I have been riding quietly among fields deep with buttercups and +fringed by clear, slow streams. The trees are in full spring leaf, only +the oaks and walnuts a little belated, unfurling their rusty-red fronds. +A waft of rich scent comes from a hawthorn hedge where a hidden cuckoo +flutes, or just where the lane turns by the old water-mill, which throbs +and grumbles with the moving gear, a great lilac-bush leans out of a +garden and fills the air with perfume. Yet, as I go, I am filled with +a heavy anxiety, which plays with my sick heart as a cat plays with a +mouse, letting it run a little in the sun, and then pouncing upon it in +terror and dismay. The beautiful sounds and sights round me—the sight +of the quiet, leisurely people I meet—ought, one would think, to soothe +and calm the unquiet heart. But they do not; they rather seem to mock +and flout me with a savage insolence of careless welfare. My thoughts go +back, I do not know why, to an old house where I spent many happy days, +now in the hands of strangers. I remember sitting, one of a silent and +happy party, on a terrace in the dusk of a warm summer night, and how +one of those present called to the owls that were hooting in the hanging +wood above the house, so that they drew near in answer to the call, +flying noiselessly, and suddenly uttering their plaintive notes from +the heart of the great chestnut on the lawn. Below I can see the dewy +glimmering fields, the lights of the little port, the pale sea-line. It +seems now all impossibly beautiful and tranquil; but I know that even +then it was often marred by disappointments, and troubles, and fears. +Little anxieties that have all melted softly into the past, that were +easily enough borne, when it came to the point, yet, looming up as they +did in the future, filled the days with the shadow of fear. That is the +phantom that one ought to lay, if it can be laid. And is there +hidden somewhere any well of healing, any pure source of strength and +refreshment, from which we can drink and be calm and brave? That is a +question which each has to answer tor himself. For myself, I can only +say that strength is sometimes given, sometimes denied. How foolish to +be anxious! Yes, but how inevitable! If the beauty and the joy of the +world gave one assurance in dark hours that all was certainly well, the +pilgrimage would be an easy one. But can one be optimistic by resolving +to be? One can of course control oneself, one can let no murmur of pain +escape one, one can even enunciate deep and courageous maxims, because +one would not trouble the peace of others, waiting patiently till the +golden mood returns. But what if the desolate conviction forces itself +upon the mind that sorrow is the truer thing? What if one tests one's +own experience, and sees that, under the pressure of sorrow, one after +another of the world's lights are extinguished, health, and peace, and +beauty, and delight, till one asks oneself whether sorrow is not perhaps +the truest and most actual thing of all? That is the ghastliest of +moments, when everything drops from us but fear and horror, when we +think that we have indeed found truth at last, and that the answer to +Pilate's bitter question is that pain is the nearest thing to truth +because it is the strongest. If I felt that, says the reluctant heart, +I should abandon myself to despair. No, says sterner reason, you would +bear it because you cannot escape from it. Into whatever depths of +despair you fell, you would still be upheld by the law that bids you be. +</p> +<p> +Where, then, is the hope to be found? It is here. One is tempted to +think of God through human analogies and symbols. We think of Him as of +a potter moulding the clay to his will; as of a statesman that sways a +state; as of an artist that traces a fair design. But all similitudes +and comparisons break down, for no man can create anything; he can but +modify matter to his ends, and when he fails, it is because of some +natural law that cuts across his design and thwarts him relentlessly. +But the essence of God's omnipotence is that both law and matter are His +and originate from Him; so that, if a single fibre of what we know to be +evil can be found in the world, either God is responsible for that, or +He is dealing with something He did not originate and cannot overcome. +Nothing can extricate us from this dilemma, except the belief that what +we think evil is not really evil at all, but hidden good; and thus we +have firm ground under our feet at last, and can begin to climb out of +the abyss. And then we feel in our own hearts how indomitable is our +sense of our right to happiness, how unconquerable our hope; how swiftly +we forget unhappiness; how firmly we remember joy; and then we see that +the one absolutely permanent and vital power in the world is the power +of love, which wins victories over every evil we can name; and if it +is so plain that love is the one essential and triumphant force in the +world, it must be the very heartbeat of God; till we feel that when soon +or late the day comes for us, when our swimming eyes discern ever more +faintly the awestruck pitying faces round us, and the senses give up +their powers one by one, and the tides of death creep on us, and the +daylight dies—that even so we shall find that love awaiting us in +the region to which the noblest and bravest and purest, as well as the +vilest and most timid and most soiled have gone. +</p> +<p> +This, then, is the only optimism that is worth the name; not the feeble +optimism that brushes away the darker side of life impatiently and +fretfully, but the optimism that dares to look boldly into the fiercest +miseries of the human spirit, and to come back, as Perseus came, pale +and smoke-stained, from the dim underworld, and say that there is yet +hope brightening on the verge of the gloom. +</p> +<p> +What one desires, then, is an optimism which arises from taking a wide +view of things as they are, and taking the worst side into account, +not an optimism which is only made possible by wearing blinkers. I was +reading a day or two ago a suggestive and brilliant book by one of our +most prolific critics, Mr. Chesterton, on the subject of Dickens. Mr. +Chesterton is of opinion that our modern tendency to pessimism results +from our inveterate realism. Contrasting modern fictions with the old +heroic stories, he says that we take some indecisive clerk for the +subject of a story, and call the weak-kneed cad "the hero." He seems +to think that we ought to take a larger and more robust view of human +possibilities, and keep our eyes steadily fixed upon more vigorous +and generous characters. But the result of this is the ugly and +unphilosophical kind of optimism after all, that calls upon God to +despise the work of His own hands, that turns upon all that is feeble +and unsightly and vulgar with anger and disdain, like the man in the +parable who took advantage of his being forgiven a great debt to exact +a tiny one. The tragedy is that the knock-kneed clerk is all in all to +himself. In clear-sighted and imaginative moments, he may realise in a +sudden flash of horrible insight that he is so far from being what he +would desire to be, so unheroic, so loosely strung, so deplorable—and +yet that he can do so little to bridge the gap. The only method of +manufacturing heroes is to encourage people to believe in themselves and +their possibilities, to assure them that they are indeed dear to +God; not to reveal relentlessly to them their essential lowness and +shabbiness. It is not the clerk's fault that his mind is sordid and +weak, and that his knees knock together; and no optimism is worth the +name that has not a glorious message for the vilest. Or, again, it is +possible to arrive at a working optimism by taking a very dismal view of +everything. There is a story of an old Calvinist minister whose daughter +lay dying, far away, of a painful disease, who wrote her a letter of +consolation, closing with the words, "Remember, dear daughter, that all +short of Hell is mercy." Of course if one can take so richly decisive a +view of the Creator's purpose for His creatures, and look upon Hell +as the normal destination from which a few, by the overpowering +condescension of God, are saved and separated, one might find matter +of joy in discovering one soul in a thousand who was judged worthy of +salvation. But this again is a clouded view, because it takes no account +of the profound and universal preference for happiness in the human +heart, and erects the horrible ideal of a Creator who deliberately +condemns the vast mass of His creatures to a fate which He has no less +deliberately created them to abhor and dread. +</p> +<p> +Our main temptation after all lies in the fact that we are so impatient +of any delay or any uneasiness. We are like the child who, when first +confronted with suffering, cannot bear to believe in its existence, and +who, if it is prolonged, cannot believe in the existence of anything +else. What we have rather to do is to face the problem strongly and +courageously, to take into account the worst and feeblest possibilities +of our nature, and yet not to overlook the fact that the worst and +lowest specimen of humanity has a dim inkling of something higher and +happier, to which he would attain if he knew how. +</p> +<p> +I had a little object-lesson a few days ago in the subject. It was a +Bank Holiday, and I walked pensively about the outskirts of a big town. +The streets were crowded with people of all sorts and sizes. I confess +that a profound melancholy was induced in me by the spectacle of the +young of both sexes. They were enjoying themselves, it is true, with all +their might; and I could not help wondering why, as a rule, they should +enjoy themselves so offensively. The girls walked about, tittering +and ogling, the young men were noisy, selfish, ill-mannered, enjoying +nothing so much as the discomfiture of any passer-by. They pushed each +other into ditches, they tripped up a friend who passed on a bicycle, +and all roared in concert at the rueful way in which he surveyed a muddy +coat and torn trousers. There seemed to be not the slightest idea among +them of contributing to each other's pleasure. The point was to be +amused at the expense of another, and to be securely obstreperous. +</p> +<p> +But among these there were lovers walking, faint and pale with mutual +admiration; a young couple led along a hideous over-dressed child, +and had no eyes for anything except its clumsy movements and fatuous +questions. Or an elderly couple strolled along, pleased and contented, +with a married son and daughter. The cure of the vile mirth of youth +seemed after all to be love and the anxious care of other lives. +</p> +<p> +And thus indeed a gentle optimism did emerge, after all, from the +tangle. I felt that it was strange that there should be so much to breed +dissatisfaction. I struck out of the town, and soon was passing a mill +in broad water-meadows, overhung by great elms; the grass was golden +with buttercups, the foliage was rich upon the trees. The water bubbled +pleasantly in the great pool, and an old house thrust a pretty gable out +over lilacs clubbed with purple bloom. The beauty of the place was put +to my lips, like a cup of the waters of comfort. The sadness was the +drift of human life out of sweet places such as this, into the town +that overflowed the meadows with its avenues of mean houses, where the +railway station, with its rows of stained trucks, its cindery floor, its +smoking engines, buzzed and roared with life. +</p> +<p> +But the pessimism of one who sees the simple life fading out, the +ancient quietude invaded, the country caught in the feelers of the +town, is not a real pessimism at all, or rather it is a pessimism +which results from a deficiency of imagination, and is only a matter of +personal taste, perhaps of personal belatedness. Twelve generations of +my own family lived and died as Yorkshire yeomen-farmers, and my own +preference is probably a matter of instinctive inheritance. The point is +not what a few philosophers happen to like, but what humanity likes, and +what it is happiest in liking. I should have but small confidence in the +Power that rules the world, if I did not believe that the vast social +development of Europe, its civilisation, its network of communications, +its bustle, its tenser living, its love of social excitement was not +all part of a great design. I do not believe that humanity is perversely +astray, hurrying to destruction. I believe rather that it is working +out the possibilities that lie within it; and if human beings had been +framed to live quiet pastoral lives, they would be living them still. +The one question for the would-be optimist is whether humanity is +growing nobler, wiser, more unselfish; and of that I have no doubt +whatever. The sense of equality, of the rights of the weak, compassion, +brotherliness, benevolence, are living ideas, throbbing with life; the +growth of the power of democracy, much as it may tend to inconvenience +one personally, is an entirely hopeful and desirable thing; and if a +man is disposed to pessimism, he ought to ask himself seriously to what +extent his pessimism is conditioned by his own individual prospect of +happiness. It is quite possible to conceive of a man without any hope of +personal immortality, or the continuance of individual identity, whose +future might be clouded, say, by his being the victim of a painful and +incurable disease, and who yet might be a thoroughgoing optimist with +regard to the future of humanity. Nothing in the world could be so +indicative of the rise in the moral and emotional temperature of the +world as the fact that men are increasingly disposed to sacrifice their +own ambitions and their own comfort for the sake of others, and are +willing to suffer, if the happiness of the race may be increased; and +much of the pessimism that prevails is the pessimism of egotists and +individualists, who feel no interest in the rising tide, because it does +not promise to themselves any increase in personal satisfaction. No +man can possibly hold the continuance of personal identity to be an +indisputable fact, because there is no sort of direct evidence on the +subject; and indeed all the evidence that exists is rather against the +belief than for it. The belief is in reality based upon nothing but +instinct and desire, and the impossibility of conceiving of life as +existing apart from one's own perception. But even if a man cannot hold +that it is in any sense a certainty, he may cherish a hope that it is +true, and he may be generously and sincerely grateful for having been +allowed to taste, through the medium of personal consciousness, the +marvellous experience of the beauty and interest of life, its emotions, +its relationships, its infinite yearnings, even though the curtain may +descend upon his own consciousness of it, and he himself may become as +though he had never been, his vitality blended afresh in the vitality +of the world, just as the body of his life, so near to him, so seemingly +his own, will undoubtedly be fused and blent afresh in the sum of +matter. A man, even though racked with pain and tortured with anxiety, +may deliberately and resolutely throw himself into sympathy with +the mighty will of God, and cherish this noble and awe-inspiring +thought—the thought of the onward march of humanity; righting wrongs, +amending errors, fighting patiently against pain and evil, until +perhaps, far-off and incredibly remote, our successors and descendants, +linked indeed with us in body and soul alike, may enjoy that peace +and tranquillity, that harmony of soul, which we ourselves can only +momentarily and transitorily obtain. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XVII. JOY +</h2> +<p> +Dr. Arnold somewhere says that the schoolmaster's experience of being +continually in the presence of the hard mechanical high spirits of +boyhood is an essentially depressing thing. It seemed to him depressing, +just because that happiness was so purely incidental to youth and +health, and did not proceed from any sense of principle, any reserve of +emotion, any self-restraint, any activity of sympathy. I confess that +in my own experience as a schoolmaster the particular phenomenon was +sometimes a depressing thing and sometimes a relief. It was depressing +when one was overshadowed by a fretful anxiety or a real sorrow, because +no appeal to it seemed possible: it had a heartless quality. But again +it was a relief when it distracted one from the pressure of a troubled +thought, as when, in the Idylls of the King, the sorrowful queen +was comforted by the little maiden "who pleased her with a babbling +heedlessness, which often lured her from herself." +</p> +<p> +One felt that one had no right to let the sense of anxiety overshadow +the natural cheerfulness of boyhood, and then one made the effort to +detach oneself from one's preoccupations, with the result that they +presently weighed less heavily upon the heart. +</p> +<p> +The blessing would be if one could find in experience a quality of +joy which should be independent of natural high spirits altogether, a +cheerful tranquillity of outlook, which should become almost instinctive +through practice, a mood which one could at all events evoke in such a +way as to serve as a shield and screen to one's own private troubles, +or which at least would prevent one from allowing the shadow of our +discontent from falling over others. But it must be to a certain +extent temperamental. Just as high animal spirits in some people are +irrepressible, and bubble up even under the menace of irreparable +calamity, so gloom of spirit is a very contagious thing, very difficult +to dissimulate. Perhaps the best practical thing for a naturally +melancholy person to try and do, is to treat his own low spirits, +as Charles Lamb did, ironically and humorously; and if he must spin +conversation incessantly, as Dr. Johnson said, out of his own bowels, +to make sure that it is the best thread possible, and of a gossamer +quality. +</p> +<p> +The temperamental fact upon which the possibility of such a +philosophical cheerfulness is based is after all an ultimate +hopefulness. Some people have a remarkable staying power, a power of +looking through and over present troubles, and consoling themselves with +pleasant visions of futurity. This is commoner with women than with men, +because women derive a greater happiness from the happiness of those +about them than men do. A woman as a rule would prefer that the people +who surround her should be cheerful, even if she were not cheerful +herself; whereas a man is often not ill-pleased that his moods should be +felt by his circle, and regards it as rather an insult that other +people should be joyful when he is ill-at-ease. Some people, too, have +a stronger dramatic sense than others, and take an artistic pleasure +in playing a part. I knew a man who was a great invalid and a frequent +sufferer, who took a great pleasure in appearing in public functions. He +would drag himself from his bed to make a public appearance of any kind. +I think that he consoled himself by believing that he did so from a +strong and sustaining sense of duty; but I believe that the pleasure of +the thing was really at the root of his effort, as it is at the root of +most of the duties we faithfully perform. I do not mean that he had +a strong natural vanity, though his enemies accused him of it. But +publicity was naturally congenial to him, and the only sign, as a rule, +that he was suffering, when he made such an appearance, was a greater +deliberation of movement, and a ghastly fixity of smile. As to the +latter phenomenon, a man with the dramatic sense strongly developed, +will no doubt take a positive pleasure in trying to obliterate from his +face and manner all traces of his private discomfort. Such stoicism is +a fine quality in its way, but the quality that I am in search of is an +even finer one than that. My friend's efforts were ultimately based on +a sort of egotism, a profound conviction that a public part suited him, +and that he performed it well. What one rather desires to attain is +a more sympathetic quality, an interest in other people so vital and +inspiring that one's own personal sufferings are light in the scale when +weighed against the enjoyment of others. It is not impossible to develop +this in the face of considerable bodily suffering. One of the most +inveterately cheerful people I have ever known was a man who suffered +from a painful and irritating complaint, but whose geniality and +good-will were so strong that they not only overpowered his malaise, but +actually afforded him considerable relief. Some people who suffer can +only suffer in solitude. They have to devote the whole of their nervous +energies to the task of endurance; but others find society an agreeable +distraction, and fly to it as an escape from discomfort. I suppose that +every one has experienced at times that extraordinary rebellion, so to +speak, of cheerfulness against an attack of physical pain. There have +been days when I have suffered from some small but acutely disagreeable +ailment, and yet found my cheerfulness not only not dimmed but +apparently enhanced by the physical suffering. Of course there are +maladies even of a serious kind of which one of the symptoms is a great +mental depression, but there are other maladies which seem actually to +produce an instinctive hopefulness. +</p> +<p> +But the question is whether it is possible, by sustained effort, to +behave independently of one's mood, and what motive is strong enough +to make one detach oneself resolutely from discomforts and woes. Good +manners provide perhaps the most practical assistance. The people who +are brought up with a tradition of highbred courtesy, and who learn +almost instinctively to repress their own individuality, can generally +triumph over their moods. Perhaps in their expansive moments they lose +a little spontaneity in the process; they are cheerful rather than +buoyant, gentle rather than pungent. But the result is that when the +mood shifts into depression, they are still imperturbably courteous and +considerate. A near relation of a great public man, who suffered greatly +from mental depression, has told me that some of the most painful +minutes he has ever been witness of were, when the great man, after +behaving on some occasion of social festivity with an admirable and +sustained gaiety, fell for a moment into irreclaimable and hopeless +gloom and fatigue, and then again, by a resolute effort, became +strenuously considerate and patient in the privacy of the family circle. +</p> +<p> +Some people achieve the same mastery over mood by an intensity of +religious conviction. But the worst of that particular triumph is that +an attitude of chastened religious patience is, not unusually, a rather +depressing thing. It is so restrained, so pious, that it tends to +deprive life of natural and unaffected joy. If it is patient and +submissive in affliction, it is also tame and mild in cheerful +surroundings. It issues too frequently in a kind of holy tolerance +of youthful ebullience and vivid emotions. It results in the kind of +character that is known as saintly, and is generally accompanied by +a strong deficiency in the matter of humour. Life is regarded as too +serious a business to be played with, and the delight in trifles, +which is one of the surest signs of healthy energy, becomes ashamed and +abashed in its presence. The atmosphere that it creates is oppressive, +remote, ungenial. "I declare that Uncle John is intolerable, except when +there is a death in the family—and then he is insupportable," said a +youthful nephew of a virtuous clergyman of this type in my presence the +other day, adding, after reflection, "He seems to think that to die is +the only really satisfactory thing that any one ever does." That is the +worst of carrying out the precept, "Set your affections on things above, +not on things of the earth," too literally. It is not so good a precept, +after all, as "If a man love not his brother, whom he hath seen, how +shall he love God, Whom he hath not seen?" It is somehow an incomplete +philosophy to despise the only definite existence we are certain of +possessing. One desires a richer thing than that, a philosophy that ends +in temperance, rather than in a harsh asceticism. +</p> +<p> +The handling of life that seems the most desirable is the method which +the Platonic Socrates employed. Perhaps he was an ideal figure; but +yet there are few figures more real. There we have an elderly man of +incomparable ugliness, who is yet delightfully and perennially youthful, +bubbling over with interest, affection, courtesy, humour, admiration. +With what a delicious mixture of irony and tenderness he treats the +young men who surround him! When some lively sparks made up their minds +to do what we now call "rag" him, dressed themselves up as Furies, and +ran out upon him as he turned a dark corner on his way home, Socrates +was not in the least degree disturbed, but discoursed with them readily +on many matters and particularly on temperance; when at the banquet the +topers disappear, one by one, under the table, Socrates, who, besides +taking his due share of the wine, had filled and drunk the contents of +the wine-cooler, is found cheerfully sitting, crowned with roses, among +the expiring lamps, in the grey of the morning, discussing the higher +mathematics. He is never sick or sorry; he is poor and has a scolding +wife; he fasts or eats as circumstances dictate; he never does anything +in particular, but he has always infinite leisure to have his talk +out. Is he drawn for military service? he goes off, with an entire +indifference to the hardships of the campaign. When the force is routed, +he stalks deliberately off the field, looking round him like a great +bird, with the kind of air that makes pursuers let people alone, as +Alcibiades said. And when the final catastrophe draws near, he defends +himself under a capital charge with infinite good-humour; he has cared +nothing for slander and misrepresentation all his life, and why should +he begin now? In the last inspired scene, he is the only man of the +group who keeps his courteous tranquillity to the end; he had been +sent into the world, he had lived his life, why should he fear to +be dismissed? It matters little, in the presence of this august +imagination, if the real Socrates was a rude and prosy person, who came +by his death simply because the lively Athenians could tolerate anything +but a bore! +</p> +<p> +The Socratic attitude is better than the high-bred attitude; it is +better than the stoical attitude; it is even better than the pious +attitude, because it depends upon living life to the uttermost, rather +than upon detaching oneself from what one considers rather a poor +business. The attitude of Socrates is based upon courage, generosity, +simplicity. He knows that it is with fear that we weight our melancholy +sensibilities, that it is with meanness and coldness that we poison +life, that it is with complicated conventional duties that we fetter our +weakness. Socrates has no personal ambitions, and thus he is rid of all +envy and uncharitableness; he sees the world as it is, a very bright and +brave place, teeming with interesting ideas and undetermined problems. +Where Christianity has advanced upon this—for it has advanced +splendidly and securely—is in interpreting life less intellectually. +The intellectual side of life is what Socrates adores; the Christian +faith is applicable to a far wider circle of homely lives. Yet +Christianity too, in spite of ecclesiasticism, teems with ideas. Its +essence is an unprejudiced freedom of soul. Its problems are problems +of character which the simplest child can appreciate. But Christianity, +too, is built upon a basis of joy. "Freely ye have received, freely +give," is its essential maxim. +</p> +<p> +The secret then is to enjoy; but the enjoyment must not be that of the +spoiler who carries away all that he can, and buries it in his tent; but +the joy of relationship, the joy of conspiring together to be happy, the +joy of consoling and sympathising and sharing, because we have received +so much. Of course there remain the limitations of temperament, the +difficulty of preventing our own acrid humours from overflowing into +other lives; but this cannot be overcome by repression; it can only +be overcome by tenderness. There are very few people who have not the +elements of this in their character. I can count upon my fingers the +malevolent men I know, who prefer making others uncomfortable to trying +to make them glad; and all these men have been bullied in their youth, +and are unconsciously protecting themselves against bullying still. We +grow selfish, no doubt, for want of practice; ill-health makes villains +of some of us. But we can learn, if we desire it, to keep our gruffness +for our own consumption, and a very few experiments will soon convince +us that there are few pleasures in the world so reasonable and so cheap, +as the pleasure of giving pleasure. +</p> +<p> +But, after all, the resolute cheerfulness that can be to a certain +extent captured and secured by an effort of the will, though it is +perhaps a more useful quality than natural joy, and no doubt ranks +together in the moral scale, is not to be compared with a certain +unreasoning, incommunicable rapture which sometimes, without conscious +effort or desire, descends upon the spirit, like sunshine after rain. +Let me quote a recent experience of my own which may illustrate it. +</p> +<p> +A few days ago, I had a busy tiresome morning hammering into shape a +stupid prosaic passage, of no suggestiveness; a mere statement, the only +beauty of which could be that it should be absolutely lucid; and this +beauty it resolutely refused to assume. Then the agent called to see me, +and we talked business of a dull kind. Then I walked a little way among +fields; and when I was in a pleasant flat piece of ground, full of +thickets, where the stream makes a bold loop among willows and alders, +the sun set behind a great bastion of clouds that looked like a huge +fortification. It had been one of those days of cloudless skies, all +flooded with the pale cold honey-coloured light of the winter sun, until +a sense almost of spring came into the air; and in a sheltered place I +found a little golden hawk-weed in full flower. +</p> +<p> +It had not been a satisfactory day at all to me. The statement that I +had toiled so hard all the morning to make clear was not particularly +worth making; it could effect but little at best, and I had worked at +it in a British doggedness of spirit, regardless of its value and only +because I was determined not to be beaten by it. +</p> +<p> +But for all that I came home in a rare and delightful frame of mind, as +if I had heard a brief and delicate passage of music, a conspiracy +of sweet sounds and rich tones; or as if I had passed through a sweet +scent, such as blows from a clover-field in summer. There was no +definite thought to disentangle: it was rather as if I had had a glimpse +of the land which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, had seen +the towers of a castle rise over a wood of oaks; met a company of +serious people in comely apparel riding blithely on the turf of a forest +road, who had waved me a greeting, and left me wondering out of what +rich kind of scene they had stepped to bless me. It left me feeling +as though there were some beautiful life, very near me, all around me, +behind the mirror, outside of the door, beyond the garden-hedges, if I +could but learn the spell which would open it to me; left me pleasantly +and happily athirst for a life of gracious influences and of an unknown +and perfect peace; such as creeps over the mind for the moment at the +sight of a deep woodland at sunset, when the forest is veiled in the +softest of blue mist; or at the sound of some creeping sea, beating +softly all night on a level sand; or at the prospect of a winter sun +going down into smoky orange vapours over a wide expanse of pastoral +country; or at the soft close of some solemn music—when peace seems not +only desirable beyond all things but attainable too. +</p> +<p> +How can one account for this sudden and joyful visitation? I am going to +try and set down what I believe to be the explanation, if I can +reduce to words a thought which is perfectly clear to me, however +transcendental it may seem. +</p> +<p> +Well, at such a moment as this, one feels just as one may feel when from +the streets of a dark and crowded city, with the cold shadow of a +cloud passing over it, one sees the green head of a mountain over the +housetops, all alone with the wind and the sun, with its crag-bastions, +its terraces and winding turf ways. +</p> +<p> +The peace that thus blesses one is not, I think, a merely subjective +mood, an imagined thing. It is, I believe, a real and actual thing which +is there. One's consciousness does not create its impressions, one does +not make for oneself the moral and artistic ideas that visit one; one +perceives them. Education is not a process of invention—it is a process +of discovery; a process of learning the names given to things that are +all present in one's own mind. One knows things long before one knows +the names for them, by instinct and by intuition; and one's own mind is +simply a part of a large and immortal life, which for a time is fenced +by a little barrier of identity, just as a tiny pool of sea-water on a +sea-beach is for a few hours separated from the great tide to which it +belongs. All our regrets, remorses, anxieties, troubles arise from our +not realising that we are but a part of this greater and wider life, +from our delusion that we are alone and apart instead of, as is the +case, one with the great ocean of life and joy. +</p> +<p> +Sometimes, I know not why and how, we are for a moment or two in touch +with the larger life—to some it comes in religion, to some in love, +to some in art. Perhaps a wave of the onward sweeping tide beats for +an instant into the little pool we call our own, stirring the fringing +weed, bubbling sharply and freshly upon the sleeping sand. +</p> +<p> +The sad mistake we make is, when such a moment comes, to feel as though +it were only the stirring of our own feeble imagination. What we ought +rather to do is by every effort we can make to welcome and comprehend +this dawning of the larger life upon us; not to sink back peevishly into +our own limits and timidly to deplore them, but resolutely to open the +door again and again—for the door can be opened—to the light of the +great sun that lies so broadly about us. Every now and then we have some +startling experience which reveals to us our essential union with other +individuals. We have many of us had experiences which seem to indicate +that there is at times a direct communication with other minds, +independent of speech or writing; and even if we have not had such +experiences, it has been scientifically demonstrated that such things +can occur. Telepathy, as it is clumsily called, which is nothing more +than this direct communication of mind, is a thing which has been +demonstrated in a way which no reasonable person can reject. We may call +it abnormal if we like, and it is true that we do not as yet know +under what conditions it exists; but it is as much there as electrical +communication, and just as the electrician does not create the viewless +ripples which his delicate instruments can catch and record, but merely +makes it a matter of mechanics to detect them, so the ripple of human +intercommunication is undoubtedly there; and when we have discovered +what its laws are, we shall probably find that it underlies many things, +such as enthusiasms, movements, the spirit of a community, patriotism, +martial ardour, which now appear to us to be isolated and mysterious +phenomena. +</p> +<p> +But there is a larger thing than even that behind. In humanity we have +merely a certain portion of this large life, which may spread for all we +know beyond the visible universe, globed and bounded, like the spray +of a fountain, into little separate individualities. Some of the +urgent inexplicable emotions which visit us from time to time, immense, +far-reaching, mysterious, are, I believe with all my heart, the +pulsations of this vast life outside us, stirring for an instant the +silence of our sleeping spirit. It is possible, I cannot help feeling, +that those people live the best of all possible lives who devote +themselves to receiving these pulsations. It may well be that in +following anxiously the movement of the world, in giving ourselves to +politics or business, or technical religion, or material cares, we are +but delaying the day of our freedom by throwing ourselves intently into +our limitations, and forgetting the wider life. It may be that the life +which Christ seems to have suggested as the type of Christian life—the +life of constant prayer, simple and kindly relations, indifference to +worldly conditions, absence of ambitions, fearlessness, sincerity—may +be the life in which we can best draw near to the larger spirit—for +Christ spoke as one who knew some prodigious secret, as one in whose +soul the larger life leapt and plunged like fresh sea-billows; who was +incapable of sin and even of temptation, because His soul had free +and open contact with the all-pervading spirit, and to whom the human +limitations were no barrier at all. +</p> +<p> +We do not know as yet the mechanical means, so to speak, by which the +connection can be established, the door set wide. But we can at least +open our soul to every breathing of divine influences; and when the +great wind rises and thunders in our spirits, we can see that no claim +of business, or weakness, or comfort, or convention shall hinder us from +admitting it. +</p> +<p> +And thus when one of these sweet, high, uplifting thoughts draws near +and visits us, we can but say, as the child Samuel said in the dim-lit +temple, "Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth." The music comes upon the +air, in faint and tremulous gusts; it dies away across the garden, over +the far hill-side, into the cloudless sky; but we have heard; we are not +the same; we are transfigured. +</p> +<p> +Why then, lastly, it may be asked, do these experiences befall us so +faintly, so secretly, so seldom; if it is the true life that beats so +urgently into our souls, why are we often so careful and disquieted, why +do we fare such long spaces without the heavenly vision, why do we see, +or seem to see, so many of our fellows to whom such things come rarely +or not at all? I cannot answer that; yet I feel that the life is there; +and I can but fall back upon the gentle words of the old saint, who +wrote: "I know not how it is, but the more the realities of heaven are +clothed with obscurity, the more they delight and attract; and nothing +so much heightens longing as such tender refusal." +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XVIII. THE LOVE OF GOD +</h2> +<p> +How strange it is that what is often the latest reward of the toiler +after holiness, the extreme solace of the outwearied saint, should be +too often made the first irksome article of a childish creed! To tell +a child that it is a duty to love God better than father or mother, +sisters and brothers, better than play, or stories, or food, or toys, +what a monstrous thing is that! It is one of the things that make +religion into a dreary and darkling shadow, that haunts the path of the +innocent. The child's love is all for tangible, audible, and visible +things. Love for him means kind words and smiling looks, ready comfort +and lavished kisses; the child does not even love things for being +beautiful, but for being what they ARE—curious, characteristic, +interesting. He loves the odd frowsy smell of the shut-up attic, the +bright ugly ornaments of the chimney-piece, the dirt of the street. He +has no sense of critical taste. Besides, words mean so little to him, or +even bear quaint, fantastic associations, which no one can divine, and +which he himself is unable to express; he has no notion of an abstract, +essential, spiritual thing, apart from what is actual to his senses. And +then into this little concrete mind, so full of small definite images, +so faltering and frail, is thrust this vast, remote notion—that he is +bound to love something hidden and terrible, something that looks at +him from the blank sky when he is alone among the garden beds, something +which haunts empty rooms and the dark brake of the woodland. Moreover, +a child, with its preternatural sensitiveness to pain, its bewildered +terror of punishment, learns, side by side with this, that the God Whom +he is to love thus tenderly is the God Who lays about Him so fiercely +in the Old Testament, slaying the innocent with the guilty, merciless, +harsh, inflicting the irreparable stroke of death, where a man would +be concerned with desiring amendment more than vengeance. The simple +questions with which the man Friday poses Robinson Crusoe, and to which +he receives so ponderous an answer, are the questions which naturally +arise in the mind of any thoughtful child. Why, if God be so kind and +loving, does He not make an end of evil at once? Yet, because such +questions are unanswerable by the wisest, the child is, for the +convenience of his education, made to feel that he is wicked if he +questions what he is taught. How many children will persevere in the +innocent scepticism which is so natural and so desirable, under a sense +of disapproval? One of my own earliest experiences in the ugly path of +religious gloom was that I recognised quite clearly to myself that I did +not love God at all. I did not know Him, I had no reason to think +Him kind; He was angry with me, I gathered, if I was ill-tempered or +untruthful. I was well enough aware by childish instinct that my mother +did not cease to love me when I was naughty, but I could not tell about +God. And yet I knew that, with His terrible power of knowing everything, +He was well aware that I did not love Him. It was best to forget about +Him as much as possible, for it spoiled one's pleasure to think about +it. All the little amusements and idle businesses that were so dear to +me, He probably disapproved of them all, and was only satisfied when I +was safe at my lessons or immured in church. Sunday was the sort of day +He liked, and how I detested it!—the toys put away, little ugly books +about the Holy Land to read, an air of deep dreariness about it all. +Thus does religion become a weariness from the outset. +</p> +<p> +How slowly, and after what strange experience, by what infinite delay of +deduction, does the love of God dawn upon the soul! Even then how faint +and subtle an essence it is! In deep anxiety, under unbearable strain, +in the grip of a dilemma of which either issue seems intolerable, in +weariness of life, in hours of flagging vitality, the mighty tide begins +to flow strongly and tranquilly into the soul. One did not make oneself; +one did not make one's sorrows, even when they arose from one's own +weakness and perversity. There was a meaning, a significance about it +all; one was indeed on pilgrimage; and then comes the running to the +Father's knee, and the casting oneself in utter broken weakness upon the +one Heart that understands perfectly and utterly, and which does, which +must, desire the best and truest. "Give me courage, hope, confidence," +says the desolate soul. +</p> +<pre> + "I can endure Thy bitterest decrees, + If CERTAIN of Thy Love." +</pre> +<p> +How would one amend all this if one had the power? Alas! it could only +be by silencing all stupid and clumsy people, all rigid parents, all +diplomatic priests, all the horrible natures who lick their lips with +a fierce zest over the pains that befall the men with whom they do not +agree. I would teach a child, in defiance even of reason, that God is +the one Power that loves and understands him through thick and thin; +that He punishes with anguish and sorrow; that He exults in forgiveness +and mercy; that He rejoices in innocent happiness; that He loves +courage, and brightness, and kindness, and cheerful self-sacrifice; that +things mean, and vile, and impure, and cruel, are things that He does +not love to punish, but sad and soiling stains that He beholds with +shame and tears. This, it seems to me, is the Gospel teaching about God, +impossible only because of the hardness of our hearts. But if it were +possible, a child might grow to feel about sin, not that it was a +horrible and unpardonable failure, a thing to afflict oneself drearily +about, but that it was rather a thing which, when once spurned, however +humiliating, could minister to progress, in a way in which untroubled +happiness could not operate—to be forgotten, perhaps, but certainly to +be forgiven; a privilege rather than a hindrance, a gate rather than a +barrier; a shadow upon the path, out of which one would pass, with such +speed as one might, into the blitheness of the free air and the warm +sun. I remember a terrible lecture which I heard as a little bewildered +boy at school, anxious to do right, terrified of oppression, and +coldness, and evil alike; given by a worthy Evangelical clergyman, with +large spectacles, and a hollow voice, and a great relish for spiritual +terrors. The subject was "the exceeding sinfulness of sin," a +proposition which I now see to be as true as if one lectured on the +exceeding carnality of flesh. But the lecture spoke of the horrible +and filthy corruption of the human heart, its determined delight in +wallowing in evil, its desperate wickedness. I believed it, dully and +hopelessly, as a boy believes what is told him by a voluble elderly +person of obvious respectability. But what a detestable theory of life, +what an ugly picture of Divine incompetence! +</p> +<p> +Of course there are abundance of facts in the world which look +like anything but love;—the ruthless and merciless punishment of +carelessness and ignorance, the dark laws of heredity, the wastefulness +and cruelty of disease, the dismal acquiescence of stupid, healthy, +virtuous persons, without sympathy or imagination, in the hardships +which they were strong enough to bear unscathed. One of the prime +terrors of religion is the thought of the heavy-handed, unintelligent, +tiresome men who would make it a monopoly if they could, and bear +it triumphantly away from the hands of modest, humble, quiet, and +tender-hearted people, chiding them as nebulous optimists. +</p> +<p> +Who are the people in this short life of ours whom one remembers with +deep and abiding gratitude? Not those who have rebuked, and punished, +and satirised, and humiliated us, striking down the stricken, and +flattening the prostrate—but the people who have been patient with us, +and kind, who have believed in us, and comforted us, and welcomed us, +and forgiven us everything; who have given us largely of their love, who +have lent without requiring payment, who have given us emotional rather +than prudential reasons, who have cared for us, not as a duty but by +some divine instinct, who have made endless excuses for us, believing +that the true self was there and would emerge, who have pardoned our +misdeeds and forgotten our meannesses. +</p> +<p> +This is what I would believe of God—that He is not our censorious and +severe critic, but our champion and lover, not loving us in spite of +what we are, but because of what we are; Who in the days of our strength +rejoices in our joy, and does not wish to overshadow it, like the +conscientious human mentor, with considerations that we must yet be +withered like grass; and Who, when the youthful ebullience dies away, +and the spring grows weak, and we wonder why the zest has died out of +simple pleasures, out of agreeable noise and stir, is still with us, +reminding us that the wisdom we are painfully and surely gaining is a +deeper and more lasting quality than even the hot impulses of youth. +</p> +<p> +Once in my life have I conceived what might have been, if I had had the +skill to paint it, an immortal picture. It was thus. I was attending a +Christmas morning service in a big parish church. I was in a pew facing +east; close to me, in a transept, in a pew facing sideways, there sat a +little old woman, who had hurried in just before the service began. She +was a widow, living, I afterwards learnt, in an almshouse hard by. +She was old and feeble, very poor, and her life had been a series of +calamities, relieved upon a background of the hardest and humblest +drudgery. She had lost her husband years ago by a painful and terrible +illness. She had lost her children one by one; she was alone in the +world, save for a few distant and indifferent relatives. To get into the +almshouse had been for her a stroke of incredible and inconceivable good +fortune. She had a single room, with a tiny kitchen off it. She had +very little to say for herself; she could hardly read. No one took any +particular interest in her; but she was a kindly, gallant, unselfish old +soul, always ready to bear a hand, full of gratitude for the kindnesses +she had received—and God alone knows how few they had been. +</p> +<p> +She had a small, ugly, homely face, withered and gnarled hands; and she +was dressed that day in a little old bonnet of unheard-of age, and in +dingy, frowsy black clothes, shiny and creased, that came out of their +box perhaps half-a-dozen times a year. +</p> +<p> +But this morning she was in a festal mood. She had tidied up her little +room; she was going to have a bit of meat for dinner, given her by a +neighbour. She had been sent a Christmas card that morning, and had +pored over it with delight. She liked the stir and company of the +church, and the cheerful air of the holly-berries. She held her book up +before her, though I do not suppose she was even at the right page. She +kept up a little faint cracked singing in her thin old voice; but when +they came to the hymn "Hark, the herald angels sing," which she had +always known from childhood, she lifted up her head and sang more +courageously: +</p> +<pre> + "Join the triumph of the skies! + With the angelic host proclaim, + Christ is born in Bethlehem!" +</pre> +<p> +It was then that I had my vision. I do not know why, but at the sight of +the wrinkled face and the sound of the plaintive uplifted voice, singing +such words, a sudden mist of tears came over my eyes. Then I saw that +close behind the old dame there stood a very young and beautiful man. I +could see the fresh curling hair thrown back from the clear brow. He was +clothed in a dim robe, of an opalescent hue and misty texture, and his +hands were clasped together. It seemed that he sang too; but his eyes +were bent upon the old woman with a look, half of tender amusement, and +half of unutterable lovingness. The angelic host! This was one of that +bright company indeed, going about the Father's business, bringing a +joyful peace into the hearts of those among whom he moved. And of all +the worshippers in that crowded church he had singled out the humblest +and simplest for his friend and sister. I saw no more that day, for +the lines of that presence faded out upon the air in the gleams of the +frosty sunshine that came and went among the pillars. But if I could +have painted the scene, the pure, untroubled face so close to the old +worn features, the robes of light side by side with the dingy human +vesture, it would be a picture that no living eye that had rested on it +should forget. +</p> +<p> +Alas, that one cannot live in moments of inspiration like these! As +life goes on, and as we begin perhaps to grow a little nearer to God by +faith, we are confronted in our own lives, or in the life of one very +near us, by some intolerable and shameful catastrophe. A careless sin +makes havoc of a life, and shadows a home with shame; or some generous +or unselfish nature, useful, beneficent, urgently needed, is struck down +with a painful and hopeless malady. This too, we say to ourselves, must +come from God; He might have prevented it if He had so willed. What are +we to make of it? How are we to translate into terms of love what seems +like an act of tyrannous indifference, or deliberate cruelty? Then, I +think, it is well to remind ourselves that we can never know exactly the +conditions of any other human soul. How little we know of our own! How +little we could explain our case to another, even if we were utterly +sincere! The weaknesses of our nature are often, very tenderly I would +believe, hidden from us; we think ourselves sensitive and weak, when +in reality we are armed with a stubborn breastplate of complacency +and pride; or we think ourselves strong, only because the blows of +circumstance have been spared us. The more one knows of the most +afflicted lives, the more often the conviction flashes across us that +the affliction is not a wanton outrage, but a delicately adjusted +treatment. I remember once that a friend of mine had sent him a rare +plant, which was set in a big flower-pot, close to a fountain-basin. +It never throve; it lived indeed, putting out in the spring a delicate +stunted foliage, though my friend, who was a careful gardener, could +never divine what ailed it. He was away for a few weeks, and the day +after he was gone, the flower-pot was broken by a careless garden-boy, +who wheeled a barrow roughly past it; the plant, earth and all, fell +into the water; the boy removed the broken pieces of the pot, and seeing +that the plant had sunk to the bottom of the little pool, never troubled +his head to fish it out. When my friend returned, he noticed one day in +the fountain a new and luxuriant growth of some unknown plant. He made +careful inquiries and found out what had happened. It then came out that +the plant was in reality a water-plant, and that it had pined away in +the stifling air for want of nourishment, perhaps dimly longing for the +fresh bed of the pool. +</p> +<p> +Even so has it been, times without number, with some starving and +thirsty soul, that has gone on feebly trying to live a maimed life, shut +up in itself, ailing, feeble. There has descended upon it what looks +at first sight like a calamity, some affliction unaccountable and +irreparable; and then it proves that this was the one thing needed; that +sorrow has brought out some latent unselfishness, or suffering energised +some unused faculty of strength and patience. +</p> +<p> +But even if it is not so, if we cannot trace in our own lives or the +lives of others the beneficent influence of suffering, we can always +take refuge in one thought. We can see that the one mighty and +transforming power on earth is the power of love; we see people +make sacrifices, not momentary sacrifices, but lifelong patient +renunciations, for the sake of one whom they love; we see a great and +passionate affection touch into being a whole range of unsuspected +powers; we see men and women utterly unconscious of pain and weariness, +utterly unaware that they are acting without a thought of self, if they +can but soothe the pain of one dear to them, or win a smile from beloved +lips; it is not that the selfishness, the indolence, is not there, but +it is all borne away upon a mighty stream, as the river-wrack spins upon +the rising flood. +</p> +<p> +If then this marvellous, this amazing power of love can cause men to +make, with joy and gladness, sacrifices of which in their loveless +days they would have deemed themselves and confessed themselves wholly +incapable, can we not feel with confidence that the power, which lies +thus deepest in the heart of the world, lies also deepest in the heart +of God, of Whom the world is but a faint reflection? It cannot be +otherwise. We may sadly ponder, indeed, why the love that has been, or +that might have been, the strength of weary lives should be withdrawn +or sternly withheld, but we need not be afraid, if we have one generous +impulse for another, if we ever put aside a delight that may please or +attract us, for the sake of one who expects or would value any smallest +service—and there are few who cannot feel this—we need not then, I +say, doubt that the love which we desire, and which we have somehow +missed or lost, is there waiting for us, ours all the time, if we but +knew it. +</p> +<p> +And even if we miss the sweet influence of love in our lives, is there +any one who has not, in solitude and dreariness, looked back upon +the time when he was surrounded by love and opportunities of love, in +childhood or in youth, with a bitter regret that he did not make more of +it when it was so near to him, that he was so blind and selfish, that he +was not a little more tender, a little more kind? I will speak frankly +for myself and say that the memories which hurt me most, when I stumble +upon them, are those of the small occasions when I showed myself +perverse and hard; when eyes, long since closed, looked at me with +a pathetic expectancy; when I warded off the loving impulse by some +jealous sense of my own rights, some peevish anger at a fancied +injustice; when I stifled the smile and withheld the hand, and turned +away in silence, glad, in that poisonous moment, to feel that I could at +all events inflict that pain in base requital. One may know that it is +all forgiven, one may be sure that the misunderstanding has faded in the +light of the other dawn, but still the cold base shadow, the thought of +one's perverse cruelty, strikes a gloom upon the mind. +</p> +<p> +But with God, when one once begins to draw near to Him, one need have no +such poignant regrets or overshadowing memories; one may say to Him in +one's heart, as simply as a child, that He knows what one has been and +is, what one might have been and what one desires to be; and one may +cast oneself at His feet in the overwhelming hope that He will make of +oneself what He would have one to be. +</p> +<p> +In the parable of the Prodigal Son, it is not the poor wretch himself, +whose miserable motive for returning is plainly indicated—that instead +of pining in cold and hunger he may be warmed and clothed—who is the +hero of the story; still less is it the hard and virtuous elder son. The +hero of the tale is the patient, tolerant, loving father, who had acted, +as a censorious critic might say, foolishly and culpably, in supplying +the dissolute boy with resources, and taking him back without a word of +just reproach. A sad lack of moral discipline, no doubt! If he had kept +the boy in fear and godliness, if he had tied him down to honest work, +the disaster need never have happened. Yet the old man, who went so +often at sundown, we may think, to the crest of the hill, from which he +could see the long road winding over the plain to the far-off city, the +road by which he had seen his son depart, light-heartedly and full +of fierce joyful impulses, and along which he was to see the dejected +figure, so familiar, so sadly marred, stumbling home—he is the +master-spirit of the sweet and comforting scene. His heart is full of +utter gladness, for the lost is found. He smiles upon the servants; he +bids the household rejoice; he can hardly, in his simple joy of heart, +believe that the froward elder brother is vexed and displeased; and his +words of entreaty that the brother, too, will enter into the spirit of +the hour, are some of the most pathetic and beautiful ever framed in +human speech: "Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine; +it was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother +was dead, and is alive again, and was lost, and is found." +</p> +<p> +And this is, after all, the way in which God deals with us. He gives us +our portion to spend as we choose; He holds nothing back; and when we +have wasted it and brought misery upon ourselves, and return to Him, +even for the worst of reasons, He has not a word of rebuke or caution; +He is simply and utterly filled with joy and love. There are a thousand +texts that would discourage us, would bid us believe that God deals +hardly with us, but it is men that deal hardly with us, it is we +that deal hardly with ourselves. This story, which is surely the most +beautiful story in the world, gives us the deliberate thought of the +Saviour, the essence of His teaching; and we may fling aside the bitter +warnings of jealous minds, and cast ourselves upon the supreme hope +that, if only we will return, we are dealt with even more joyfully than +if we had never wandered at all. +</p> +<p> +And then perhaps at last, when we have peeped again and again, through +loss and suffering, at the dark background of life; when we have seen +the dreariest corner of the lonely road, where the path grows steep and +miry, and the light is veiled by scudding cloud and dripping rain, there +begins to dawn upon us the sense of a beautiful and holy patience, the +thought that these grey ashes of life, in which the glowing cinders +sink, which once were bright with leaping flame, are not the end—that +the flame and glow are there, although momently dispersed. They have +done their work; one is warmed and enlivened; one can sit still, feeding +one's fancy on the lapsing embers, just as one saw pictures in the +fire as an eager child long ago. That high-hearted excitement and that +curiosity have faded. Life is very different from what we expected, more +wholesome, more marvellous, more brief, more inconclusive; but there is +an intenser, if quieter and more patient, curiosity to wait and see what +God is doing for us; and the orange stain and green glow of the sunset, +though colder and less jocund, is yet a far more mysterious, tender, +and beautiful thing than the steady glow of the noonday sun, when the +shining flies darted hither and thither, and the roses sent out their +rich fragrance. There is fragrance still, the fragrance of the evening +flowers, where the western windows look across the misty fields to the +thickening shadows of the tall trees. But there is something that speaks +in the gathering gloom, in the darkening sky with its flush of crimson +fire, that did not speak in the sun-warmed garden and the dancing +leaves; and what speaks is the mysterious love of God, a thing sweeter +and more remote than the urgent bliss of the fiery noon, full of +delicate mysteries and appealing echoes. We have learnt that the +darkness is no darkness with Him; and the soul which beat her wings +so passionately in the brighter light of the hot morning, now at last +begins to dream of whither she is bound, and the dear shade where she +will fold her weary wing. +</p> +<p> +How often has the soul in her dreariness cried out, "One effort more!" +But that is done with for ever. She is patient now; she believes at +last; she labours no longer at the oar, but she is borne upon the moving +tide; she is on her way to the deep Heart of God. +</p> +<a name="2H_EPIL"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + EPILOGUE +</h2> +<p> +I have wandered far enough in my thought, it would seem, from the lonely +grange in its wide pastures, and the calm expanse of fen; and I should +wish once more to bring my reader back home with me to the sheltered +garden, and the orchard knee-deep in grass, and the embowering elms; for +there is one word more to be said, and that may be best said at home; +though our experience is not limited by time or place. It was on the +lonely ridge, strewn with boulders and swept by night-winds, when the +darkness closed in drearily about him, that Jacob, a homeless exile, in +the hour of his utmost desolation, saw the ladder whose golden head was +set at the very foot of God, thronged with bright messengers of strength +and hope. And again it was in the familiar homestead, with every corner +rich in gentle memories, that the spirit of terror turned the bitter +stream of anguish, as from the vent of some thunderous cloud, upon the +sad head of Job. We may turn a corner in life, and be confronted perhaps +with an uncertain shape of grief and despair, whom we would fain banish +from our shuddering sight, perhaps with some solemn form of heavenly +radiance, whom we may feel reluctant in our unworthiness to entertain. +But in either case, such times as those, when we wrestle all night with +the angel, not knowing if he wishes us well or ill, ignorant of his name +and his mien alike, are better than hours spent in indolent contentment, +in the realisation of our placid and petty designs. For, after all, it +is the quality rather than the quantity of our experience that matters; +it is easy enough to recognise that, when we are working light-heartedly +and eagerly at some brave design, and seeing the seed we plant springing +up all about us in fertile rows in the garden of God. But what of those +days when our lot seems only to endure, when we can neither scheme nor +execute, when the old volubility and vitality desert us, and our one +care is just to make our dreary presence as little of a burden and a +shadow as possible to those whom we love? We must then remind ourselves, +not once or twice, that nothing can separate us from the Father of all, +even though our own wilfulness and perversity may have drawn about us +a cloud of sorrow. We are perhaps most in God's mind when we seem most +withdrawn from Him. He is nearer us when we seek for Him and cannot find +Him, than when we forget Him in laughter and self-pleasing. And we must +remember too that it is neither faithful nor fruitful to abide wilfully +in sadness, to clasp our cares close, to luxuriate in them. There is a +beautiful story of Mrs. Charles Kingsley, who long survived her husband. +Never perhaps had two souls been united by so close a bond of chivalry +and devotion. "Whenever I find myself thinking too much about Charles," +she said in the days of her grief, "I find and read the most sensational +novel I can. People may think it heartless, but hearts were given us to +love with, not to break." And we must deal with our sorrows as we +deal with any other gift of God, courageously and temperately, not +faint-heartedly or wilfully; not otherwise can they be blest to us. We +must not pettishly reject consolation and distraction. Pain is a +great angel, but we must wrestle with him, until he bless us! and the +blessings he can bring us are first a wholesome shame at our old selfish +ingratitude in the untroubled days, when we took care and pleasure +greedily; and next, if we meet him faithfully, he can make our heart +go out to all our brothers and sisters who suffer in this brief and +troubled life of ours. For we are here to learn something, if we can but +spell it out; and thus it is morbid to indulge regrets and remorse too +much over our failures and mistakes; for it is through them that we +learn. We must be as brave as we can, and dare to grudge no pang that +brings us nearer to the reality of things. +</p> +<p> +Reality! that is the secret; for we who live in dreams, who pursue +beauty, who are haunted as by a passion for that sweet quality that +thrills alike in the wayside flower and the orange pomp of the setting +sun, that throbs in written word and uttered melody, that calls to +us suddenly and secretly in the glance of an eye and the gesture of a +hand,—we, I say, who discern these gracious motions, tend to live +in them too luxuriously, to idealise life, to make out of our daily +pilgrimage, our goings and comings, a golden untroubled picture; it +need not be a false or a base effort to escape from what is sordid +or distasteful; but for all that we run a sore risk in yielding too +placidly to our visions; and as with the Lady of Shalott, it may be well +for us if our woven web be rent aside, and our magic mirror broken; nay, +even if death comes to us at the close of the mournful song. Thus then +we draw near and look reluctant and dismayed into the bare truth of +things. We see, it may be, our poor pretences tossed aside, and the +embroidered robe in which we have striven to drape our leanness torn +from us; but we must gaze as steadily as we can, and pray that the +vision be not withdrawn till it has wrought its perfect work within us; +and then, with energies renewed, we may set out again on pilgrimage, +happy in this, that we no longer mistake the arbour of refreshment for +the goal of our journey, or the quiet house of welcome, that receives +us in the hour of weariness, for the heavenly city, with all its bright +mansions and radiant palaces. +</p> +<p> +It is experience that matters, as I have said; not what we do, but how +we do it. The material things that we collect about us in our passage +through life, that we cling to so pathetically, and into which something +of our very selves seems to pass, these things are little else than +snares and hindrances to our progress—like the clay that sticks to the +feet of the traveller, like the burden of useless things that he carries +painfully with him, things which he cannot bring himself to throw away +because they might possibly turn out to be useful, and which meanwhile +clank and clatter fruitlessly about the laden beast, and weigh him down. +What we have rather to do is to disengage ourselves from these things: +from the money which we do not need, but which may help us some day; +from the luxuries we do not enjoy; from the furniture we trail about +with us from home to home. All those things get a hold of us and tie +us to earth, even when the associations with them are dear and tender +enough. The mistake we make is not in loving them—they are or can be +signs to us of the love and care of God—but we must refrain from loving +the possession of them. +</p> +<p> +Take, for instance, one of the least mundane of things, the knowledge we +painfully acquire, and the possession of which breeds in us such lively +satisfaction. If it is our duty to acquire knowledge and to impart it, +we must acquire it; but it is the faithfulness with which we toil, not +the accumulations we gain that are blessed to us—"knowledge comes but +wisdom lingers," says the poet—and it is the heavenly wisdom of which +we ought to be in search; for what remains to us of our equipment, when +we part from the world and migrate elsewhere, is not the actual stuff +that we have collected, whether it be knowledge or money, but the +patience, the diligence, the care which we have exercised in gaining +these things, the character, as affected by the work we have done; +but our mistake is to feel that we are idle and futile, unless we have +tangible results to show; when perhaps the hours in which we sat idle, +out of misery or mere feebleness, are the most fruitful hours of all for +the growth of the soul. +</p> +<p> +The great savant dies. What is lost? Not a single fact or a single +truth, but only his apprehension, his collection of certain truths; not +a single law of nature perishes or is altered thereby. We measure worth +by prominence and fame; but the destiny of the simplest and vilest +of the human race is as august, as momentous as the destiny of the +mightiest king or conqueror; it is not our admiration of each other that +weighs with God, but our nearness to, our dependence on Him. Yet, even +so, we must not deceive ourselves in the matter. We must be sure that it +is the peace of God that we indeed desire, and not merely a refined kind +of leisure; that we are in search of simplicity, and not merely afraid +of work. We must not glorify a mild spectatorial pleasure by the name of +philosophy, or excuse our indolence under the name of contemplation. +We must abstain deliberately, not tamely hang back; we must desire the +Kingdom of Heaven for itself, and not for the sake of the things that +are added if we seek it. If the Scribes and Pharisees have their reward +for ambition and self-seeking, the craven soul has its reward too, and +that reward is a sick emptiness of spirit. And then if we have erred +thus, if we have striven to pretend to ourselves that we were careless +of the prize, when in reality we only feared the battle, what can we +do? How can we repair our mistake? There is but one way; we can own +the pitiful fault, and not attempt to glorify it; we can face the +experience, take our petty and shameful wages and cast ourselves afresh, +in our humiliation and weakness, upon God, rejoicing that we can +at least feel the shame, and enduring the chastisement with patient +hopefulness; for that very suffering is a sign that God has not left us +to ourselves, but is giving us perforce the purification which we could +not take to ourselves. +</p> +<p> +And even thus, life is not all an agony, a battle, an endurance; there +are sweet hours of refreshment and tranquillity between the twilight +and the dawn; hours when we can rest a little in the shadow, and see the +brimming stream of life flowing quietly but surely to its appointed end. +I watched to-day an old shepherd, on a wide field, moving his wattled +hurdles, one by one, in the slow, golden afternoon; and a whole burden +of anxious thoughts fell off me for a while, leaving me full of a quiet +hope for an end which was not yet, but that certainly awaited me; of +a day when I too might perhaps move as unreflectingly, as calmly, +in harmony with the everlasting Will, as the old man moved about his +familiar task. Why that harmony should be so blurred and broken, why we +should leave undone the things that we desire to do, and do the things +that we do not desire, that is still a deep and sad mystery; yet even in +the hour of our utmost wilfulness, we can never wander beyond the range +of the Will that has made us, and bidden us to be what we are. And thus +as I sit in this low-lit hour, there steals upon the heart the message +of hope and healing; the scent of the great syringa bush leaning out +into the twilight, the sound of the fitful breeze laying here and there +a caressing hand upon the leaves, the soft radiance of the evening star +hung in the green spaces of the western sky, each and all blending into +incommunicable dreams. +</p> + + +<br><br><br><br> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of At Large, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT LARGE *** + +***** This file should be named 4613-h.htm or 4613-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/1/4613/ + +Produced by Don Lainson, Charles Aldarondo, and David Widger + + +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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