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diff --git a/4652-0.txt b/4652-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..489923d --- /dev/null +++ b/4652-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5882 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 4652 *** + +ESCAPE + +AND OTHER ESSAYS + + + +By ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON + +I love people that leave some traces of their journey behind them, +and I have strength enough to advise you to do so while you can. +--Thomas Gray. + +NEW YORK + +1915 + + + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + + + + + +Introduction +1. Escape +2. Literature and Life +3. The New Poets +4. Walt Whitman +5. Charm +6. Sunset +7. The House of Pengersick +8. Villages +9. Dreams +10. The Visitant +11. That Other One +12. Schooldays +13. Authorship +14. Herb Moly and Heartsease +15. Behold, This Dreamer Cometh + + + + + + +NOTE + + + + + +I desire to recourd my obligations to the Editor of the Century +Magazine, and to the Editor of the Cornhill Magazine, for their +permission to include in this volume certain essays which appeared +first in their pages. + +A. C. B. + + + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +1 + + + + + +I walked to-day down by the river side. The Cam is a stream much +slighted by the lover of wild and romantic scenery; and its chief +merit, in the eyes of our boys, is that it approaches more nearly +to a canal in its straightness and the deliberation of its slow +lapse than many more famous floods--and is therefore more adapted +for the maneuvres of eight-oared boats! But it is a beautiful +place, I am sure; and my ghost will certainly walk there, "if our +loves remain," as Browning says, both for the sake of old memories +and for the love of its own sweet peaceableness. I passed out of +the town, out of the straggling suburbs, away from tall, puffing +chimneys, and under the clanking railway bridge; and then at once +the scene opens, wide pasture-lands on either side, and rows of old +willows, the gnarled trunks holding up their clustered rods. There +on the other side of the stream rises the charming village of Fen +Ditton, perched on a low ridge near the water, with church and +vicarage and irregular street, and the little red-gabled Hall +looking over its barns and stacks. More and more willows, and then, +lying back, an old grange, called Poplar Hall, among high-standing +trees; and then a little weir, where the falling water makes a +pleasant sound, and a black-timbered lock, with another old house +near by, a secluded retreat for the bishops of Ely in medieval +times. The bishop came thither by boat, no doubt, and abode there +for a few quiet weeks, when the sun lay hot over the plain; and a +little farther down is a tiny village called Horningsea, with a +battlemented church among orchards and thatched houses, with its +own disused wharf--a place which gives me the sense of a bygone age +as much as any hamlet I know. Then presently the interminable fen +stretches for miles and miles in every direction; you can see, from +the high green flood-banks of the river, the endless lines of +watercourses and far-off clumps of trees leagues away, and perhaps +the great tower of Ely, blue on the horizon, with the vast spacious +sky over-arching all. If that is not a beautiful place in its +width, its greenness, its unbroken silence, I do not know what +beauty is! Nothing that historians call an event has ever happened +there. It is a place that has just drifted out of the old lagoon +life of the past, the life of reed-beds and low-lying islands, of +marsh-fowl and fishes, into a hardly less peaceful life of +cornfield and pasture. No one goes there except on country +business, no armies ever marshalled or fought there. The sun goes +down in flame on the far horizon; the wild duck fly over and settle +in the pools, the flowers rise to life year by year on the edges of +slow watercourses; the calm mystery of it can be seen and +remembered; but it can hardly be told in words. + + +2 + + +Now side by side with that I will set another picture of a +different kind. + +A week or two ago I was travelling up North. The stations we passed +through were many of them full of troops, the trains were crammed +with soldiers, and very healthy and happy they looked. I was struck +by their friendliness and kindness; they were civil and modest; +they did not behave as if they were in possession of the line, as +actually I suppose they were, but as if they were ordinary +travellers, and anxious not to incommode other people. I saw +soldiers doing kind little offices, helping an old frail woman +carefully out of the train and handing out her baggage, giving +chocolates to children, interesting themselves in their fellow- +travellers. At one place I saw a proud and anxious father, himself +an old soldier, I think, seeing off a jolly young subaltern to the +front, with hardly suppressed tears; the young man was full of +excitement and delight, but did his best to cheer up the spirits of +"Daddy," as he fondly called him. I felt very proud of our +soldiers, their simplicity and kindness and real goodness. I was +glad to belong to the nation which had bred them, and half forgot +the grim business on which they were bent. We stopped at a +junction. And here I caught sight of a strange little group. There +was a young man, an officer, who had evidently been wounded; one of +his legs was encased in a surgical contrivance, and he had a +bandage round his head. He sat on a bench between two stalwart and +cheerful-looking soldiers, who had their arms round him, and were +each holding one of his hands. I could not see the officer clearly +at first, as a third soldier was standing close in front of him and +speaking encouragingly to him, while at the same time he sheltered +him from the crowd. But he moved away, and at the same moment the +young officer lifted his head, displaying a drawn and sunken face, +a brow compressed with pain, and looked wildly and in a terrified +way round him, with large melancholy eyes. Then he began to beat +his foot on the ground, and struggled to extricate himself from his +companions; and then he buried his head in his chest and sank down +in an attitude of angry despair. It was a sight that I cannot +forget. + +Just before the train went off an officer got into my carriage, and +as we started, said to me, "That's a sad business there--it is a +young officer who was taken prisoner by the Germans--one of our +best men; he escaped, and after enduring awful hardships he got +into our lines, was wounded, and sent home to hospital; but the +shock and the anxiety preyed on his mind, and he has become, they +fear, hopelessly insane--he is being sent to a sanatorium, but I +fear there is very little chance of his recovery; he is wounded in +the head as well as the foot. He is a wealthy man, devoted to +soldiering, and he is just engaged to a charming girl . . ." + + +3 + + +Now there is a hard and bitter fact of life, very different from +the story of the fenland. I am not going to argue about it or +discuss it, because to trace the threads of it back into life +entangles one at once helplessly in a dreadful series of problems: +namely, how it comes to pass that a calamity, grievous and +intolerable beyond all calamities in its pain and sorrow and waste, +a strife abhorred and dreaded by all who are concerned in it, +fruitful in every shade of misery and wretchedness, should yet have +come about so inevitably and relentlessly. No one claims to have +desired war; all alike plead that it is in self-defence that they +are fighting, and maintain that they have laboured incessantly for +peace. Yet the great mills of fate are turning, and grinding out +death and shame and loss. Everyone sickens for peace, and yet any +proposal of peace is drowned in cries of bitterness and rage. The +wisest spend their time in pointing out the blessings which the +conflict brings. The mother hears that the son she parted with in +strength and courage is mouldering in an unknown grave, and chokes +her tears down. The fruit of years of labour is consumed, lands are +laid desolate, the weak and innocent are wronged; yet the great +war-engine goes thundering and smashing on, leaving hatred and +horror behind it; and all the while men pray to a God of mercy and +loving-kindness and entreat His blessing on the work they are +doing. + +Is there then, if we are confronted with such problems as these, +anything to do except to stay prostrate, like Job, in darkness and +despair, just enduring the stroke of sorrow? Is there any excuse +for bringing before the world at such a time as this the delightful +reveries, the easy happiness, the gentle schemes of serener and +less troubled days? The book which follows was the work of a time +which seems divided from the present by a dark stream of +unhappiness. Is it right, is it decent, to unfold an old picture of +peace before the eyes of those who have had to look into chaos and +destruction? Would it not be braver to burn the record of the +former things that have passed away? Or is it well to fix our gaze +firmly upon the peaceful things that have been and will be once +more? + + +4 + + +Yes, I believe that it is right and wholesome to do this, because +the most treacherous and cowardly thing we can do is to disbelieve +in life. Those old dreams and visions were true enough, and they +will be true again. They represent the real life to which we must +try to return. We must try to build up the conception afresh, not +feebly to confess that we were all astray. We cannot abolish evil by +confessing ourselves worsted by it; we can only overcome it by +holding fast to our belief in labour and order and peace. It is a +temptation which we must resist, to philosophise too much about war. +Very few minds are large enough and clear enough to hold all the +problems in their grasp. I do not believe for an instant that war +has falsified our vision of peace. We must cling to it more than +ever, we must emphasize it, we must dwell in it. I regard war as I +regard an outbreak of pestilence; the best way to resist it is not +to brood over it, but to practise joy and health. The ancient +plagues which devastated Europe have not been overcome by philosophy, +but by the upspringing desire of men to live cleaner and more +wholesome lives. That instinct is not created by any philosophy or +persuasion; it just arises everywhere and finds its way to the +light. + +To brood over the war, to spend our time in disentangling its +intricate causes, seems to me a task for future historians. But a +lover of peace, confronted by the hideousness of war, does best to +try, if he can, to make plain what he means by peace and why he +desires it. I do not mean by peace an indolent life, lost in gentle +reveries. I mean hard daily work, and mutual understanding, and +lavish help, and the effort to reassure and console and uplift. And +I mean, too, a real conflict--not a conflict where we set the best +and bravest of each nation to spill each other's blood--but a +conflict against crime and disease and selfishness and greediness +and cruelty. There is much fighting to be done; can we not combine +to fight our common foes, instead of weakening each other against +evil? We destroy in war our finest parental stock, we waste our +labour, we lose our garnered store; we give every harsh passion a +chance to grow; we live in the traditions of the past, and not in +the hopes of the future. + + +5 + + +And yet there is one thing in the present war which I do in my +heart of hearts feel to be worth fighting for, and that is for the +hope of liberty. It is hard to say what liberty is, because the +essence of it is the subjugation of personal inclinations. The +Germans claim that they alone know the meaning of liberty, and that +they have arrived at it by discipline. But the bitterness of this +war lies in the fact that the Germans are not content to set an +example of attractive virtue, and to leave the world to choose it; +but that if the world will not choose it, they will force it upon +them by violence and the sword. It is this which makes me feel that +the war may be a vast protest of the nations, which have the spirit +of the future in their hearts, against a theory of life that +represents the spirit of the past. And I thus, with some seeming +inconsistency, believe that the war may represent the hope of peace +at bay. If the nations can keep this clearly before them, and not +be tempted either into reprisals, or into rewarding themselves by +the spoils of victory, if victory comes; if it ends in the Germans +being sincerely convinced that they have been misled and poisoned +by a conception of right which is both uncivilised and unchristian, +then I believe that all our sufferings may not be too great a price +to pay for the future well-being of the world. That is the largest +and brightest hope I dare to frame; and there are many hours and +days when it seems all clouded and dim. + + +6 + + +We cannot at this time disengage our thoughts from the war; we +cannot, and we ought not. Still less can we take refuge from it in +idle dreams of peace and security; but at a time when every paper +and book that we see is full of the war and its sufferings, there +must be men and women who would do well to turn their hearts and +minds for a little away from it. If we brood over it, if we feed +our minds upon it, especially if we are by necessity non- +combatants, it is all apt to turn to a festering horror which makes +us useless and miserable. Whatever happens, we must try not to be +simply the worse for the war--morbid, hysterical, beggared of faith +and hope, horrified with life. That is the worst of evils; and I +believe that it is wholesome to put as far as we can our cramped +minds in easier postures, and to let our spirits have a wider +range. We know how a dog who is perpetually chained becomes fierce +and furious, and thinks of nothing but imaginary foes, so that the +most peaceful passer-by becomes an enemy. I have felt, since the +war began, a certain poison in the air, a tendency towards +suspicion and contentiousness and vague hostility. We must exorcise +that evil spirit if we can; and I believe it is best laid by +letting our minds go back to the old peace for a little, and +resolving that the new peace which we believe is coming shall be of +a larger and nobler quality; we may thus come to appreciate the +happiness which we enjoyed but had not earned; and lay our plans +for earning a new kind of happiness, the essence of which shall be +a mutual trust, that desires to give and share whatever it enjoys, +instead of hoarding it and guarding it. + +A wise and unselfish woman wrote to me the other day in words which +will long live in my mind; she had sent out one whom she dearly +loved to the front, and she was fighting her fears as gallantly as +she could. "Whatever happens, we must not give way to dread," she +wrote. "It does not do to dread anything for our own treasures." + +That is the secret! What we must not do, in the time of war, is to +indicate to everyone else what their sacrifices ought to be; we +must just make our own sacrifices; and perhaps the man who loves +and values peace most highly does not sacrifice the least. But even +he may try to realise that life does not contradict itself; but +that the parts of it, whether they be delightful or dreadful, do +work into each other in a marvellous way. + + + + + + +I + +ESCAPE + + + + + +All the best stories in the world are but one story in reality--the +story of an escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and +at all times--how to escape. The stories of Joseph, of Odysseus, of +the prodigal son, of the Pilgrim's Progress, of the "Ugly +Duckling," of Sintram, to name only a few out of a great number, +they are all stories of escapes. It is the same with all love- +stories. "The course of true love never can run smooth," says the +old proverb, and love-stories are but tales of a man or a woman's +escape from the desert of lovelessness into the citadel of love. +Even tragedies like those of OEdipus and Hamlet have the same +thought in the background. In the tale of OEdipus, the old blind +king in his tattered robe, who had committed in ignorance such +nameless crimes, leaves his two daughters and the attendants +standing below the old pear-tree and the marble tomb by the sacred +fountain; he says the last faint words of love, till the voice of +the god comes thrilling upon the air: + +"OEdipus, why delayest thou?" + +Then he walks away at once in silence, leaning on the arm of +Theseus, and when at last the watchers dare to look, they see +Theseus afar off, alone, screening his eyes with his hand, as if +some sight too dreadful for mortal eyes had passed before him; but +OEdipus is gone, and not with lamentation, but in hope and wonder. +Even when Hamlet dies, and the peal of ordnance is shot off, it is +to congratulate him upon his escape from unbearable woe; and that +is the same in life. If our eye falls on the sad stories of men and +women who have died by their own hand, how seldom do they speak in +the scrawled messages they leave behind them as though they were +going to silence and nothingness! It is just the other way. The +unhappy fathers and mothers who, maddened by disaster, kill their +children are hoping to escape with those they love best out of +miseries they cannot bear; they mean to fly together, as Lot fled +with his daughters from the city of the plain. The man who slays +himself is not the man who hates life; he only hates the sorrow and +the shame which make unbearable that life which he loves only too +well. He is trying to migrate to other conditions; he desires to +live, but he cannot live so. It is the imagination of man that +makes him seek death; only the animal endures, but man hurries away +in the hope of finding something better. + +It is, however, strange to reflect how weak man's imagination is +when it comes to deal with what is beyond him, how little able he +is to devise anything that he desires to do when he has escaped +from life. The unsubstantial heaven of a Buddhist, with its +unthinkable Nirvana, is merely the depriving life of all its +attributes; the dull sensuality of the Mohammedan paradise, with +its ugly multiplication of gross delights; the tedious outcries of +the saints in light which make the medieval scheme of heaven into +one protracted canticle--these are all deeply unattractive, and +have no power at all over the vigorous spirit. Even the vision of +Socrates, the hope of unrestricted converse with great minds, is a +very unsatisfying thought, because it yields so little material to +work upon. + +The fact, of course, is that it is just the variety of experience +which makes life interesting,--toil and rest, pain and relief, hope +and satisfaction, danger and security,--and if we once remove the +idea of vicissitude from life, it all becomes an indolent and +uninspiring affair. It is the process of change which is +delightful, the finding out what we can do and what we cannot, +going from ignorance to knowledge, from clumsiness to skill; even +our relations with those whom we love are all bound up with the +discoveries we make about them and the degree in which we can help +them and affect them. What the mind instinctively dislikes is +stationariness; and an existence in which there was nothing to +escape from, nothing more to hope for, to learn, to desire, would +be frankly unendurable. + +The reason why we dread death is because it seems to be a +suspension of all our familiar activities. It would be terrible to +have nothing but memory to depend upon. The only use of memory is +that it distracts us a little from present conditions if they are +dull, and it is only too true that the recollection in sorrow of +happy things is torture of the worst kind. + +Once when Tennyson was suffering from a dangerous illness, his +friend Jowett wrote to Lady Tennyson to suggest that the poet might +find comfort in thinking of all the good he had done. But that is +not the kind of comfort that a sufferer desires; we may envy a good +man his retrospect of activity, but we cannot really suppose that +to meditate complacently upon what one has been enabled to do is +the final thought that a good man is likely to indulge. He is far +more likely to torment himself over all that he might have done. + +It is true, I think, that old and tired people pass into a quiet +serenity; but it is the serenity of the old dog who sleeps in the +sun, wags his tail if he is invited to bestir himself, but does not +leave his place; and if one reaches that condition, it is but a +dumb gratitude at the thought that nothing more is expected of the +worn-out frame and fatigued mind. But no one, I should imagine, +really hopes to step into immortality so tired and worn out that +the highest hope that he can frame is that he will be let alone for +ever. We must not trust the drowsiness of the outworn spirit to +frame the real hopes of humanity. If we believe that the next +experience ahead of us is like that of the mariners, + + + In the afternoon they came unto a land + In which it seemed always afternoon, + + +then we acquiesce in a dreamless sort of sleep as the best hope of +man. + +No, we must rather trust the desires of the spirit at its +healthiest and most vigorous, and these are all knit up with the +adventure of escape, as I have said. There is something hostile on +our track: the copse that closes in upon the road is thick with +spears; presences that do not wish us well move darkly in the wood +and keep pace with us, and the only explanation we can give is that +we need to be spurred on by fear if we are not drawn forward by +desire or hope. We have to keep moving, and if we will not run to +the goal, we must at least flee, with backward glances at something +which threatens us. + +There is an old and strange Eastern allegory of a man wandering in +the desert; he draws near to a grove of trees, when he suddenly +becomes aware that there is a lion on his track, hurrying and +bounding along on the scent of his steps. The man flees for safety +into the grove; he sees there a roughly built water-tank of stone, +excavated in the ground, and built up of masonry much fringed with +plants. He climbs swiftly down to where he sees a ledge close on +the water; as he does this, he sees that in the water lies a great +lizard, with open jaws, watching him with wicked eyes. He stops +short, and he can just support himself among the stones by holding +on to the branches of a plant which grows from a ledge above him. +While he thus holds on, with death behind him and before, he feels +the branches quivering, and sees above, out of reach, two mice, one +black and one white, which are nibbling at the stems he holds and +will soon sever them. He waits despairingly, and while he does so, +he sees that there are drops of honey on the leaves which he holds; +he puts his lips to them, licks them off, and finds them very +sweet. + +The mice stand, no doubt, for night and day, and the honey is the +sweetness of life, which it is possible to taste and relish even +when death is before and behind; and it is true that the utter +precariousness of life does not, as a matter of fact, distract us +from the pleasure of it, even though the strands to which we hold +are slowly parting. It is all, then, an adventure and an escape; +but even in the worst insecurity, we may often be surprised to find +that it is somehow sweet. + +It is not in the least a question of the apparent and outward +adventurousness of one's life. Foolish people sometimes write and +think as though one could not have had adventures unless one has +hung about at bar-room doors and in billiard-saloons, worked one's +passage before the mast in a sailing-ship, dug for gold among the +mountains, explored savage lands, shot strange animals, fared +hardly among deep-drinking and loud-swearing men. It is possible, +of course, to have adventures of this kind, and, indeed, I had a +near relative whose life was fuller of vicissitudes than any life I +have ever known: he was a sailor, a clerk, a policeman, a soldier, +a clergyman, a farmer, a verger. But the mere unsettledness of it +suited him: he was an easy comrade, brave, reckless, restless; he +did not mind roughness, and the one thing he could not do was to +settle down to anything regular and quiet. He did not dislike life +at all, even when he stood half-naked, as he once told me he did, +on a board slung from the side of a ship, and dipped up pails of +water to swab it, the water freezing as he flung it on the timbers. +But with all this variety of life he did not learn anything +particular from it all; he was much the same always, good-natured, +talkative, childishly absorbed, not looking backward or forward, +and fondest of telling stories with sailors in an inn. He learned +to be content in most companies and to fare roughly; but he gained +neither wisdom nor humour, and he was not either happy or +independent, though he despised with all his heart the stay-at- +home, stick-in-the-mud life. + +But we are not all made like this, and it is only possible for a +few people to live so by the fact that most people prefer to stay +at home and do the work of the world. My cousin was not a worker, +and, indeed, did no work except under compulsion and in order to +live; but such people seem to belong to an older order, and are +more like children playing about, and at leisure to play because +others work to feed and clothe them. The world would be a wretched +and miserable place if all tried to live life on those lines. + +It would be impossible to me to live so, though I dare say I should +be a better man if I had had a little more hardship of that kind; +but I have worked hard in my own way, and though I have had few +hairbreadth escapes, yet I have had sharp troubles and slow +anxieties. I have been like the man in the story, between the lion +and the lizard for many months together; and I have had more to +bear, by temperament and fortune, than my roving cousin ever had to +endure; so that because a life seems both sheltered and prosperous, +it need not therefore have been without its adventures and escapes +and its haunting fears. + +The more one examines into life and the motives of it, the more +does one perceive that the imagination, concerning itself with +hopes of escape from any conditions which hamper and confine us, is +the dynamic force that is transmuting the world. The child is for +ever planning what it will do when it is older, and dreams of an +irresponsible choice of food and an unrestrained use of money; the +girl schemes to escape from the constraints of home by independence +or marriage; the professional man plans to make a fortune and +retire; the mother dreams ambitious dreams for her children; the +politician craves for power; the writer hopes to gain the ear of +the world--these are only a few casual instances of the desire that +is always at work within us, projecting us into a larger and freer +future out of the limited and restricted present. That is the real +current of the world, and though there are sedate people who are +contented with life as they see it, yet in most minds there is a +fluttering of little tremulous hopes forecasting ease and freedom; +and there are also many tired and dispirited people who are not +content with life as they have it, but acquiesce in its dreariness; +yet all who have any part in the world's development are full of +schemes for themselves and others by which the clogging and +detaining elements are somehow to be improved away. Sensitive +people want to find life more harmonious and beautiful, healthy +people desire a more continuous sort of holiday than they can +attain, religious people long for a secret ecstasy of peace; there +is, in fact, a constant desire at work to realise perfection. + +And yet, despite it all, there is a vast preponderance of evidence +which shows us that the attainment of our little dreams is not a +thing to be desired, and that satisfied desire is the least +contented of moods. If we realise our programme, if we succeed, +marry the woman we love, make a fortune, win leisure, gain power, a +whole host of further desires instantly come in sight. I once +congratulated a statesman on a triumphant speech. + +"Yes," he said, "I do not deny that it is a pleasure to have had +for once the exact effect that one intended to have; but the shadow +of it is the fear that having once reached that standard, one may +not be able to keep it up." + +The awful penalty of success is the haunting dread of subsequent +failure, and even sadder still is the fact that in striving eagerly +to attain an end, we are apt to lose the sense of the purpose which +inspired us. This is more drearily true of the pursuit of money +than of anything else. I could name several friends of my own who +started in business with the perfectly definite and avowed +intention of making a competence in order that they might live as +they desired to live; that they might travel, read, write, enjoy a +secure leisure. But when they had done exactly what they meant to +do, the desires were all atrophied. They could not give up their +work; they felt it would be safer to have a larger margin, they +feared they might be bored, they had made friends, and did not wish +to sever the connection, they must provide a little more for their +families: the whole programme had insensibly altered. Even so they +were still planning to escape from something--from some boredom or +anxiety or dread. + +And yet it seems very difficult for any person to realise what is +the philosophical conclusion, namely, that the work of each of us +matters very little to the world, but that it matters very much to +ourselves that we should have some work to do. We seem to be a very +feeble-minded race in this respect, that we require to be +constantly bribed and tempted by illusions. I have known men of +force and vigour both in youth and middle life who had a strong +sense of the value and significance of their work; as age came upon +them, the value of their work gradually disappeared; they were +deferred to, consulted, outwardly reverenced, and perhaps all the +more scrupulously and compassionately in order that they might not +guess the lamentable fact that their work was done and that the +forces and influences were in younger hands. But the men themselves +never lost the sense of their importance. I knew an octogenarian +clergyman who declared once in my presence that it was ridiculous +to say that old men lost their faculty of dealing with affairs. + +"Why," he said, "it is only quite in the last few years that I feel +I have really mastered my work. It takes me far less time than it +used to do; it is just promptly and methodically executed." The old +man obviously did not know that his impression that his work +consumed less time was only too correct, because it was, as a +matter of fact, almost wholly performed by his colleagues, and +nothing was referred to him except purely formal business. + +It seems rather pitiful that we should not be able to face the +truth, and that we cannot be content with discerning the principle +of it all, which is that our work is given to us to do not for its +intrinsic value, but because it is good for us to do it. + +The secret government of the world seems, indeed, to be penetrated +by a good-natured irony; it is as if the Power controlling us saw +that, like children, we must be tenderly wooed into doing things +which we should otherwise neglect, by a sense of high importance, +as a kindly father who is doing accounts keeps his children quiet +by letting one hold the blotting-paper and another the ink, so that +they believe that they are helping when they are merely being kept +from hindering. + +And this strange sense of escape which drives us into activity and +energy seems given us not that we may realise our aims, which turn +out hollow and vapid enough when they are realised, but that we may +drink deep of experience for the sake of its beneficent effect upon +us. The failure of almost all Utopias and ideal states, designed +and planned by writers and artists, lies in the absence of all +power to suggest how the happy folk who have conquered all the ills +and difficulties of life are to employ themselves reasonably and +eagerly when there is nothing left to improve. William Morris, +indeed, in his News from Nowhere, confessed through the mouth of +one of his characters that there would be hardly enough pleasant +work, like hay-making and bridge-building and carpentering and +paving, left to go round; and the picture of life which he draws, +with its total lack of privacy, the shops where you may ask for +anything that you want without having to pay, the guest-houses, +with their straw-coloured wine in quaint carafes, the rich stews +served in grey earthenware dishes streaked with blue, the dancing, +the caressing, the singular absence of all elderly women, strikes +on the mind with a quite peculiar sense of boredom and vacuity, +because Morris seems to have eliminated so many sources of human +interest, and to have conformed every one to a type, which is +refreshing enough as a contrast, but very tiresome in the mass. It +will not be enough to have got rid of the combative and sordid and +vulgar elements of the world unless a very active spirit of some +kind has taken its place. Morris himself intended that art should +supply the missing force; but art is not a sociable thing; it is +apt to be a lonely affair, and few artists have either leisure or +inclination to admire one another's work. + +Still more dreary was the dream of the philosopher J. S. Mill, who +was asked upon one occasion what would be left for men to do when +they had been perfected on the lines which he desired. He replied, +after a long and painful hesitation, that they might find +satisfaction in reading the poems of Wordsworth. But Wordsworth's +poems are useful in the fact that they supply a refreshing contrast +to the normal thought of the world, and nothing but the fact that +many took a different view of life was potent enough to produce +them. + +So, for the present at all events, we must be content to feel that +our imagination provides us with a motive rather than with a goal; +and though it is very important that we should strive with all our +might to eliminate the baser elements of life, yet we must be brave +and wise enough to confess how much of our best happiness is born +of the fact that we have these elements to contend with. + +Edward FitzGerald once said that a fault of modern writing was that +it tried to compress too many good things into a page, and aimed +too much at omitting the homelier interspaces. We must not try to +make our lives into a perpetual feast; at least we must try to do +so, but it must be by conquest rather than by inglorious flight; we +must face the fact that the stuff of life is both homely and indeed +amiss, and realise, if we can, that our happiness is bound up with +energetically trying to escape from conditions which we cannot +avoid. When we are young and fiery-hearted, we think that a tame +counsel; but, like all great truths, it dawns on us slowly. Not +until we begin to ascend the hill do we grasp how huge, how +complicated, how intricate the plain, with all its fields, woods, +hamlets, and streams is; we are happy men and women if in middle +age we even faintly grasp that the actual truth about life is +vastly larger and finer than any impatient youthful fancies about +it are, though it is good to have indulged our splendid fancies in +youth, if only for the delight of learning how much more +magnificent is the real design. + +In the Pilgrim's Progress, at the very outset of the journey, +Evangelist asks Christian why he is standing still. He replies: + +"Because I know not whither to go." + +Evangelist, with a certain grimness of humour, thereupon hands him +a parchment roll. One supposes that it will be a map or a paper of +directions, but all that it has written in it is, "Fly from the +wrath to come!" + +Well, it is no longer that of which we are afraid, a rain of fire +and brimstone, storm and tempest! The Power behind the world has +better gifts than these; but we still have to fly, where we can and +as fast as we can; and when we have traversed the dim leagues, and +have seen things wonderful at every turn, and have passed through +the bitter flood, we shall find--at least this is my hope--no +guarded city of God from which we shall go no more out, but another +road passing into wider fields and dimmer uplands, and to things +more and more wonderful and strange and unknown. + + + + + + +II + +LITERATURE AND LIFE + + + + + +There is a tendency, not by any means among the greater writers, +but among what may be called the epigoni,--the satellites of +literature, the men who would be great if they knew how,--to speak +of the business of writing as if it were a sacred mystery, +pontifically celebrated, something remote and secret, which must be +guarded from the vulgar and the profane, and which requires an +initiation to comprehend. I always feel rather suspicious of this +attitude; it seems to me something of a pose, adopted in order to +make other people envious and respectful. It is the same sort of +precaution as the "properties" of the wizard, his gown and wand, +the stuffed crocodile and the skeleton in the corner; for if there +is a great fuss made about locking and double-locking a box, it +creates a presumption of doubt as to whether there is anything +particular in it. In my nursery days one of my brothers was fond of +locking up his private treasures in a box, producing it in public, +unfastening it, glancing into it with a smile, and then softly +closing it and turning the key in a way calculated to provoke the +most intense curiosity as to the contents; but upon investigation +it proved to contain nothing but the wool of sheep, dried beans, +and cases of exploded cartridges. + +So, too, I have known both writers and artists who made a mystery +out of their craft, professed a holy rapture, as if the business of +imagination and the art of setting things down were processes that +could not be explained to ordinary people, but were the property of +a brotherhood. And thus grow up cliques and coteries, of people +who, by mutual admiration, try to console one another for the +absence of the applause which the world will not concede them, and +to atone for the coldness of the public by a warmth of intimate +proximity. + +This does not in the least apply to groups of people who are +genuinely and keenly interested in art of any kind, and form a +congenial circle in which they discuss, frankly and +enthusiastically, methods of work, the books, ideas, pictures, and +music which interest them. That is quite a different thing, a real +fortress of enthusiasm in the midst of Meshech and Kedar. What +makes it base and morbid is the desire to exclude for the sake of +exclusion; to indulge in solitary raptures, hoping to be overheard; +to keep the tail of the eye upon the public; to attempt to mystify; +and to trade upon the inquisitive instinct of human beings, the +natural desire, that is, to know what is going on within any group +that seems to have exciting business of its own. + +The Pre-Raphaelites, for instance, were a group and not a coterie. +They were engaged in working and enjoying, in looking out for +artistic promise, in welcoming and praising any performance of a +kind that Rossetti recognised as "stunning." They were sure of +their ground. The brotherhood, with its magazine, The Germ, and its +mystic initials, was all a gigantic game; and they held together +because they were revolutionary in this, that they wished to slay, +as one stabs a tyrant, the vulgarised and sentimental art of the +day. They did not effect anything like a revolution, of course. It +was but a ripple on the flowing stream, and they diverged soon +enough, most of them, into definite tracks of their own. The +strength of the movement lay in the fact that they hungered and +thirsted after art, clamouring for beauty, so Mr. Chesterton says, +as an ordinary man clamours for beer. But their aim was not to +mystify or to enlarge their own consequence, but to convert the +unbeliever, and to produce fine things. + +There is something in the Anglo-Saxon temperament which is on the +whole unfavourable to movements and groups; the great figures of +the Victorian time in art and literature have been solitary men, +anarchical as regards tradition, strongly individualistic, working +on their own lines without much regard for schools or conventions. +The Anglo-Saxon is deferential, but not imitative; he has a fancy +for doing things in his own way. Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Byron-- +were there ever four contemporary poets so little affected by one +another's work? Think of the phrase in which Scott summed up his +artistic creed, saying that he had succeeded, in so far as he had +succeeded, by a "hurried frankness of composition," which was meant +to please young and eager people. It is true that Wordsworth had a +solemn majesty about his work, practised a sort of priestly +function, never averse to entertaining ardent visitors by +conducting them about his grounds, and showing them where certain +poems had been engendered. But Wordsworth, as Fitz-Gerald truly +said, was proud, not vain--proud like the high-hung cloud or the +solitary peak. He felt his responsibility, and desired to be felt +rather than to be applauded. + +If one takes the later giants, Tennyson had a sense of magnificence, +a childlike self-absorption. He said once in the same breath that +the desire of the public to know the details of the artist's life +was the most degrading and debasing curiosity,--it was ripping +people up like pigs,--and added with a sigh that he thought that +there was a congestion in the world about his own fame; he had +received no complimentary letters for several days. + +Browning, on the other hand, kept his raptures and his processes +severely to himself. He never seems to have given the smallest hint +as to how he conceived a poem or worked it out. He was as reticent +about his occupation as a well-bred stockbroker, and did his best +in society to give the impression of a perfectly decorous and +conventional gentleman, telling strings of not very interesting +anecdotes, and making a great point of being ordinary. Indeed, I +believe that Browning was haunted by the eighteenth-century idea +that there was something not quite respectable about professional +literature, and that, like Gray, he wished to be considered a +private gentleman who wrote for his amusement. When in later years +he took a holiday, he went not for secret contemplation, but to +recover from social fatigue. Browning is really one of the most +mysterious figures in literature in this respect, because his inner +life of poetry was so entirely apart from his outer life of dinner- +parties and afternoon calls. Inside the sacred enclosure, the winds +of heaven blow, the thunder rolls; he proclaims the supreme worth +of human passion, he dives into the disgraceful secrets of the +soul: and then he comes out of his study a courteous and very +proper gentleman, looking like a retired diplomatist, and talking +like an intelligent commercial traveller--a man whose one wish +appeared to be as good-humouredly like everyone else as he +conveniently could. + +What, again, is one to make of Dickens, with his love of private +theatricals, his florid waistcoats and watch-chains, his +sentimental radicalism, his kindly, convivial, gregarious life? He, +again, did his work in a rapture of solitary creation, and seemed +to have no taste for discussing his ideas or methods. Then, too, +Dickens's later desertion of his work in favour of public readings +and money-making is curious to note. He was like Shakespeare in +this, that the passion of his later life seemed to be to realise an +ideal of bourgeois prosperity. Dickens seems to have regarded his +art partly as a means of social reform, and partly as a method of +making money. The latter aim is to a great extent accounted for by +the miserable and humiliating circumstances of his early life, +which bit very deep into him. Yet his art was hardly an end in +itself, but something through which he made his way to other aims. + +Carlyle, again, was a writer who put ideas first, despised his +craft except as a means of prophesying, hated literary men and +coteries, preferred aristocratic society, while at the same time he +loved to say how unutterably tiresome he found it. Who will ever +understand why Carlyle trudged many miles to attend parties and +receptions at Bath House, where the Ashburtons lived, or what +stimulus he discerned in it? I have a belief that Carlyle felt a +quite unconscious pride in the fact that he, the son of a small +Scotch farmer, had his assured and respected place among a semi- +feudal circle, just as I have very little doubt that his migration +to Craigenputtock was ultimately suggested to him by the pleasure +and dignity of being an undoubted laird, and living among his own, +or at least his wife's, lands. In saying this, I do not wish to +belittle Carlyle, or to accuse him of what may be called +snobbishness. He had no wish to worm himself by slavish deference +into the society of the great, but he liked to be able to walk in +and say his say there, fearing no man; it was like a huge mirror +that reflected his own independence. Yet no one ever said harder or +fiercer things of his own fellow-craftsmen. His description of +Charles Lamb as "a pitiful rickety, gasping, staggering, stammering +tom-fool" is not an amiable one! Or take his account of Wordsworth- +-how instead of a hand-shake, the poet intrusted him with "a +handful of numb unresponsive fingers," and how his speech "for +prolixity, thinness, endless dilution" excelled all the other +speech that Carlyle had ever heard from mortals. He admitted that +Wordsworth was "a genuine man, but intrinsically and extrinsically +a small one, let them sing or say what they will." In fact, Carlyle +despised his trade: one of the most vivid and voluble of writers, +he derided the desire of self-expression; one of the most +continuous and brilliant of talkers, he praised and upheld the +virtue of silence. He spoke and wrote of himself as a would-be man +of action condemned to twaddle; and Ruskin expressed very +trenchantly what will always be the puzzle of Carlyle's life--that, +as Ruskin said, he groaned and gasped and lamented over the +intolerable burden of his work, and that yet, when you came to read +it, you found it all alive, full of salient and vivid details, not +so much patiently collected, as obviously and patently enjoyed. +Again there is the mystery of his lectures. They seem to have been +fiery, eloquent, impressive harangues; and yet Carlyle describes +himself stumbling to the platform, sleepless, agitated, and +drugged, inclined to say that the best thing his audience could do +for him would be to cover him up with an inverted tub; while as he +left the platform among signs of visible emotion and torrents of +applause, he thought, he said, that the idea of being paid for such +stuff made him feel like a man who had been robbing hen-roosts. + +There is an interesting story of how Tennyson once stayed with +Bradley, when Bradley was headmaster of Marlborough, and said +grimly one evening that he envied Bradley, with all his heart, his +life of hard, fruitful, necessary work, and owned that he sometimes +felt about his own poetry, what, after all, did all this elaborate +versifying amount to, and who was in any way the better or happier +for it? + +The truth is that the man of letters forgets that this is exactly +the same thought as that which haunts the busy man after, let us +say, a day of looking over examination-papers or attending +committees. The busy man, if he reflects at all, is only too apt to +say to himself, "Here have I been slaving away like a stone- +breaker, reading endless scripts, discussing an infinity of petty +details, and what on earth is the use of it all?" Yet Sir Alfred +Lyall once said that if a man had once taken a hand in big public +affairs, he thought of literature much as a man who had crossed the +Atlantic in a sailing-yacht might think of sculling a boat upon the +Thames. One of the things that moved Dr. Johnson to a tempest of +wrath was when on the death of Lord Lichfield, the Lord Chancellor, +Boswell said to him that if he had taken to the law as a +profession, he might have been Lord Chancellor, and with the same +title. Johnson was extremely angry, and said that it was unfriendly +to remind a man of such things when it was too late. + +One may conclude from such incidents and confessions that even some +of the most eminent men of letters have been haunted by the sense +that in following literature they have not chosen the best part, +and that success in public life is a more useful thing as well as +more glorious. + +But one has to ask oneself what exactly an imaginative man means by +success, and what it is that attracts him in the idea of it. +Putting aside the more obvious and material advantages,--wealth, +position, influence, reputation,--a man of far-reaching mind and +large ideas may well be haunted by a feeling that if he had entered +public life, he might by example, precept, influence, legislation, +have done something to turn his ideas and schemes into accomplished +facts, have effected some moral or social reform, have set a mark +on history. It must be remembered that a great writer's fame is +often a posthumous growth, and we must be very careful not to +attribute to a famous author a consciousness in his lifetime of his +subsequent, or even of his contemporary, influence. It is +undoubtedly true that Ruskin and Carlyle affected the thought of +their time to an extraordinary degree. Ruskin summed up in his +teaching an artistic ideal of the pursuit and influence of beauty, +while Carlyle inculcated a more combative theory of active +righteousness and the hatred of cant. But Ruskin's later years were +spent in the shadow of a profound sense of failure. He thought that +the public enjoyed his pretty phrases and derided his ideas; while +Carlyle felt that he had fulminated in vain, and that the world was +settling down more comfortably than ever into the pursuit of +bourgeois prosperity and dishonest respectability. + +And yet if, on the other hand, one compares the subsequent fame of +men of action with the fame of men of letters, the contrast is +indeed bewildering. Who attaches the smallest idea to the +personality of the Lord Lichfield whom Dr. Johnson envied? Who that +adores the memory of Wordsworth knows anything about Lord Goderich, +a contemporary prime minister? The world reads and re-reads the +memoirs of dead poets, goes on pilgrimage to the tiny cottages +where they lived in poverty, cherishes the smallest records and +souvenirs of them. The names of statesmen and generals become dim +except to professed historians, while the memories of great +romancers and lyrists, and even of lesser writers still, go on +being revived and redecorated. What would Keats have thought, as he +lay dying in his high, hot, noisy room at Rome, if he had known +that a century later every smallest detail of his life, his most +careless letters, would be scanned by eager eyes, when few save +historians would be able to name a single member of the cabinet in +power at the time of his death? + +There is a charming story told by Lord Morley, of how he once met +Rossetti in the street at Chelsea when a general parliamentary +election was going on, and it transpired, after a few remarks, that +Rossetti was not even aware that this was the case. When he was +informed, he said with some hesitation that he supposed that one +side or other would get in, and that, after all, it did not very +much matter. Lord Morley, telling the anecdote, said that he +himself had forgotten which side DID get in, from which he +concluded that it had not very much mattered. + +The truth is that national life has to go on, and that very +elaborate arrangements are made by statesmen and politicians for +its administration. But it is in reality very unimportant. The +wisest statesman in the world cannot affect it very much; he can +only take advantage of the trend of public opinion. If he outruns +it, he is instantly stranded; and perhaps the most he can do is to +foresee how people will be thinking some six weeks ahead. But +meanwhile the writer is speaking from the soul and to the soul; he +is suggesting, inspiring, stimulating; he is presenting thoughts in +so beautiful a form that they become desirable and adorable; and +what the average man believes to-day is what the idealist has +believed half a century before. He must take his chance of fame; +and his best hope is to eschew rhetoric, which implies the +consciousness of opponents and auditors, and just present his +dreams and visions as serenely and beautifully as he can. The +statesman has to argue, to strive, to compromise, to convert if he +can, to coerce if he cannot. It is a dusty encounter, and he must +sacrifice grace and perhaps truth in the onset. He may gain his +point, achieve the practicable and the second best; but he is an +opportunist and a schemer, and he cannot make life into what he +wills, but only into what he can manage. Of course the writer in a +way risks more; he may reject the homely, useful task, and yet not +have the strength to fit wings to his visions; he may live +fruitlessly and die unpraised, with the thought that he has lost +two birds in the hand for one which is not even in the bush. He may +turn out a mere Don Quixote, helmeted with a barber's basin and +tilting against windmills; but he could not choose otherwise, and +he has paid a heavier price for his failure than many a man has +paid for his success. + +It is probably a wholly false antithesis to speak of life as a +contrast to literature; one might as well draw a distinction +between eating and drinking. What is meant as a rule is that if a +man devotes himself to imaginative creation, to the perception and +expression of beauty, he must be prepared to withdraw from other +activities. But the imagination is a function of life, after all, +and precisely the same holds good of stockbroking. The real fact is +that we Anglo-Saxons, by instinct and inheritance, think of the +acquisition of property as the most obvious function of life. As +long as a man is occupied in acquiring property, we ask no further +questions; we take for granted that he is virtuously employed, as +long as he breaks no social rules: while if he succeeds in getting +into his hands an unusual share of the divisible goods of the +world, we think highly of him. Indeed, our ideals have altered very +little since barbarous times, and we still are under the impression +that resourcefulness is the mark of the hero. I imagine that +leisure as an occupation is much more distrusted and disapproved of +in America than in England; but even in England, where the power to +be idle is admired and envied, a man who lives as heroic a life as +can be attained by playing golf and shooting pheasants is more +trusted and respected than a rich man who paints or composes music +for his amusement. Field sports are intelligible enough; the +pursuit of art requires some explanation, and incurs a suspicion of +effeminacy or eccentricity. Only when authorship becomes a source +of profit is it thoroughly respectable. + +I had a friend who died not very long ago. He had in his younger +days done a little administrative work; but he was wealthy, and at +a comparatively early age he abandoned himself to leisure. He +travelled, he read, he went much into society, he enjoyed the +company of his friends. When he died he was spoken of as an +amateur, and praised as a cricketer of some merit. Even his closest +friends seemed to find it necessary to explain and make excuses; he +was shy, he stammered, he was not suited to parliamentary life; but +I can think of few people who did so much for his friends or who so +radiated the simplest sort of happiness. To be welcomed by him, to +be with him, put a little glow on life, because you felt +instinctively that he was actively enjoying every hour of your +company. I thought, I remember, at his death, how hopeless it was +to assess a man's virtue and usefulness in the terms of his career. +If he had entered Parliament, registered a silent vote, spent his +time in social functions, letter-writing, lobby-gossip, he would +have been acclaimed as a man of weight and influence; but as it +was, though he had stood by friends in trouble, had helped lame +dogs over stiles, had been the centre of good-will and mutual +understanding to a dozen groups and circles, it seemed impossible +to recognise that he had done anything in his generation. It is not +to be claimed that his was a life of persistent benevolence or +devoted energy; but I thought of a dozen men who had lived +selfishly and comfortably, making money and amassing fortunes, +without a touch of real kindness or fine tenderness about them, who +would yet be held to have done well and to have deserved respect, +when compared with this peace-maker! + +And then I perceived how intolerably false many of our cherished +ideals are; that apart from lives of pure selfishness and +annexation, many a professed philanthropist or active statesman is +merely following a sterile sort of ambition; that it is rare on the +whole for so-called public men to live for the sake of the public; +while the simple, kindly, uncalculating, friendly attitude to life +is a real source of grace and beauty, and leaves behind it a +fragrant memory enshrined in a hundred hearts. + +So, too, when it comes to what we call literature. No one supposes +that we can do without it, and in its essence it is but an +extension of happy, fine, vivid talk. It is but the delighted +perception of life, the ecstasy of taking a hand in the great +mystery, the joy of love and companionship, the worship of beauty +and desire and energy and memory taking shape in the most effective +form that man can devise. There is no real merit in the +accumulation of property; only the people who do the necessary work +of the world, and the people who increase the joy of the world are +worth a moment's thought, and yet both alike are little regarded. + +Of course where the weakness of the artistic life really lies is +that it is often not taken up out of mere communicativeness and +happy excitement, as a child tells a breathless tale, but as a +device for attracting the notice and earning the applause of the +world; and then it is on a par with all other self-regarding +activities. But if it is taken up with a desire to give rather than +to receive, as an irrepressible sharing of delight, it becomes not +a solemn and dignified affair, but just one of the most beautiful +and uncalculating impulses in the world. + +Then there falls another shadow across the path; the unhappiest +natures I know are the natures of keen emotion and swift perception +who yet have not the gift of expressing what they feel in any +artistic medium. It is these, alas! who cumber the streets and +porticoes of literature. They are attracted away from homely toil +by the perilous sweetness of art, and when they attempt to express +their raptures, they have no faculty or knack of hand. And these +men and women fall with zealous dreariness or acrid contemptuousness, +and radiate discomfort and uneasiness about them. + +"A book," said Dr. Johnson, "should show one either how to enjoy +life or how to endure it"--was ever the function of literature +expressed more pungently or justly? Any man who enjoys or endures +has a right to speak, if he can. If he can help others to enjoy or +to endure, then he need never be in any doubt as to his part in +life; while if he cannot ecstatically enjoy, he can at least good- +humouredly endure. + + + + + + +III + +THE NEW POETS + + + + + +There's a dark window in a gable which looks out over my narrow +slip of garden, where the almond-trees grow, and to-day the dark +window, with its black casement lines, had become suddenly a +Japanese panel. The almond was in bloom, with its delicious, pink, +geometrical flowers, not a flower which wins one's love, somehow; +it is not homely or sweet enough for that. But it is unapproachably +pure and beautiful, with a touch of fanaticism about it--the +fanaticism which comes of stainless strength, as though one woke in +the dawn and found an angel in one's room: he would not quite +understand one's troubles! + +But when I looked lower down, there was a sweeter message still, +for the mezereon was awake, with its tiny porcelain crimson flowers +and its minute leaves of bright green, budding as I think Aaron's +rod must have budded, the very crust of the sprig bursting into +little flames of green and red. + +I thought at the sight of all this that some good fortune was about +to befall me; and so it did. When I came back there came a friend +to see me whom I seldom see and much enjoy seeing. He is young, but +he plays a fine part in the world, and he carries about with him +two very fine qualities; one is a great and generous curiosity +about what our writers are doing. He is the first man from whom I +hear of new and beautiful work; and he praises it royally, he +murmurs phrases, he even declaims it in his high, thin voice, which +wavers like a dry flame. And what makes all this so refreshing is +that his other great quality is an intensely critical spirit, which +stares closely and intently at work, as through a crystalline lens. + +After we had talked a little, I said to him: "Come, praise me some +new writers, you herald of the dawn! You always do that when you +come to see me, and you must do it now." He smiled secretly, and +drew out a slim volume from his pocket and read me some verses; I +will not be drawn into saying the name of the poet. + +"How do you find that?" he said. + +"Oh," I said, "it is very good; but is it the finest gold?" + +"Yes," he said, "it is that." And he then read me some more. + +"Now," I said, "I will be frank with you. That seems to me very +musical and accomplished; but it has what is to me the one +unpardonable fault in poetry: it is literary. He has heard and +read, that poet, so much sweet and solemn verse, that his mind +murmurs like a harp hung among the trees that are therein; the +winds blow into music. But I don't want that; I want a fount of +song, a spring of living water." He looked a little vexed at that, +and read me a few more pages. And then he went on to praise the +work of two or three other writers, and added that he believed +there was going to be a great outburst of poetry after a long +frost. + +"Well," I said, "I am sure I hope so. And if there is one thing in +the world that I desire, it is that I may be able to recognise and +love the new voices." + +And then I told him a story of which I often think. When I was a +young man, very much pre-occupied with Tennyson and Omar Khayyam +and Swinburne, I went to stay with an elderly business man, a +friend of my family. He was a great stout, rubicund man, very good- +natured, and he had a voice like the cry of an expiring mouse, +shrill and thin. We were sitting after dinner in his big dining- +room, several of us, looking out into a wide, dusty garden, when +the talk turned on books, and I suppose I praised Swinburne, for he +asked me to say some, and I quoted the poem which says + + + And even the weariest river + Winds somewhere safe to sea. + + +He heard me attentively enough, and said it was pretty good; but +then he said that it was nothing to Byron, and in his squeaky voice +he quoted a quantity of Byron, whose poetry, I am sorry to say, I +regarded as I might regard withered flowers or worse. His eyes +brimmed with tears, and they fell on to his shirt-front; and then +he said decisively that there had been no poetry since Byron--none +at all. Tennyson was mere word music, Browning was unintelligible, +and so forth. And I remember how, with the insolence of youth, I +thought how dreadful it was that the old man should have lost all +sympathy and judgment; because poetry then seemed to me a really +important matter, full of tones and values. I did not understand +then, as I understand now, that it is all a question of signals and +symbols, and that poetry is but, as the psalm says, what happens +when one day telleth another and one night certifieth another. I +know now that there can be no deceit about poetry, and that no poet +can make you feel more than he feels himself, though he cannot +always make another feel as much; and that the worth of his art +exists only just in so far as he can say what he feels; and then I +thought of my old friend's mind as I might think of a scarecrow +among lonely fields, a thing absurd, ragged, and left alone, while +real men went about their business. I did not say it, but I thought +it in my folly. So I told my young friend that story; and I said: + +"I know that it does not really matter what one loves and is moved +by as long as one loves something and is moved by its beauty. But, +still, I do not want that to happen to me; I do not want to be like +a pebble on the beach, when the water draws past it to the land. I +want to feel and understand the new signals. In the nursery," I +said, "we used to anger our governess when she read us a piece of +poetry, by saying to her, 'Who made it up?' 'You should say, "Who +wrote it?"' she would say. But I feel now inclined to ask, 'Who +made it up?' and I feel, too, like the sign-painter on his rounds, +who saw a new sign hung up at an inn, and said in disgust, 'That +looks as if some one had been doing it himself.' Your poet seems to +me only a very gifted and accomplished amateur." + +"Well," he said rather petulantly, "it may be so, of course; but I +don't think that you can hope to advance, if you begin by being +determined to disapprove." + +"No, not that," I said. "But one knows of many cases of inferior +poets, who were taken up and trumpeted abroad by well-meaning +admirers, whom one sees now to have had no significance, but to be +so many blind alleys in the street of art; they led nowhere; one +had just to retrace one's steps, if one explored them. Indeed," I +said, "I had rather miss a great poet than be misled by a little +one." + +"Ah, no," he said, "I don't feel that. I had rather be thrilled and +carried away, even if I discovered afterwards that it was not +really great." + +"If you will freely admit that this may not be great," I said, "I +am on your side. I do not mind your saying, 'This touches me with +interest and delight; but it is not to be reckoned among the lords +of the garden.' What I object to is your saying, 'This is great and +eternal.' I feel that I should be able to respond to the great +poet, if he flashed out among us; but he must be great, and +especially in a time when there really is a quantity of very +beautiful verse. I suspect that perhaps this time is one that will +furnish a very beautiful anthology. There are many people alive who +have written perhaps half a dozen exquisite lyrics, when the spring +and the soaring thought and the vision and the beautiful word all +suddenly conspired together. But there is no great, wide, large, +tender heart at work. No, I won't even say that; but is there any +great spirit who has all that and a supreme word-power as well? I +believe that there is more poetry, more love of beauty, more +emotion in the world than ever; and a great many men and women are +living their poetry who just can't write it or sing it." + +"A perverse generation seeking after a sign," he said rather +grimly, "and there is no sign forthcoming except the old sign, that +has been there for centuries! I don't care," he added, "about the +sign of the thing. It is the quality that I want; and these new +poets of whom I have been speaking have got the quality. That is +all I ask for." + +"No," I said, "I want a great deal more than that! Browning gave us +the sense of the human heart, bewildered by all the new knowledge, +and yet passionately desiring. Tennyson--" + +"Poor old Tennyson!" he said. + +"That is very ungracious," I said. "You are as perverse as I was +about Byron when the old banker quoted him with tears. I was going +to say, and I will say it, that Tennyson, with all his faults, was +a great lord of music; and he put into words the fine, homely +domestic emotion of the race--the poetry of labour, order, and +peace. It was new and rich and splendid, and because it seems to +you old-fashioned, you call it mere respectability; but it was the +marching music of the world, because he showed men that faith was +enlarged and not overturned by science. These two were great, +because they saw far and wide; they knew by instinct just what the +ordinary man was thinking, who yet wished his life to be set to +music. These little men of yours don't see that. They have their +moments of ecstasy, as we all have, in the blossoming orchard full +of the songs of birds. And that will always and for ever give us +the lyric, if the skill is there. But I want something more than +that; I, you, thousands of people, are feeling something that makes +the brain thrill and the heart leap. The mischief is that we don't +know what it is, and I want a great poet to come and tell us." + +"Ah," he said, "I am afraid you want something ethical, something +that satisfies the man in Tennyson who + + + Walked between his wife and child + And now and then he gravely smiled. + + +But we have done with all that. What we want is people who can +express the fine, rare, unusual thoughts of highly organised +creatures, and you want a poet to sing of bread and butter!" + +"Why, yes," I said, "I think I agree with Fitz-Gerald that tea and +bread and butter are the only foods worth anything--the only things +one cannot do without. And it is just the things that one cannot do +without that I want the new great poet to sing of. I agree with +William Morris that art is the one thing we all want, the +expression of man's joy in his work. And the more that art retires +into fine nuances and intellectual subtleties, the more that it +becomes something esoteric and mysterious, the less I care about +it. When Tennyson said to the farmer's wife, 'What's the news?' she +replied, 'Mr. Tennyson, there's only one piece of news worth +telling, and that is that Christ died for all men.' Tennyson said +very grandly and simply, 'Ah, that's old news and good news and NEW +news!' And that is exactly what I want the poets to tell us. It is +a common inheritance, not a refined monopoly, that I claim." + +He laughed at this, and said: + +"I think that's rather a mid-Victorian view; I will confute you out +of the Tennyson legend. When Tennyson called Swinburne's verse +'poisonous honey, brought from France,' Swinburne retorted by +speaking of the laureate's domestic treacle. You can't have both. +If you like treacle, you must not clamour for honey." + +"Yes, I prefer honey," I said, "but you seem to me to be in search +of what I called LITERARY poetry. That is what I am afraid of. I +don't want the work of a mind fed on words, and valuing ideas the +more that they are uncommon. I hate what is called 'strong' poetry; +that seems to me to be generally the coarsest kind of romanticism-- +melodrama in fact. I want to have in poetry what we are getting in +fiction--the best sort of realism. Realism is now abjuring the +heroic theory; it has thrown over the old conventions, the +felicitous coincidences, life arranged on ideal lines; and it has +gone straight to life itself, strong, full-blooded, eager life, +full of mistakes and blunders and failures and sharp disasters and +fears. Life goes shambling along like a big dog, but it has got its +nose on the scent of something. It is a much more mysterious and +prodigious affair than life rearranged upon romantic lines. It +means something very vast indeed, though it splashes through mud +and scrambles through hedges. You may laugh at what you call +ethics, but that is only a name for one of many kinds of +collisions. It is the fact that we are always colliding with +something, always coming unpleasant croppers, that is the exciting +thing. I want the poet to tell me what the obscure winged thing is +that we are following; and if he can't explain it to me, I want to +be made to feel that it is worth while following. I don't say that +all life is poetical material. I don't think that it is; but there +is a thing called beauty which seems to me the most maddeningly +perfect thing in the world. I see it everywhere, in the dawn, in +the far-off landscape, with all its rolling lines of wood and +field, in the faces and gestures of people, in their words and +deeds. That is a clue, a golden thread, a line of scent, and I +shall be more than content if I am encouraged to follow that." + +"Ah," he said, "now I partly agree with you. It is precisely that +which the new men are after; they take the pure gold of life and +just coin it into word and phrase, and it is that which I discern +in them." + +"Yes," I said, "but I want something a great deal bigger than that. +I want to see it everywhere and in everything. I don't want to have +to wall in a little space and make it silent and beautiful, and +forget what is happening outside. I want a poet to tell me what it +is that leaps in the eyes and beckons in the smiles of people whom +I meet--people whom often enough I could not live with,--the more's +the pity,--but whom I want to be friends with, all the same. I want +the common joys and hopes and visions to be put into music. And +when I find a man, like Walt Whitman, who does show me the beauty +and wonder and the strong affections and joys of simple hearts, so +that I feel sure that we are all desiring the same thing, though we +cannot tell each other what it is, then I feel I am in the presence +of a poet indeed." + +My young friend shut up the little book which he had been holding +in his hand. + +"Yes," he said, "that would be a great thing; but one can't get at +things in that way now. We must all specialise; and if you want to +follow the new aims and ideals of art, you must put aside a great +deal of what is called our common humanity, and you must be content +to follow a very narrow path among the stars. I do not mind +speaking quite frankly. I do not think you understand what art is. +It is essentially a mystery, and the artist is a sort of hermit in +the world. It is not a case of 'joys in widest commonalty spread,' +as Daddy Wordsworth said. That is quite a different affair; but art +has got to withdraw itself, to be content to be misunderstood; and +I think that you have just as much parted company with it as your +old friend the banker." + +"Well," I said, "we shall see. Anyhow, I will give your new poets a +careful reading, and I shall be glad if I can really admire them, +because, indeed, I don't want to be stranded on a lee shore." + +And so my friend departed; and I began to wonder whether the art of +which he spoke was not, after all, as real a thing as the beauty of +my almond-flower and my mezereons! If so, I should like to be able +to include it and understand it, though I do not want to think that +it is the end. + + + + + + +IV + +WALT WHITMAN + + + + + +1 + + +There come days and hours in the lives of the busiest, most active, +most eager of us, when we suddenly realise with a shock or a +shudder, it may be, or perhaps with a sense of solemn mystery, that +has something vast, inspiring, hopeful about it, the solidity and +the isolation of our own identity. Much of our civilised life is an +attempt, not deliberate but instinctive, to escape from this. We +organise ourselves into nations and parties, into sects and +societies, into families and companies, that we may try to persuade +ourselves that we are not alone; and we get nearest to persuading +ourselves that we are at one, when we enter into the secrets of +love or friendship, and feel that we know as we are known. But even +that vision fades, and we become aware, at sad moments, that the +comradeship is over; the soul that came so close to us, smiled in +our eyes, was clasped to our heart, has left us, has passed into +the darkness, or if it still lives and breathes, has drawn away +into the crowd. And then one sees that no fusion is possible, that +half the secrets of the heart must remain unguessed and untold. +That even if one had the words to do it, one could not express the +sense of our personality, much of which escapes even our own +conscious and critical thought. One has, let us say, a serious +quarrel with a close friend, and one hears him explaining and +protesting, and yet he does not know what has happened, cannot +understand, cannot even perceive where the offence lay; and at such +a moment it may dawn on us that we too do not know what we have +done; we have exhibited some ugly part of ourselves, of which we +are not conscious; we have stricken and wounded another heart, and +we cannot see how it was done. We did not intend to do it, we cry. +Or again we realise that we regard some one with a causeless +aversion, and cannot give any reason for it; or we see that we +ourselves have the same freezing and disconcerting effect upon +another; and so after hundreds of such experiences, we become aware +at last that no real, free, entire communication is possible; that +however eagerly we tell our thoughts and display our temperaments, +there must always remain something which is wrapped in darkness, +the incommunicable essence of ourself that can blend with no other +soul. + +But again it is true that all human souls who have an instinct for +expression--writers, painters, musicians--have always been trying +to do this one thing, to make signals, to communicate, to reveal +themselves, to "unpack the heart in words"; and what has often +hindered the process and nullified their efforts has been an uneasy +dignity and vanity, that must try to make out a better case than +the facts justify. For a variety of motives, and indeed for the +best of motives, men and women suppress, exalt, refine the +presentment of themselves, because they desire to be loved, and +think that they must therefore be careful to be admired, just as +the lover adorns himself and puts his best foot forward, and hides +all that may disconcert interest or sympathy. So that it happens in +life that often when we most desire to be real, we are most unreal. + +What differentiates Walt Whitman from all other writers that I +know, is that he tried to reveal himself, and on the whole +contrived to do so with less reserve than any other human being. + +"I know perfectly well my own egotism," he wrote; "I know my +omnivorous lines, and must not write any less." He was not +disconcerted by any failure of art, or any propriety, or any +apparent discrepancy. + + + Do I contradict myself? + Very well then, I contradict myself. + I am large, I contain multitudes. + + +He had no artistic conscience, as we say. + + + Easily written, loose-finger'd chords--I feel the thrum of your + climax and close. + + +In the curious and interesting essay called "A Backward Glance +over Travel's Roads," which he wrote late in life, surveying his +work, he admits that he has not gained acceptance, that his book is +a failure, and has incurred marked anger and contempt; and he good- +humouredly quotes a sentence from a friend's letter, written in +1884, "I find a solid line of enemies to you everywhere." And yet, +he says, for all that, and in spite of everything, he has had "his +say entirely his own way, and put it unerringly on record." It is +simply "a faithful, and doubtless self-willed record," he says. + +That then was Walt Whitman's programme, surely in its very scope +and range worthy of some amazement and respect! Because it is not +done insolently or with any braggadocio, in spite of what he calls +"the barbaric yawp." I do not think that anything is more notable +than the good-humour and the equanimity of it all. He is not +interested in himself in a morbid or self-conscious way; he has not +the slightest wish to make himself out to be fine or magnificent or +superior--it is quite the other way. He is merely going to try to +break down the barriers between soul and soul, to let the river of +self ripple and welter and wash among the grasses at the feet of +man. He does not wish you to admire it, though he hopes you may +love it; there are to be no excuses or pretences; he does not wish +to be seen at certain angles or in subdued lights. He casts himself +down in his nakedness, and lets who will observe him; and all this +not because he is either hero or saint; his proudest title is to be +an average man, one of the crowd, with passions, weaknesses, +uglinesses, even deformities. He is there, he is just so, and you +may take it or leave it; but he is not ashamed or sensitive, nor in +any way abashed; he smiles his frank, good-natured smile; and +suddenly one perceives the greatness of it! He is neither fanatic +nor buffoon; he is not performing like the boxer or wrestler, nor +is he sitting mournfully and patiently for the sake of the pence, +like the fat man at the fair; he is merely trying to say what he +thinks and feels, and if he has any aim at all, it is to tempt +others into unabashed sincerity. He cries to man, "If you would +only recognise yourself as you are, without pretences or excuses, +the dignity which your subterfuges are meant to secure would be +yours without question." It is not a question of good, bad, or +indifferent. Everyone has a right to be where he is, and there is a +reason for him and a justification too. That is the gospel of Walt +Whitman; it may be a bad gospel, or an ugly one, or an indecorous +one; but no one can pretend that it is not a big one. + + +2 + + +One immense and fruitful discovery Walt Whitman made, and yet +one can hardly call it a discovery; it is more perhaps an inspired +doctrine, unsupported by argument, wholly unphilosophical, +proclaimed with a childlike loudness and confidence, but yet +probably true: the doctrine, that is, of the indissoluble union +between body and soul. Indissoluble, one calls it, and yet nothing +is more patent than the fact that it is a union which is invariably +and inevitably dissolved in death; while on the other hand, one +sees in certain physical catastrophes, such as paralysis, brain- +concussion, senile decay, insanity, the soul apparently reduced to +the condition of a sleeping partner, or so far deranged as to be +unable to express anything but some one dominant emotion; or, more +bewildering still, one sees the moral sense seemingly suspended by +a physical disorder. And yet for all that, the doctrine may be +essentially and substantially true; the vitality of the soul may be +bound up with its power of expressing itself in material terms. It +may be that the soul-stuff, which we call life, has an existence +apart from its material manifestation, and that individuality, as +we see it, may be a mere phenomenon of the passage of a force, like +the visibility of electricity under certain conditions; indeed it +seems more probable that matter is a function of thought rather +than thought a function of matter. It is likely enough that animals +have no conscious sense of any division of aims, any antagonism +between physical and mental desires; but as the human race +develops, the imagination, the sense of the opposition between the +reason and the appetite, begins to emerge. Man becomes aware that +his will and his wish may not coincide; and thus develops the +medieval theory of asceticism, the belief that the body is +essentially vile, and suggests base desires to the mind, which the +mind has the power of controlling. That conception fitted closely +to the feudal theory of government, in which the interests of the +ruler and the subject did not necessarily coincide; the ruler +governed with his own interests in view, and coerced his subjects +if he could; but the new theory of government does not separate the +ruler from the state. The government of a state with democratic +institutions is the will of the people taking shape, and the +phenomena of rule are but those of the popular will expressing +itself, the object being that each individual should have his due +preponderance; the ultimate end being as much individual liberty as +is consistent with harmonious co-operation. + +That is a rough analogy of the doctrine of Walt Whitman; namely, +that the individual, soul and body, is a polity; and that the true +life is to be found in a harmonious co-operation of body and soul. +The reason is not at liberty to deride or to neglect the bodily +desires, even the meanest and basest of them, because every desire, +whether of soul or body, is the expression of something that exists +in the animating principle. Take, for example, the case of physical +passion. That, in its ultimate analysis, is the instinct for +propagating life, the transmission and continuance of vitality. The +reason must not ignore or deplore it, but direct it into the proper +channels; it may indicate the dangers that it incurs; but merely to +thwart it, to regard it with shame and horror, is to establish an +internecine warfare. The true function is rather to ennoble the +physical desire by the just concurrence of the soul. But the +essence of the situation is co-operation and not coercion; and each +must be ready to compromise. If the physical nature will not +compromise with the reason, the disasters of unbridled passion +follow; if the reason will not co-operate with the physical +desire, the result is a sterile intellectualism, a life of starved +and timid experience. It was here, of course, that Walt Whitman's +view gave offence; he thought of civilisation as a conventional +system, cultivating a false shame and an ignoble reserve about +bodily processes. But the vital truth of his doctrine lies in the +fact that many of our saddest, because most remediable, disasters +are caused by a timid reticence about the strongest force that +animates the world, the force of reproduction. Whitman felt, and +truly felt, that reason and sentiment have outrun discretion. It +may be asked, indeed, how this terror of all outspokenness has +developed in the human race, so that parents cannot bear to speak +to their children about an experience which they will be certain to +make acquaintance with in some far more violent and base form. Does +this shrinking delicacy, this sacred reserve, mean nothing, it may +be asked? Well, it may be said, if this sensitiveness is so +valuable that it must not be required to anticipate tenderly and +faithfully what will be communicated in a grosser form, then +silence is justified, and not otherwise. But to transfer this +reticence about a matter of awful concern to some other region of +morals, what should we think of the parent who so feared to lessen +the affection of a child by rebuking it for a lie or a theft as to +let it go out into the world ignorant that either was reprobated? +Whitman's argument would rather be that a parent should say to a +child, "There is a force within you which will to a large extent +determine the happiness of your life; it must be guarded and +controlled. You will probably not be able to ignore or disregard +it, and you must bring it into harmonious co-operation with mind +and reason and duty. There is nothing that is shameful about its +being there; indeed, it is the dominant force in the world. The +shameful thing is to use it shamelessly." Yet the attitude of +parents too often is to treat the subject, not as if it were +sacred, but as if it were unmentionable; so that the very fact of +the child's own origin would seem to be an essentially shameful +thing. + +The Greeks, it is true, had an instinct for the thought of the +vital interdependence of body and soul; but they thought too much +of the glowing manifestation of the health and beauty of youth, and +viewed the decay and deformity of the human frame too much as a +disgrace and an abasement. But here again comes in the largeness of +Whitman's presentment, that whatever disasters befall the body, +whether through drudgery or battle, disease or sin, they are all +parts of a rich and large experience, not necessarily interrupting +the co-operation of mind and matter. This is the strongest proof of +Whitman's faith in the essential brotherhood of man, that such +horrors and wretchednesses do not seem to him to interrupt the +design, or to destroy the possibility of a human sympathy which is +instinctive rather than a matter of devout effort. Whitman is here +on the side of the very greatest and finest human spirits, in that +he is shocked and appalled by nothing. He does not call it the best +of worlds, but it is the only world that he knows; and the glowing +interest, the passionate emotion, the vital rush and current of it, +prove beyond all doubt that we are in touch with something very +splendid and magnificent indeed, and that no misdeed or disaster +forfeits our share in the inheritance. He is utterly at variance +with the hideous Calvinistic theory, that God sent some of His +creatures into the world for their pain and ruin. Whatever happens +to your body or your soul, says Whitman, it is worth your while to +live and to have lived. He adopts no facile system of compensations +and offsets. He rather protests with all his might that, however +broken your body or fatuous your mind, it is a good thing for you +to have taken a hand in the affair; and that the essence of the +whole situation has not been your success, your dignity, your +comfortable obliteration of half your faculties, or on the other +hand your failure, your vileness, or your despair, but that just at +the time and place at which the phenomenon called yourself took +place, that intricate creature, with its bodily needs and desires, +its joys of the senses, its outlook on the strange world, took +shape and made you exactly what you are, and nothing else. As he +says in one of his finest apologues: + + + Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, + nothing is scanted. + + Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, + what you are picks its way. + + +3 + + +Then too Walt Whitman claims to be the poet, not of the past or +even only of the present, but the singer of the future. He says in +The Backward Glance, which I have already quoted, and which must be +carefully read by anyone who wishes to understand his work--at +least in so far as he understood it himself,--"Isolated advantages +in any rank or grace or fortune--the direct or indirect threads of +all the poetry of the past--are in my opinion distasteful to the +republican genius. . . . Established poems, I know, have the very +great advantage of chanting the already performed, so full of +glories, reminiscences dear to the minds of men." And he says too +that, "The educated world seems to have been growing more and more +ennuied for ages, leaving to our time the inheritance of it all." +And he further says: "The ranges of heroism and loftiness with +which Greek and feudal poets endow'd their godlike or lordly born +characters, I was to endow the democratic averages of America. I +was to show that we, here and to-day, are eligible to the grandest +and the best--more eligible now than any times of old were." + +This is a lofty claim, boldly advanced and maintained; and here I +am on uncertain ground, because I do not suppose that I can realise +what the democratic spirit of America really is. Granted, however, +that it is a free and a noble spirit, I feel a doubt as to whether +it is possible for any nation, at any time in the world's history, +really to take a new start. The American nation is not a new +nation; it is in a sense a very old' nation. It has had a perfectly +new and magnificent field for its energies, and it has made a sweep +of the old conventions; but it cannot get rid of its inheritance of +temperament; and I think that, so far as I can judge, it is too +anxious to emphasize its sense of revolt, its consciousness of +newness of life. Whitman himself would not be so anxious to declare +the ennui of the old, if he did not feel himself in a way +trammelled by it. The moment that a case is stated with any +vehemence, that moment it is certain that the speaker has +antagonists in his eye. There is a story of Professor Blackie at +Edinburgh making a tirade against the stuffiness of the old English +universities to Jowett, the incisive Master of Balliol. At the end, +he said generously, "I hope you people at Oxford do not think that +we are your enemies up here?" "No," said Jowett drily; "to tell the +truth, we don't think about you at all!" The man who is really +making a new beginning, serenely confident in his strength, does +not, as Professor Blackie did, concern himself with his +predecessors at all. Perhaps, indeed, the democratic spirit of +America may be quietly glorying in its strength, and may be merely +waiting till it suits it to speak. But I do not think it can be +said to have found full expression. It seems to me--I may well be +wrong--that in matters of culture, the American is far more +seriously bent on knowing what has been done in the past even than +the Englishman. The Englishman takes the past for granted; he is +probably more deeply and instinctively penetrated with its +traditions than he knows; but ever since the Romantic movement +began in England, about a century ago, the general tendency is +anarchical and anti-classical. Writers like Wordsworth, Browning, +Carlyle, Ruskin, had very little deference about them. They did not +even trouble to assert their independence; they said what they +thought, and as they thought it. But the spirit of American +literature does not on the whole appear to me to be a democratic +spirit. It has not, except in the case of Walt Whitman himself, +shown any strong tendency to invent new forms or to ventilate new +ideas. It has not broken out into crude, fresh, immature +experiments. It has rather worked as the Romans did, who anxiously +adopted and imitated Greek models, admiring the form but not +comprehending the spirit. A revolt in literary art, such as the +Romantic movement in England, has no time to concern itself with +the old forms and traditions. Writers like Wordsworth, Keats, +Shelley, Byron, Walter Scott, had far too much to say for +themselves to care how the old classical schools had worked. They +used the past as a quarry, not as a model. But the famous American +writers have not originated new forms, or invented a different use +of language; they have widened and freshened traditions, they have +not thrown them overboard. Neither, if I interpret facts rightly, +have the Americans developed a new kind of aristocracy. Whitman's +talk of democratic averages is beside the point. The process of +levelling up and levelling down only produces low standards. What +the world needs, whether in England or America, is a new sort of +aristocracy--simple, disinterested, bold, sympathetic, +enthusiastic men, of clear vision and free thought. And what the +democracy needs is not an envious dislike of all prominence and +greatness, but an eye for all greatness, and an admiration for all +courage and largeness of soul. England suspects, perhaps +erroneously, that America has founded an aristocracy of wealth and +influence and physical prowess, rather than an aristocracy of +simplicity and fearlessness. One believes that the competitive, the +prize-winning spirit, is even more dominant in America than in +England. No one doubts the fierce energy and the aplomb of America; +but can it be said that IDEAS, the existence of which is the +ultimate test of national vigour, are really more prevalent in +America than in England? It all depends, of course, upon whether +one values the Greek or the Roman ideal more highly, the interest, +that is, of life, or the desire to rule and prosper. If the aim of +civilisation is orderliness, then the Roman aim is the better; but +if the aim is spiritual animation, then the Greeks are the winners. +Yet in the last century, England has been more fruitful in ideas +than America, although America is incomparably more interested in +education than England is. + +But it is hard to balance these things. What remains is the fact +that Walt Whitman has drawn a fine democratic ideal. His democrat +is essentially a worker, with every sort of vigorous impulse, +living life in an ecstasy of health and comradeship, careless of +money and influence and position, content to live a simple life, +finding beauty, and hope, and love, and labour, enough, in the +spirit of the great dictum of William Morris, that the reward of +labour is life--not success or power or wealth, but the sense of +living fully and freely. + +I do not claim that this spirit exists in England yet; but does it +exist in America? What, in fact, constitutes the inspiration of the +average American; what does he expect to find in life, and to make +of life? Whitman has no doubt at all. But in what other American +writer does this ideal find expression? + + +4 + + +It remains to say a few words about the artistic methods of Walt +Whitman. He himself claims no artistic standard whatever. He says +that he wishes to create an atmosphere; and that his one aim has +been suggestiveness. "I round and finish little, if anything; and +could not consistently with my scheme. The reader will always have +his or her part to do, just as much as I have had mine." + +He says that his purpose has been "not to carry out in the approved +style some choice plot of fortune or misfortune, or fancy, or fine +thoughts, or incidents or courtesies--all of which has been done +overwhelmingly and well, probably never to be excelled . . . but to +conform with and build on the concrete realities and theories of +the universe furnished by science, and henceforth the only +irrefragable basis for anything, verse included--to root both +influences in the emotional and imaginative action of the modern +time, and dominate all that precedes or opposes them." He adds, "No +one will get at my verses who insists upon viewing them as a +literary performance, or attempt at such performance, or as aiming +mainly toward art or aestheticism." + +It is, of course, quite true that no writer is bound by traditions +of art, and there is no one who need consider how the thing has +been done before, or follow a prescribed code. But for all that, +art is not a thing of rules made and enforced by critics. All that +critics can do is to determine what the laws of art are; because +art has laws underlying it which are as certain as the laws of +gravity, even if they are not known. The more permanent art is, the +more it conforms to these laws; because the fact is that there is a +vital impulse in the human mind towards the expression of beauty, +and a vital discrimination too as to the form and method of that +expression. Architecture, for instance, and music, are alike based +upon instinctive preferences in human beings, the one for +geometrical form, the other for the combination of vibrations. It +is a law of music, for instance, that the human being prefers an +octave in absolute unison, and not an octave of which one note is a +semitone flat. That is not a rule invented by critics; it is a law +of human perception and preference. Similarly there is undoubtedly +a law which determines human preferences in poetry, though a far +more complicated law, and not yet analysed. The new poet is not a +man who breaks the law, but one who discovers a real extension of +it. + +The question then, roughly, is this: Whitman chose to express +himself in a species of poetry, based roughly upon Hebrew poetry, +such as we have in the Psalms and Prophets. If this is a true +expansion of the aesthetic law of poetry, then it is a success; if +it is not a true expansion, but only a wilful variation, not +consonant with the law, it is a failure. + +Now there are many effects in Whitman which are, I believe, +inconsistent with the poetical law. Not to multiply instances, his +grotesque word-inventions--"Me imperturbe!" "No dainty dolce +affettuoso I," "the drape of the day"--his use of Greek and Latin +and French terms, not correctly used and not even rightly spelt, +his endless iterations, lists, catalogues, categories, things not +clearly visualised or even remotely perceived, but swept +relentlessly in, like the debris of some store-room, all these are +ugly mannerisms which simply blur and encumber the pages. The +question is not whether they offend a critical and cultured mind, +but whether they produce an inspiring effect upon any kind of mind. + +Then too his form constantly collapses, as though he had no fixed +scheme in his mind. There are many poems which begin with an ample +sweep, and suddenly crumble to pieces, as though he were merely +tired of them. + +Then again there seem to me to be some simply coarse, obscene, +unpleasant passages, not of relentless realism but of dull +inquisitiveness. They do not attract or impress; they do not +provide a contrast or an emphasis. They simply lie, like piles of +filth, in rooms designed for human habitation. If it is argued that +art may use any materials, I can only fall back upon my belief that +such passages are as instinctively repulsive to the artistic sense +as strong-smelling cheeses stacked in a library! There is no moral +or ethical law against such a practice; but the aesthetic conscience +of humanity instinctively condemns it. When I examine the +literature which has inspired and attracted the minds of humanity, +whether trained or untrained, I find that they avoid this hideous +intrusion of nastiness; and I am inclined to infer that writers who +introduce such episodes, and readers who like them, have some other +impulse in view, which is neither the sense of beauty nor the +perception of art. But if Whitman, or anyone else, can convert the +world to call this art, and to enjoy it as art, then he will prove +that he understands the law of preference better than I do. + +But when all this has been said and conceded, there yet remain +countless passages of true and vital beauty, exquisite phrases, +haunting pictures, glimpses of perfect loveliness. His poems of +comradeship and the open air, his pictures of family life, have +often a magical thrill of passion, leaving one rapturous and +unsatisfied, believing in the secrets behind the world, and hoping +for a touch of like experience. + +If I may take one poem as typical of the best that is in Whitman-- +and what a splendid best!--it shall be "Out of the Cradle Endlessly +Rocking," from the book called Sea-drift. I declare that I can +never read this poem without profound emotion; it is here that he +fully justifies his claim to atmosphere and suggestiveness; the +nesting birds, the sea's edge, with its "liquid rims and wet +sands"--what a magical phrase!--the angry moan of the breakers +under the yellow, drooping moon, the boy with his feet in the +water, and the wind in his hair--this is all beyond criticism. + + + Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul) + Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me? + For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have + heard you + Now in a moment I know what I am for,--I awake, + And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, + louder and more sorrowful than yours, + A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, + never to die. + + + And then he cries to the waves to tell him what they have been +whispering all the time. + + + Whereto answering, the sea, + Delaying not, hurrying not, + Whisper'd me through the night and very plainly before day-break, + Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death. + + +This theme, it will be remembered, is worked out more fully in +the Lincoln poem, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd," with +the "Song of Death," too long, alas, to quote here--it would be +delightful even to inscribe the words--which seems to me for +splendour of language, sweetness of rhythm, and stateliness of +cadence--to say nothing of the magnificence of the thought--to be +incontestably among the very greatest poems of the world. + +If Whitman could always have written so! Then he need hardly have +said that the strongest and sweetest songs remained to be sung; but +this, and many other gems of poetry, lie in radiant fragments among +the turbid and weltering rush of his strange verse; and thus one +sees that if there is indeed a law of art, it lies close to the +instinct of suppression and omission. One may think anything; one +may say most things; but if one means to sway the human heart by +that one particular gift of words, ordered and melodiously +intertwined, one must heed what experience tells the aspirant--that +no fervour of thought, or exuberance of utterance, can make up for +the harmony of the firmly touched lyre, and the music of the +unuttered word. + + + + + + +V + +CHARM + + + + + +There is a little village here near Cambridge the homely, summer- +sounding name of which is Haslingfield. It is a straggling hamlet +of white-walled, straw-thatched cottages, among orchards and old +elms, full of closes of meadow-grass, and farmsteads with ricks and +big-timbered barns. It has a solid, upstanding Tudor church, with +rather a grand tower, and four solid corner turrets; and it has, +too, its little bit of history in the manor-house, of which only +one high-shouldered wing remains, with tall brick chimneys. It +stands up above some mellow old walls, a big dove-cote, and a row +of ancient fish-ponds. Here Queen Elizabeth once spent a night upon +the wing. Close behind the village, a low wold, bare and calm, with +a belt or two of trees, runs steeply up. + +The simplest and quietest place imaginable, with a simple and +remote life, hardly aware of itself, flowing tranquilly through it; +yet this little village, by some felicity of grouping and +gathering, has the rare and incomparable gift of charm. I cannot +analyse it, I cannot explain it, yet at all times and in all +lights, whether its orchards are full of bloom and scent, and the +cuckoo flutes from the holt down the soft breeze, or in the bare +and leafless winter, when the pale sunset glows beyond the wold +among the rifted cloud-banks, it has the wonderful appeal of +beauty, a quality which cannot be schemed for or designed, but +which a very little mishandling can sweep away. The whole place has +grown up out of common use, trees planted for shelter, orchards set +for fruit, houses built for convenience. Only in the church and the +manor is there any care for seemliness and stateliness. There are a +dozen villages round about it which have sprung from the same +needs, the same history; and yet these have missed the unconsidered +charm of Haslingfield, which man did not devise, nor does nature +inevitably bring, but which is instantly recognisable and strangely +affecting. + +Such charm seems to arise partly out of a subtle orderliness and a +simple appropriateness, and partly from a blending of delicate and +pathetic elements in a certain unascertained proportion. It seems +to touch unknown memories into life, and to give a hint of the +working of some half-whimsical, half-tenderly concerned spirit, +brooding over its work, adding a touch of form here and a dash of +colour there, and pleased to see, when all is done, that it is +good. + +If one looks closely at life, one sees the same quality in +humanity, in men and women, in books and pictures, and yet one +cannot tell what goes to the making of it. It seems to be a thing +which no energy or design can capture, but which alights here and +there, blowing like the wind at will. It is not force or +originality or inventiveness; very often it is strangely lacking in +any masterful quality at all; but it has always just the same +wistful appeal, which makes one desire to understand it, to take +possession of it, to serve it, to win its favour. It is as when the +child in Francis Thompson's poem seems to say, "I hire you for +nothing." That is exactly it: there is nothing offered or bestowed, +but one is at once magically bound to serve it for love and +delight. There is nothing that one can expect to get from it, and +yet it goes very far down into the soul; it is behind the maddening +desire which certain faces, hands, voices, smiles excite--the +desire to possess, to claim, to know even that no one else can +possess or claim them, which lies at the root of half the jealous +tragedies of life. + +Some personalities have charm in a marvellous degree, and if, as +one looks into the old records of life, one discovers figures that +seem to have laid an inexplicable hold on their circles, and to +have passed through life in a tempest of applause and admiration, +one may be sure that charm has been the secret. + +Take the case of Arthur Hallam, the inspirer of "In Memoriam." I +remember hearing Mr. Gladstone say, with kindled eye and emphatic +gesture, that Arthur Hallam was the most perfect being physically, +morally, and intellectually that he had ever seen or hoped to see. +He said, I remember, with a smile: "The story of Milnes Gaskell's +friendship with Hallam was curious. You must know that people fell +in love very easily in those days; there was a Miss E-- of whom +Hallam was enamoured, and Milnes Gaskell abandoned his own +addresses to her in favour of Hallam, in order to gain his +friendship." + +Yet the portrait of Hallam which hangs in the provost's house at +Eton represents a rosy, solid, rather heavy-featured young man, +with a flushed face,--Mr. Gladstone said that this was caused by +overwork,--who looks more like a young country bumpkin on the +opera-bouffe stage than an intellectual archangel. + +Odder still, the letters, poems, and remains of Hallam throw no +light on the hypnotic effect he produced; they are turgid, +elaborate, and wholly uninteresting; nor does he seem to have been +entirely amiable. Lord Dudley told Francis Hare that he had dined +with Henry Hallam, the historian, who was Arthur Hallam's father, +in the company of the son, in Italy, adding, "It did my heart good +to sit by and hear how the son snubbed the father, remembering how +often the father had unmercifully snubbed me." + +There is a hint of beauty in the dark eyes and the down-dropped +curve of the mobile lip in the portrait, and one need not quote "In +Memoriam" to prove how utterly the charm of Hallam subjugated the +Tennyson circle. Wit, swiftness of insight, beauty, lovableness-- +all seem to have been there; and it remains that Arthur Hallam was +worshipped and adored by his contemporaries with a fierce jealousy +of devotion. Nothing but the presence of an overmastering charm can +explain this conspiracy of praise; and perhaps there is no better +proof of it than that his friends could detect genius in letters +and poems which seem alike destitute of promise and performance. + +There is another figure of earlier date who seems to have had the +same magnetic gift in an even more pre-eminent degree. There is a +portrait by Lawrence of Lord Melbourne that certainly gives a hint, +and more than a hint, of the extraordinary charm which enveloped +him; the thick, wavy hair, the fine nose, the full, but firmly +moulded, lips, are attractive enough. But the large, dark eyes +under strongly marked eyebrows, which are at once pathetic, +passionate, ironical, and mournful, evoke a singular emotion. Every +gift that men hold to be advantageous was showered upon Melbourne. +He was well born, wealthy, able; he was full of humour, quick to +grasp a subject, an omnivorous reader and student, a famous +sportsman. He won the devotion of both men and women. His marriage +with the lovely and brilliant Lady Caroline Ponsonby, whose heart +was broken and mind shattered by her hopeless passion for Byron, +showed how he could win hearts. There is no figure of all that +period of whom one would rather possess a personal memoir. Yet +despite all his fame and political prestige, he was an unhappy, +dissatisfied man, who tasted every experience and joy of life, and +found that there was nothing in it. + +The dicta of his that are preserved vibrate between cynicism, +shrewdness, wisdom, and tenderness. "Stop a bit," he said, as the +cabinet went downstairs after a dinner to discuss the corn laws. +"Is it to lower the price of bread or isn't it? It doesn't much +matter which, but we must all say the same thing." Yet, after all, +it is the letters and diaries of Queen Victoria that reveal the +true secret of Melbourne's charm. His relation to his girl- +sovereign is one of the most beautiful things in latter-day +history. Melbourne loved her half paternally, half chivalrously, +while it is evident that the Queen's affection for her gallant and +attractive premier was of a quality which escaped her own +perception. He humoured her, advised her, watched over her; in +return, she idolised him, noted down his smallest sayings, +permitted him to behave and talk just as he would. She lovingly +records his little ways and fancies--how he fell asleep after +dinner, how he always took two apples, and hid one in his lap while +he ate the other. + +"I asked him if he meant to cat it. He thought not, and said, 'But +I like to have the power of doing so.' I observed, hadn't he just +as well the power of doing so when the apples were in the dish on +the table? He laughed and said, 'Not the FULL power.'" + +Melbourne was full of prejudices and whims and hatreds, but his +charity was boundless, and he always had a good word for an enemy. +He excused the career of Henry VIII to the Queen by saying, "You +see, those women bothered him so." And when he was superseded by +Peel, he combated the Queen's dislike of her new premier, and did +his best to put Peel in a favourable light. When Peel made his +first appearance at Windsor, shy and awkward, and holding himself +like a dancing-master, it was Melbourne who broke the awkward pause +by going up to Peel, and saying in an undertone, "For God's sake, +go and talk to the Queen!" When I was privileged to work through +all Melbourne's letters to the Queen, so carefully preserved and +magnificently bound, I was greatly touched by the sweetness and +tenderness of them, the gentle ironical flavour, the delicate +freedom, and the little presents and remembrances they exchanged up +to the end. + +Melbourne can hardly be called a very great man,--he had not the +purpose or tenacity for that, and he thought both too +contemptuously and too indulgently of human nature,--but I know of +no historical figure who is more wholly transfused and penetrated +by the aroma of charm. Everything that he did and said had some +distinction and unusualness: perceptive observation, ripe wisdom, +and, with it all, the petulant attractiveness of the spoiled and +engaging child. And yet even so, one is baffled, because it is not +the profundity or the gravity of what he said that impresses; it is +rather the delicate and fantastic turn he gave to a thought or a +phrase that makes his simplest deductions from life, his most +sensible bits of counsel, appear to have something fresh and +interesting about them, though prudent men have said much the same +before, and said it heavily and solemnly. + +Not that charm need be whimsical and freakish, though it is perhaps +most beautiful when there is something of the child about it, +something naive and unconventional. There are men, of whom I think +that Cardinal Newman was pre-eminently one, who seem to have had +the appeal of a pathetic sort of beauty and even helplessness. +Newman seems to have always been surprised to find himself so +interesting to others, and perhaps rather over-shadowed by the +responsibility of it. He was romantically affectionate, and the +tears came very easily at the call of emotion. Such incidents as +that when Newman said good-bye to his bare room at Littlemore, and +kissed the door-posts and the bed in a passion of grief, show what +his intensity of feeling might be. + +It is not as a rule the calm and controlled people who have this +attractiveness for others; it is rather those who unite with an +enchanting kind of playfulness an instinct to confide in and to +depend upon protective affection. Very probably there is some deep- +seated sexual impulse involved, however remotely and unconsciously, +in this species of charm. It is the appeal of the child that exults +in happiness, claims it as a right, uses it with a pretty +petulance,--like the feigned enmity of the kitten and the puppy,-- +and when it is clouded over, requires tearfully that it shall be +restored. That may seem an undignified comparison for a prince of +the church. But Newman was artist first, and theologian a long way +afterward; he needed comfort and approval and even applause; and he +evoked, together with love and admiration, the compassion and +protective chivalry of his friends. His writings have little +logical or intellectual force; their strength is in their ineffable +and fragrant charm, their ordered grace, their infinite pathos. + +The Greek word for this subtle kind of beauty is charis, and the +Greeks are worth hearing on the subject, because they, of all the +nations that ever lived, were penetrated by it, valued it, looked +out for it, worshipped it. The word itself has suffered, as all +large words are apt to suffer, when they are transferred to another +language, because the big, ultimate words of every tongue connote a +number of ideas which cannot be exactly rendered by a single word +in another language. Let us be mildly philological for a moment, +and realise that the word charis in Greek is the substantive of +which the verb is chairo, to rejoice. We translate the word charis +by the English word "grace," which means, apart from its theological +sense, a rich endowment of charm and beauty, a thing which is +essentially a gift, and which cannot be captured by taking thought. +When we say that a thing is done with a perfect grace, we mean that +it seems entirely delightful, appropriate, seemly, and beautiful. +It pleases every sense; it is done just as it should be done, +easily, courteously, gently, pleasantly, with a confidence which is +yet modest, and with a rightness that has nothing rigid or +unamiable about it. To see a thing so done, whatever it may be, +leaves us with an envious desire that we might do the thing in the +same way. It seems easy and effortless, and the one thing worth +doing; and this is where the moral appeal of beauty lies, in the +contagious sort of example that it sets. But when we clumsily +translate the word by "grace," we lose the root idea of the word, +which has a certain joyfulness about it. A thing done with charis +is done as a pleasure, naturally, eagerly, out of the heart's +abundance; and that is the appeal of things so done to the ordinary +mind, that they seem to well up out of a beautiful and happy +nature, as the clear spring rises from the sandy floor of the pool. +The act is done, or the word spoken, out of a tranquil fund of joy, +not as a matter of duty, or in reluctant obedience to a principle, +but because the thing, whatever it is, is the joyful and beautiful +thing to do. + +And so the word became the fundamental idea of the Christian life: +the grace of God was the power that floods the whole of the earlier +teaching of the gospel, before the conflict with the ungracious and +suspicious world began--the serene, uncalculating life, lived +simply and purely, not from any grim principle of asceticism, but +because it was beautiful to live so. It stood for the joy of life, +as opposed to its cares and anxieties and ambitions; it was +beautiful to share happiness, to give things away, to live in love, +to find joy in the fresh mintage of the earth, the flowers, the +creatures, the children, before they were clouded and stained by +the strife and greed and enmity of the world. The exquisite quality +of the first soft touches of the gospel story comes from the fact +that it all rose out of a heart of joy, an overflowing certainty of +the true values of life, a determination to fight the uglier side +of life by opposing to it a simplicity and a sweetness that claimed +nothing, and exacted nothing but a right to the purest sort of +happiness--the happiness of a loving circle of friends, where the +sacrifice of personal desires is the easiest and most natural thing +in the world, because such sacrifice is both the best reward and +the highest delight of love. It was here that the strength of +primitive Christianity lay, that it seemed the possession of a +joyful secret that turned all common things, and even sorrow and +suffering, to gold. If a man could rejoice in tribulation, he was +on his way to be invulnerable. + +It is not a very happy business to trace the decay of a great and +noble idea; but one can catch a glimpse of the perversion of +"grace" in the hands of our Puritan ancestors, when it became a +combative thing, which instead of winning the enemies of the Lord +by its patient sweetness, put an edge on the sword of holiness, and +enabled the staunch Christian to hew the Amalekites hip and thigh; +so that the word, which had stood for a perfectly peaceful and +attractive charm, became the symbol of righteous persecution, and +flowered in cries of anguish and spilled blood. + +We shall take a long time before we can crawl out of the shadow of +that dark inheritance; but there are signs in the world of an +awakening brotherliness; and perhaps we may some day come back to +the old truth, so long mishandled, that the essence of all religion +is a spirit of beauty and of joy, bent on giving rather than +receiving; and so at last we may reach the perception that the +fruitful strength of morality lies not in its terror, its +prohibitions, its coercions, but in its good-will, its tolerance, +its dislike of rebuke and censure, its rapturous acceptance of all +generous and chivalrous and noble ways of living. + +And thus, then, I mean by charm not a mere superficial gracefulness +which can be learned, as good manners are learned, through a +certain code of behaviour, but a thing which is the flower and +outward sign of a beautiful attitude to life; an eagerness to +welcome everything which is fine and fresh and unstained; that +turns away the glance from things unlovely and violent and greedy +not in a disapproving or a self-righteous spirit, because it is +respectable to be shocked, but in a sense of shame and disgrace +that such cruel and covetous and unclean things should be. If one +takes a figure like that of St. Francis of Assisi, who for all the +superstition and fanaticism with which the record is intermingled, +showed a real reflection and restoration of the old Christian joy +of life, we shall see that he had firm hold of the secret. St. +Francis's love of nature, of animals, of flowers, of children, his +way of breaking into song about the pleasant things of earth, his +praise of "our sister the Water, because she is very serviceable to +us and humble and clean," show the outrush of an overpowering joy. +He had the courage to do what very few men and women ever dare to +do, and that is to make a clean sweep of property and its +complications; but even so, the old legend distorts some of this +into a priggish desire to set a good example, to warn and rebuke +and improve the occasion. But St. Francis's asceticism is the only +kind of asceticism that has any charm, the self-denial, namely, +that springs from a sense of enjoyment, and is practised from a +feeling of its beauty, and not as a matter of timid and anxious +calculation. It is true that St. Francis was haunted by the +medieval nightmare of the essential vileness of the body, and +spurred it too hard. But apart from this, one recognises in him a +poet, and a man of ineffable charm, who found the company of +sinners at least as attractive as the company of saints, for the +simple reason that the sinner is often enough well meaning and +humble, and is spared at least the ugliness of respectable self- +righteousness, which is of all things most destructive of the sense +of proportion, and most divorced from natural joy. St. Francis took +human nature as he found it, and recognised that failure has a +beauty which is denied to success, for the simple reason that +conscious failure makes a man both grateful and affectionate, while +success too often makes him cold and hard. + +And there is thus a wonderful fragrance about all that St. Francis +did and said, though he must have been sorely tried by his stupid +and pompous followers, who constantly misunderstood and +misrepresented him, and dragged into the light what was meant to be +the inner secret of his soul. There are few figures in the roll of +saints so profoundly beautiful and touching as that of St. Francis, +because he had in a pre-eminent degree that childlike freshness and +trustfulness which is the secret of all charm. + +Charm is of course not the same thing as beauty, but only a +subdivision of it. There are many things in nature and in art, from +the Matterhorn to "Samson Agonistes," that have no charm, but that +appeal to a different range of emotions, the sublime, the majestic, +the awe-inspiring, things in the presence of which we are hardly at +ease; but charm is essentially a comfortable quality, something +that one gathers to one's heart, and if there is a mystery about +it, as there is about all beautiful things, it is not a mystery of +which one would be afraid to know the secret. Charm is the quality +which makes one desire to linger upon one's pilgrimage, that cries +to the soul to halt, to rest, to be content. It is intimate, +reassuring, and appealing; and the shadow of it is the gentle +pathos, which is in itself half a luxury of sadness, in the thought +that sweet things must have an end. As Herrick wrote to the +daffodils: + + + Stay, stay + Until the hasting day + Has run + But to the evensong: + And, having prayed together, we + Will go with you along. + + We have short time to stay, as you, + We have as short a spring; + As quick a growth to meet decay + As you, or anything. + + +In such a mood as that there is no sense of terror or despair at +the quick-coming onset of death; no more dread of what may be than +there is when the hamlet, with its little roofs and tall trees, is +folded in the arms of the night, as the sunset dies behind the +hill. Beauty may be a terrible thing, as in the sheeted cataract, +with all its boiling eddies, or in the falling of the lightning +from the womb of the cloud. There is desolation behind that, +gigantic movement, ruthless force; but charm comes like a signal of +security and good-will, and even its inevitable end is lit with +something of mercy and quietness. The danger of charm is that it is +the mother of sentiment; and the danger of sentiment is not that it +is untrue, but that it takes from us the sense of proportion; we +begin to be unable to do without our little scenes and sunsets; and +the eye gets so used to dwelling upon the flower-strewn pleasaunce, +with its screening trees, that it cannot bear to face the far +horizon, with its menace of darkness and storm. + +Yet we are very grateful to those who can teach us to turn our eyes +to the charm which surrounds us, and a life which is lived without +such perception is apt to be a rough and hurrying thing, even +though it may also be both high and austere. Like most of life, the +true success lies in not choosing one force and neglecting another, +but in an expectant kind of compromise. The great affairs and facts +of life flash upon us, whether we will or no; and even the man +whose mind is bent upon the greatest hopes and aims may find +strength and consolation in the lesser and simpler delights. Mighty +spirits like, let us say, Carlyle and Ruskin, were not hampered or +distracted from their further quest by the microscopic eye, the +infinite zest for detail, which characterised both. No one ever +spoke so finely as Carlyle of the salient features of moorland and +hill, and the silence so deep that it was possible to hear the far- +off sheep cropping the grass; no one ever noted so instantaneously +the vivid gesture or the picturesque turn of speech, or dwelt more +intently upon the pathetic sculpture of experience seen in the old +humble workaday faces of country-folk. No one ever delighted more +ecstatically than Ruskin in the colour of the amber cataract, with +its soft, translucent rims, its flying spray, or in the dim +splendours of some half-faded fresco, or in the intricate facade of +the crumbling, crag-like church front. But they did not stay there; +indeed, Carlyle, in his passionate career among verities and +forces, hardly took enough account of the beauty so patiently +entwined with mortal things; while Ruskin's sharpest agonies were +endured when he found, to his dismay, that men and women could not +be induced by any appeal or invective to heed the message of +beauty. + +It is true that, however we linger, however passionately we love +the small, sweet, encircling joys and delights of life, the tragic +experience comes to us, whether we will or no. None escapes. And +thus our care must be not to turn our eyes away from what in +sterner moments we are apt to think mere shows and vanities, but to +use them serenely and temperately. St. Augustine, in a magnificent +apologue upon the glories and subtleties of light, can only end by +the prayer that his heart may not thereby be seduced from heavenly +things; but that is the false kind of asceticism, and it is nothing +more than a fear of life, if our only concern with it is to shun +and abhor the joy it would fain give us. But we may be sure that +life has a meaning for us in its charm and loveliness; not the +whole meaning, but still an immense significance. To make life into +a continuous flight, a sad expectancy, a perpetual awe, is wilfully +to select one range of experiences and to neglect its kindness and +its good-will. We may grow weak in our sentiment if we make a +tragedy out of life, if we cannot bear to have our comfortable +arrangements disordered, our little circle of pleasures broken +through. The triumph is to be ready for the change, and to know +that if the perfect summer day comes to an end, the power that +shaped it so, and made the heart swift to love it, has yet larger +surprises and glories in store. If we do that, then the charm of +life takes its place in our spirits as the evidence of something +joyful, wistful, pleasant, bound up with the essence of things; if +it disappears, like the gold or azure thread of the tapestry, it is +only to emerge in the pattern farther on; and the victory is not to +attach ourselves to the particular touches of beauty and fineness +which we see in the familiar scene and the well-loved circle, but +to recognise beauty as a spirit, a quality which is for ever making +itself felt, for ever beckoning and whispering to us, and which +will not fail us even if for a time the urgent wind drives us far +into the night and the storm, among the crash of the breakers, and +the scream of loud winds over the sea. + + + + + + +VI + +SUNSET + + + + + +The liquid kindling of the twilight, the western glow of clear- +burning fires, bringing no weariness of heat but the exquisite +coolness of darkling airs, is of all the ceremonial of the day the +most solemn and sacred moment. The dawn has its own splendours, but +it brightens out of secret mists and folded clouds into the common +light of day, when the burden must be resumed and the common +business of the world renewed again. But the sunset wanes from +glory and majesty into the stillness of the star-hung night, when +tired eyes may close in sleep, and rehearse the mystery of death; +and so the dying down of light, with the suspension of daily +activities, is of the nature of a benediction. Dawn brings the +consecration of beauty to a new episode of life, bidding the soul +to remember throughout the toil and eagerness of the day that the +beginning was made in the innocent onrush of dewy light; but when +the evening comes, the deeds and words of the daylight are +irrevocable facts, and the mood is not one of forward-looking hope +and adventure, but of unalterable memory, and of things dealt with +so and not otherwise, which nothing can henceforward change or +modify. If in the morning we feel that we have power over life, in +the evening we know that, whether we have done ill or well, life's +power over ourselves has been asserted, and that thus and thus the +record must stand. + +And so the mood of evening is the larger and the wiser mood, +because we must think less of ourselves and more of God. In the +dawn it seems to us that we have our part to play, and that +nothing, not even God, can prevent us from exercising our will upon +the life about us; but in the evening we begin to wonder how much, +after all, we have the strength to effect; we see that even our +desires and impulses have their roots far back in a past which no +restlessness of design or energy can touch; till we end by +thankfulness that we have been allowed to feel and to experience +the current of life at all. I sat the other day by the bedside of +an old and gracious lady, the widow of a great artist, whose works +with all their shapely form and dusky flashes of rich colour hung +on the walls of her room. She had lived for many years in the +forefront of a great fellowship of art and endeavour; she had seen +and known intimately all the greatest figures in the art and +literature of the last generation; and she was awaiting with +perfect serenity and dignity the close. She said to me with a deep +emotion, "Ah, the only thing that I desire is that I may continue +to FEEL--that brings suffering in abundance with it, but while we +suffer we are at least alive. Once or twice in my life I have felt +the numbness of anguish, when a blow had fallen, and I could not +even suffer. That is the only thing which I dread--not death, nor +silence, but only the obliteration of feeling and love." That was a +wonderful saying, full of life and energy. She did not wish to +recall the old days, nor hanker after them with an unsatisfied +pain; and I saw that an immortal spirit dwelt in that frail body, +like a bird in an outworn cage. + +However much one may enjoy the onrush and vividness of life--I for +one find that, though vitality runs now in more definite and +habitual channels, though one has done with making vague impulsive +experiments, though one wastes less time in undertaking doubtful +enterprises, yet there is a great gain in the concentration of +energy, and in the certain knowledge of what one's definite work +really is. + +Far from finding the spring and motion of life diminished, I feel +that the current of it runs with a sharper and clearer intensity, +because I have learned my limitations, and expend no energy in +useless enterprises. I have learned what the achievements are which +come joyfully bearing their sheaves with them, and what are the +trivial and fruitless aims. When I was younger I desired to be +known and recognised and deferred to. I wanted to push my way +discreetly into many companies, to produce an impression, to create +a sense of admiration. Now as the sunset draws nearer, and the +enriched light, withdrawn from the farther horizon, begins to +pulsate more intensely in the quarter whence it must soon +altogether fade, I begin to see that vague and widely ranging +effects have a thinness and shallowness about them. It is a poor +thing just to see oneself transiently reflected in a hundred little +mirrors. There is no touch of reality about that. Little greetings, +casual flashes of courteous talk, petty compliments--these are +things that fade as soon as they are born. The only thing worth +doing is a little bit of faithful and solid work, something given +away which costs one real pain, a few ideas and thoughts worked +patiently out, a few hearts really enlivened and inspirited. And +then, too, comes the consciousness that much of one's cherished +labour is of no use at all except to oneself; that work is not a +magnificent gift presented to others, but a wholesome privilege +conceded to oneself, that the love which brought with it but a +momentary flash of self-regarding pleasure is not love at all, and +that only love which means suffering--not delicate regrets and +luxurious reveries, but hard and hopeless pain--is worth the name +of love at all. Those are some of the lights of sunset, the +enfolding gleams that are on their way to death, and which yet +testify that the light which wanes and lapses here, drawn +reluctantly away from dark valley and sombre woodland, is yet +striding ahead over dewy uplands and breaking seas, past the +upheaving shoulder of the world. + +But best of all the gifts of sunset to the spirit is the knowledge +that behind all the whirling web of daylight, beyond all the noise +and laughter and appetite and drudgery of life, lies the spirit of +beauty that cannot be always revealed or traced in the louder and +more urgent pageantry of the day. The sunset has the power of +weaving a subtle and remote mystery over a scene that by day has +nothing to show but a homely and obvious animation. I was +travelling the other day and passed, just as the day began to +decline, through the outskirts of a bustling, seaport town. It had +all the interest and curiosity of life. Crowded warehouses, +swinging up straw-packed crates into projecting penthouses; +steamers with red-stained funnels, open-mouthed tubes, gangways, +staircase heads, dangling boats, were moored by bustling wharves. +One could not divine the use of half the strangely shaped objects +with which the scene was furnished, or what the business could be +of all the swarming and hurrying figures. Deep sea-horns blew and +whistles shrilled, orders were given, hands waved. It was life at +its fullest and busiest, but it was life demanding and enforcing +its claim and concealing its further purposes. It was just a +glimpse of something full of urgent haste, but pleasanter to watch +than to mix with; then we passed through a wilderness of little +houses, street after street, yard after yard. Presently we were +rushing away from it all past a lonely sea-creek that ran far up +into the low-lying land. That had a more silent life of its own; +old dusky hulks lay at anchor in the channel; the tide ebbed away +from mudflats and oozy inlets, the skeletons of worn-out boats +stood up out of the weltering clay. Gradually, as the sun went down +among orange stains and twisted cloud-wreaths, the creek narrowed +and beyond lay a mysterious promontory with shadowy woods and low +bare pasture-lands, with here and there a tower standing up or a +solitary sea-mark, or a hamlet of clustered houses by the water's +edge, while the water between grew paler and stiller, reflecting +the wan green of the sky. It is not easy to describe the effect of +this scene, thus magically transfigured, upon the mind; but it is a +very real and distinct emotion, though its charm depends upon the +fact that it shifts the reality of the world to a further point, +away from the definite shapes and colours, the tangible and visible +relations of things, which become for an instant like a translucent +curtain through which one catches a glimpse of a larger and more +beautiful reality. The specific hopes, fears, schemes, designs, +purposes of life, suddenly become an interlude and not an end. They +do not become phantasmal and unreal, but they are known for a brief +moment as only temporary conditions, which by their hardness and +sharpness obscure a further and larger life, existing before they +existed, and extending itself beyond their momentary pact and +influence. All that one is engaged in busily saying and doing and +enacting is seen in that instant to be only as a ripple on a deep +pool. It does not make the activities of life either futile or +avoidable; it only gives the mystical sense, that however urgent +and important they may seem, there is something further, larger, +greater, beyond them, of which they are a real part, but only a +part. + +Moreover, in my own experience, the further secret, whatever it is, +is by no means wholly joyful and not at all light-hearted. It seems +to me at such times that it is rather solemn, profound, serious, +difficult, and sad. But it is not a heavy or depressing sadness-- +indeed, the thought is at once hopeful and above everything +beautiful. It has nothing that is called sentimental about it. It +is not full of rest and content and peace; it is rather strong and +stern, though it is gentle too; but it is the kind of gentle +strength which faces labour and hardness, not troubled by them, and +indeed knowing that only thus can the secret be attained. There is +no hint of easy, childlike happiness about the mood; there is a +happiness in it, but it is an old and a wise happiness that has +learned how to wait and is fully prepared for endurance. There is +no fretfulness in it, no chafing over dreams unrealised, no +impatience or disappointment. But it does not speak of an +untroubled bliss--rather of a deep, sad and loving patience, which +expects no fulfilment, no easy satisfaction of desire. + +It always seems to me that the quality which most differentiates +men is the power of recognising the Unknown. Some natures acquiesce +buoyantly or wretchedly in present conditions, and cannot in any +circumstances look beyond them; some again have a deep distaste for +present conditions whatever they are; and again there are some who +throw themselves eagerly and freely into present conditions, use +experience, taste life, enjoy, grieve, dislike, but yet preserve a +consciousness of something above and beyond. The idealist is one +who has a need in his soul to worship, to admire, to love. The +mistake made too often by religious idealists is to believe that +this sense of worship can only be satisfied by religious and, even +more narrowly, by ecclesiastical observance. For there are many +idealists to whom religion with its scientific creeds and definite +dogmas seems only a dreary sort of metaphysic, an attempt to define +what is beyond definition. But there are some idealists who find +the sense of worship and the consciousness of an immortal power in +the high passions and affections of life. To these the human form, +the spirit that looks out from human eyes, are the symbols of their +mystery. Others find it in art and music, others again in the +endless loveliness of nature, her seas and streams, her hills and +woods. Others again find it in visions of helping and raising +mankind out of base conditions, or in scientific investigation of +the miraculous constitution of nature. It has a hundred forms and +energies; but the one feature of it is the sense of some vast and +mysterious Power, which holds the world in its grasp--a Power which +can be dimly apprehended and even communicated with. Prayer is one +manifestation of this sense, though prayer is but a formulation of +one's desires for oneself and for the world. + +But the essential and vital part of the mystery is not what the +soul asks of it, but the signals which it makes to the soul. And +here I am but recording my own experience when I say that the +lights and gleams of sunset, its golden inlets and cloud-ripples, +the dusky veil it weaves about the world, is for my own spirit the +solemnity which effects for me what I believe that the mass effects +for a devoted Catholic--the unfolding in hints and symbols of the +mysteries of God. An unbeliever may look on at a mass and see +nothing but the vesture and the rite, a drama of woven paces and +waving hands, when a believer may become aware of the very presence +of the divine. And the sunset has for me that same unveiling of the +beauty of God; it illumines and transfigures life; it shows me +visibly and sacredly that beauty pure and stainless runs from end +to end of the universe, and calls upon me to adore it, to prostrate +myself before its divine essence. The fact that another may see it +carelessly and indifferently makes no difference. It only means +that not thus does he perceive God. But, for myself, I know no +experience more wholly and deeply religious than when I pass in +solitude among deep stream-fed valleys, or over the wide fenland, +or through the familiar hamlet, and see the dying day flame and +smoulder far down in the west among cloudy pavilions or in tranquil +spaces of clear sky. Then the well-known land whose homely, day- +long energies I know seems to gather itself together into a far and +silent adoration, to commit itself trustfully and quietly to God, +to receive His endless benediction, and in that moment to become +itself eternal in a soft harmony of voiceless praise and passionate +desire. + + + + + + +VII + +THE HOUSE OF PENGERSICK + + + + + +There are days--perhaps it is well that they are not more common-- +when by some singular harmony of body and spirit, every little +sound and sight strikes on the senses with a peculiar sharpness and +distinctness of quality, has a keen and racy savour, and comes as +delightfully home to the mind as cool well-water to thirsty lips. +Everything seems in place, in some well-designed combination or +symphony of the senses; and more than that--the sound, the sight, +whatever it be, sets free a whole train of far-reaching and +mysterious thoughts, that seem to flash the secret of life on the +spirit--or rather hint it in a tender, smiling way, as a mother +nods a delighted acquiescence to the eager questions of a child +face to face with some happy surprise. That day of January was just +such a day to me, as we drove along the dreary road from Marazion +to Helston, by ruined mine-towers with their heaps of scoriae, +looking out to the sea on the one hand, and on the other to the +low, monotonous slopes of tilth and pasture, rising and falling +like broad-backed waves, with here and there a wild and broken wood +of firs, like the forest of Broceliande, or a holt of wind-brushed, +fawn-coloured ash-trees, half empurpled by the coming of spring, in +some rushy dingle by the stream side. + +It was a cool grey day, with a haze over the sea, the gusty sky of +yesterday having hardened into delicate flakes of pearly cloud, +like the sand on some wave-beaten beach. It was all infinitely soft +and refreshing to the eye, that outspread pastoral landscape, seen +in a low dusk, like the dusk of a winter dawn. + +It was then that in a little hollow to our right we saw the old +House of Pengersick--what a grim, lean, hungry sort of name! We +made our way down along a little road, the big worn flints standing +up out of the gravel, by brakes of bramble, turf-walls where the +ferns grew thick, by bits of wild upland covered with gorse and +rusty bracken, and down at last to the tiny hamlet--four or five +low white houses, in little gardens where the escallonia grew thick +and glossy, the purple veronica bloomed richly, and the green +fleshy mesembryanthemum tumbled and dripped over the fences. The +tower itself rose straight out of a farmyard, where calves stared +through the gate, pigs and hens routed and picked in the mire. I +have seldom seen so beautiful a bit of building: it was a great +square battlemented tower, with a turret, the mullioned windows +stopped up with sea-worn boulders. The whole built of very peculiar +stone, of a dark grey tinge, weathered on the seaward side to a +most delicate silvery grey, with ivy sprawling over it in places, +like water shot out from a pail over a stone floor. There were just +a few traces of other buildings in the sheds and walls, and bits of +carved stonework piled up in a rockery. No doubt the little farm +itself and the cottages were all built out of the ruins. + +From the tower itself--it has a few bare rooms filled with farm +lumber--one can see down the valley to the long grey line of the +Prah sands, and the low dusky cliffs of Hove point, where the waves +were breaking white. + +I suppose it needed to be a strong place. The Algiers and Sallee +pirates used to make descents upon this coast till a comparatively +recent date. As late as 1636 they kidnapped seven boats and forty- +two fishermen off the Manacles, none of whom were ever heard of +again. Eighty fishermen from Looe were captured in one day, and +there is a complaint extant from the justices of Cornwall to the +lord lieutenant that in one year Cornwall had lost above a thousand +mariners thus! + +But there was also another side to the picture; the natives all +along this coast were dreadful wreckers and plunderers themselves, +and made little account of burning a ship and knocking the +survivors on the head. The very parish, Germoe, in which Pengersick +stands, had as bad a name as any in Cornwall: + + + God keep us from rocks and shelving sands, + And save us from Breage and Germoe men's hands, + + +runs the old rhyme. And there is an evil old story of how a +treasure ship, the St. Andrew of Portugal, went ashore at Gunwalloe +in January 1526. There were thousands of cakes of copper and silver +on board, plate, pearls, jewels, chains, brooches, arras, satins, +velvets, sets of armour for the King of Portugal, and a huge chest +of coined gold. + +The wretched crew got most of the treasure to land and stacked it +on the cliffs, when John Milliton of Pengersick, with a St. Aubyn +and a Godolphin, came down with sixty armed men, and took all the +treasure away. Complaints were made, and the three gentlemen +protested that they had but ridden down to save the crew, had found +them destitute, and had even given them money. But I daresay the +big guest-chamber of Pengersick was hung with Portuguese arras for +many a long year afterwards. + +The Millitons died out, and their land passed by purchase or +marriage to the descendants of another of the three pious squires, +Godolphin of Godolphin--and belongs to-day to his descendant, the +Duke of Leeds. + +One would have thought that men could not have borne to live so, in +such deadly insecurity. But probably they troubled their heads +little about the pirates, kept the women and children at home, and +set a retainer on the cliff in open weather, to scan the offing for +the light-rigged barques, while poorer folk took their chance. We +live among a different set of risks now, and think little of them, +as the days pass. + +The life of the tower was simple and hardy enough--some fishing and +hunting, some setting of springes on the moor for woodcock and +rabbits, much farmwork, solid eating and drinking, and an +occasional carouse--a rude, plentiful, healthy life, perhaps not as +far removed from our own as we like to believe. + +But the old tower spoke to me to-day of different things, of the +buried life of the past, of the strange drift of human souls +through the world for their little span of life, love, and sorrow, +and all so pathetically ignorant of what goes before and follows +after, why it so comes about, and what is the final aim of the will +we blindly serve. Here was a house of men, I said to myself, with +the same hopes and fears and fancies as myself, and yet none of +them, could I recall them, could give me any reason for the life we +thus hurriedly live, so much of it entirely joyful and delightful, +so much of it distasteful and afflicting. On a sunny day of summer, +with the sea a sapphire blue, set with great purple patches, the +scent of the gorse in the air, the sound of the clear stream in +one's ears, what could be sweeter than to live? and even on dark +days, when the wind volleys up from the sea, and the rain dashes on +the windows, and the gulls veer and sail overhead, the great guest- +room with its fire of wreckage, the women working, the children +playing about, must have been a pleasant place enough. But even to +the strongest and boldest of the old squires the end came, as the +waggon with the coffin jolted along the stony lane, and the bell of +Germoe came faintly over the hill. + +But I could not think of that to-day, with a secret joy in my +heart; I thought rather of the splendid mystery of life, that seems +to screen from us something more gracious still--the steep velvet +sky full of star-dust, the flush of spring in sunlit orchards, the +soft, thunderous echoes of great ocean billows, the orange glow of +sunset behind dark woods: all that background of life; and then the +converse of friend with friend, the intercepted glance of wondering +eyes, the whispered message of the heart. All this, and a crowd of +other sweet images and fancies came upon me in a rush to-day, like +scents from a twilight garden, as I watched the old silvery tower +stand up bluff and square, with the dark moorland behind it, and +the little houses clustering about its feet. + + + + + + +VIII + +VILLAGES + + + + + +I wonder if any human being has ever expended as much sincere and +unrequited love upon the little pastoral villages about Cambridge +as I have. No one ever seems to me to take the smallest interest in +them or to know them apart or to remember where they are. It is +true that it takes a very faithful lover to distinguish instantly +and impeccably between Histon, Hinxton, Hauxton, Harston, and +Harlton; but to me they have all of them a perfectly distinct +quality, and make a series of charming little pastoral pictures in +the mind. Who shall justly and perfectly assess the beautiful +claims of Great and Little Eversden? I doubt if any inhabitant of +Cambridge but myself and one friend of mine, a good man and true, +could do it. Yet it is as pleasant to have a connoisseurship in +villages as to have a connoisseurship in wines or cigars, though it +is not so regarded. + +What is the charm of them? That I cannot say. It is a mystery, like +the charm of all sweet things; and further, what is the meaning of +love for an inanimate thing, with no individuality, no personality, +no power of returning love? The charm of love is that one discerns +some spirit making signals back. "I like you to be here, I trust +you, I am glad to be with you, I wish to give you something, to +increase your joy, as mine is increased." That, or something like +that, is what one reads in the eyes and faces and gestures of those +whom one dares to love. One would otherwise be sadly and mournfully +alone if one could not come across the traces of something, some +one whose heart leaps up and whose pulse quickens at the proximity +of comrade and friend and lover. But even so there is always the +thought of the parting ahead, when, after the sharing of joy, each +has to go on his way alone. + +Then, one may love animals; but that is a very strange love, for +the man and the animal cannot understand each other. The dog may be +a true and faithful comrade, and there really is nothing in the +world more wonderful than the trustful love of a dog for a man. One +may love a horse, I suppose, though the horse is a foolish creature +at best; one may have a sober friendship with a cat, though a cat +does little more than tolerate one; and a bird can be a merry +little playfellow: but the terror of wild animals for men has +something rather dreadful about it, because it stands for many +centuries of cruel wrong-doing. + +And one may love, too, with a wistful sort of love the works of +men, pictures, music, statues; but that, I think, is because one +discerns a human figure at the end of a vista--a figure hurrying +away through the ages, but whom one feels one could have loved had +time and place only allowed. + +But when it comes to loving trees and flowers, streams and hills, +buildings and fields, what is it that happens? I have a perfectly +distinct feeling about these little villages hereabouts. Some are +to me like courteous strangers, some like dull and indifferent +people, some like pleasant, genial folk whom I am mildly pleased to +see; but with some I have a real and devoted friendship. I like +visiting them, and if I cannot visit them, I think of them; when I +am far away the thought of them comes across me, and I am glad to +think of them waiting there for me, nestling under their hill, the +smoke going up above the apple-orchards. + +One or two of them are particularly beloved because I visited them +first thirty years ago, when I was an undergraduate, and the +thought of the old days and the old friendships springs up again +like a sweet and far-off fragrance when I enter them. Yet I do not +know any of the people who live in these villages, though by dint +of going there often there are a few people by whom I am recognised +and saluted. + +But let me take one village in particular, and I will not name it, +because one ought not to publish the names of those whom one loves. +What does it consist of? It straggles along a rough and ill-laid +lane, under a little wold, once a sheep-walk, now long ploughed up. +The soil of the wold is pale, so that in the new-ploughed fields +there rest soft, creamlike shadows when the evening sun falls +aslant. There are two or three substantial farmhouses of red brick, +comfortable old places, with sheds and ricks and cattle-byres and +barns close about them. And I think it is strange that the scent of +a cattle-byre, with its rich manure and its oozing pools, is not +ungrateful to the human sense. It ought to be, but it is not. It +gives one, by long inheritance, no doubt, a homelike feeling. + +Then there are many plastered, white-walled, irregular cottages, +very quaint and pretty, perhaps a couple of centuries old, very ill +built, no doubt, but enchanting to look at; there is a new +schoolhouse, very ugly at present, with its smart red brick and its +stone facings--ugly because it does not seem to have grown up out +of the place, but to have been brought there by rail; and there are +a few new yellow-brick cottages, probably much pleasanter to live +in than the old ones, but with no sort of interest or charm. The +whole is surrounded by little fields, orchards, closes, paddocks, +and a good many great elms stand up above the house-roofs. There is +one quaint old farm, with a moat and a dove-cote and a fine, old +mellow brick wall surrounded by little pollarded elms, very quiet +and characteristic; and then there is a big, ancient church, by +whom built one cannot divine, because there is no squire in the +village, and the farmers and labourers could no more build such a +church now than they could build a stellar observatory. It would +cost nowadays not less than ten thousand pounds, and there is no +record of who gave the money or who the architect was. It has a +fine tower and a couple of solid bells; it has a few bits of good +brass-work, a chandelier and some candlesticks, and it has a fine +eighteenth-century tomb in a corner, with a huge slab of black +basalt on the top, and a heraldic shield and a very obsequious +inscription, which might apply to anyone, and yet could be true of +nobody. Why the particular old gentleman should want to sleep +there, or who was willing to spend so much on his lying in state, +no one knows, and I fear that no one cares except myself. + +There are a few little bits of old glass in the church, in the +traceries of the windows, just enough to show that some one liked +making pretty things, and that some one else cared enough to pay +for them. And then there is a solid rectory by the church, +inhabited for centuries by fellows of a certain Cambridge college. +I do not expect that they lived there very much. Probably they rode +over on Sundays, read two services, and had a cold luncheon in +between; perhaps they visited a sick parishioner, and even came +over on a week-day for a marriage or a funeral; and I daresay that +in the summer, when the college was deserted, they came and lived +there for a few weeks, rather bored, and longing for the warm +combination room and the college port and the gossip and stir of +the place. + +That is really all, I think. And what is there to love in all that? + +Well, it is a little space of earth in which life has been going on +for I daresay a thousand years. The whole place has grown slowly up +out of the love and care and work of man. Perhaps there were +nothing but little huts and hovels at first, with a tiny rubble +church; then the houses grew a little bigger and better. Perhaps it +was emptied again by the Black Death, which took a long toll of +victims hereabouts. Shepherds, ploughmen, hedgers, ditchers, +farmers, an ale-house-keeper, a shopkeeper or two, and a priest-- +that has been the village for a thousand years. Patient, stupid, +toilsome, unimaginative, kindly little lives, I daresay. Not much +interested in one another, ill educated, gossipy, brutish, +superstitious, but surprised perhaps into sudden passions of love, +and still more surprised perhaps by the joys of fatherhood and +motherhood; with children of all ages growing up, pretty and +engaging and dirty and amusing and naughty, fading one by one into +dull and sober age, and into decrepitude, and the churchyard at the +end of all! + +Well, I think all that pathetic and mysterious, and beautiful with +the beauty that reality has. I want to know who all the folks were, +what they looked like, what they cared about or thought about, how +they made terms with pain and death, what they hoped, expected, +feared, and what has become of them. Everyone as urgently and +vehemently and interestedly alive as I myself, and yet none of them +with the slightest idea of how they got there or whither they were +going--the great, helpless, good-natured, passive army of men and +women, pouring like a stream through the world, and borne away on +the wings of the wind. They were glad to be alive, no doubt, when +the sun fell on the apple-orchard, and the scent of the fruit was +in the air, and the bees hummed round the blossoms, when people +smile at each other and say kind and meaningless things; they were +afraid, no doubt, as they lay in pain in the stuffy attics, with +the night wind blustering round the chimney-stack, and hoped to be +well again. Then there were occasions and treats, the Sunday +dinner, the wedding, the ride in the farm-cart to Cambridge, the +visit of the married sister from her home close by. I do not +suppose they knew or cared what was happening in the world. War and +politics made little difference to them. They knew about the +weather, they cared perhaps about their work, they liked the Sunday +holiday--all very dim and simple, thoughts not expressed, feelings +not uttered, experience summed up in little bits of phrases. Yet I +like to think that they were pleased with the look of the place +without knowing why. I don't deceive myself about all this, or make +it out as idyllic. I don't exactly wish to have lived thus, and I +expect it was coarse, greedy, dull, ugly, a great deal of it; but +though I can think fine thoughts about it, and put my thoughts into +musical words, I do not honestly believe that my life, my hopes, my +feelings differ very much from the experience of these old people. + +Of course I have books and pictures and intellectual fancies and +ideas; but that is only an elaborate game that I play, the things I +notice and recognise: but I expect the old hearts and minds were at +work, too, noticing and observing and recording; and all my +flourish of talk and thought is only a superficial affair. + +And what consecrates and lights up the little place for me, touches +it with golden hues, makes it moving, touching, beautiful, is the +thought of all that strange, unconscious life, the love and hate, +the fear and the content, the joy and sorrow, that has surged to +and fro among the thatched roofs and apple-orchards so many +centuries before I came into being, and will continue when I am +trodden into the dust. + +When I came here first thirty years ago, exploring with a friend +long dead the country-side, it was, I am sure, the same thought +that made the place beautiful. I could not then put it into words; +I have learned to do that since, and word-painting is a very +pleasant pastime. It was a hot, bright summer day--I recall the +scent of the clover in the air--and there came on me that curious +uplifting of the heart, that wonder as to what all the warmth and +scent, the green-piled tree, the grazing cows, the children +trotting to and fro, could possibly mean, or why it was all so +utterly delightful. It was not a religious feeling, but there was a +sense of a great, good-natured, beauty-loving mind behind it all--a +mind very like our own, and yet even then with a shadow striking +across it--the shadow of pain and grief and hollow farewells. + +I was not a very contented boy in those days, in some bewilderment +of both mind and heart, having had my first experience that life +could be hard and intricate. The world was sweeter to me, though +not so interesting as it now is; but I had just the same deep +desire as I have now, though it has not been satisfied, to find +something strong and secure and permanent, some heart to trust +utterly and entirely, something that could understand and comfort +and explain and reassure, a power which one could clasp hands with, +as a child lays its delicate finger in a strong, enfolding palm, +and never be in any doubt again. It is one's weakness which is so +tiring, so disappointing; and yet I do not want a careless, +indifferent, brutal, healthy strength at all. It is the strength of +love and peace that I want, not to be afraid, not to be troubled. +It is all somewhere, I do not doubt: + + + Yet, oh, the place could I but find! + + +I have been through my village this very day. The sun was just +beginning to slope to the west; the sun poured out his rays of gold +from underneath the shadow of a great, dark, up-piled cloud--the +long rays which my nurse used to tell me were sucking up water, but +which I believed to be the eye of God. The trees were bare, but the +elm-buds were red, and the willow-rods were crimson with spring; +the little stream bubbled clearly off the hill; and the cottage +gardens were full of up-thrusting blades; while the mezereons were +all aflame with bloom. Life moving, pausing, rushing past! I +wonder. When I pass the gate, if I see the dawn of that other +morning, I cannot help feeling that I shall want to see my little +village again, to loiter down the lane among the white-gabled +houses. Shall I be much wiser then than I am now? Shall I have seen +or heard something which will set my anxious mind at rest? Who can +tell me? And yet the old, gnarled apple-boughs, with the blue sky +behind them, and the new-springing grass all seem to hold the +secret, which I want as much to interpret and make my own as when I +wandered through the hamlet under the wold more than thirty years +ago. + + + + + + +IX + +DREAMS + + + + + +There is a movement nowadays among the philosophers who study the +laws of thought, to lay a strong emphasis upon the phenomena of +dreams; what part of us is it that enacts with such strange zest +and vividness, and yet with so mysterious a disregard of ordinary +motives and conventions, the pageant of dreams? Like many other +things which befall us in daily life, dreams are so familiar a +fact, that we often forget to wonder at the marvellousness of it +all. The two points about dreams which seem to me entirely +inexplicable are: firstly, that they are so much occupied with +visual impressions, and secondly, that though they are all self- +invented and self-produced, they yet contrive to strike upon the +mind with a marvellous freshness of emotion and surprise. Let us +take these two points a little more in detail. + +When one awakes from a vivid dream one generally has the impression +of a scene of some kind, which has been mainly received through the +medium of the eye. I suppose that this varies with different +people, but my own dreams are rather sharply divided into certain +classes. I am oftenest a silent spectator of landscapes of +ineffable beauty, such as a great river, as blue as sapphire, +rolling majestically down between vast sandstone cliffs, or among +wooded hills, piled thick with trees rich in blossom; or I see +stately buildings crowded together among woodlands, with long +carved fronts of stone and airy towers. These dreams are peculiarly +uplifting and stimulating, and I wake from them with an +extraordinary sense of beauty and wonder; or else I see from some +window or balcony a great ceremony of some quite unintelligible +kind proceeding, a procession with richly dressed persons walking +or riding, or a religious pomp taking place in a dim pillared +interior. All such dreams pass by in absolute silence. I have no +idea where I am, nor what is happening, nor am I curious to know. +No voice is upraised, and there is no one at hand to converse with. + +Then again there are dreams of which the substance is animated and +vivid conversation. I have long and confidential talks with people +like the Pope or the Tsar of Russia. They ask my advice, they quote +my books, and I am surprised to find them so familiar and +accessible. Or I am in a strange house with an unknown party of +guests, and person after person comes up to tell me all kinds of +interesting facts and details. Or else, as often happens to me, I +meet people long since dead; I dream constantly, for instance, +about my father. I see him by chance at a railway station, we +congratulate ourselves upon the happy accident of meeting; he takes +my arm, he talks smilingly and indulgently; and the only way in +which the knowledge that he is dead affects the dream is that I +feel bewildered at having seen so little of him of late, and even +ask him where he has been for so long that we have not met oftener. + +Very occasionally I hear music in a dream. I well remember hearing +four musicians with little instruments like silver flutes play a +quartet of infinite sweetness; but most of my adventures take place +either among fine landscapes or in familiar conversation. + +At one time, as a child, I had an often repeated dream. We were +then living in an old house at Lincoln, called the Chancery. It was +a large rambling place, with some interesting medieval features, +such as a stone winding staircase, a wooden Tudor screen, built +into a wall, and formerly belonging to the chapel of the house, +There were, moreover, certain quite unaccountable spaces, where the +external measurements of passages did not correspond with the +measurement of rooms within. This fact excited our childish +imagination, and probably was the origin of the dream. + +It always began in the same way. I would appear to be descending a +staircase which led up into a lobby, and would find that a certain +step rattled as I trod upon it. Upon examination the step proved to +be hinged, and on opening it, the head of a staircase appeared, +leading downwards. Though, as I say, the dream was often repeated, +it was always with the same shock of surprise that I made the +discovery. I used to squeeze in through the opening, close the step +behind me, and go down the stairs; the place was dimly lighted with +some artificial light, the source of which I could never discover. +At the bottom a large vaulted room was visible, of great extent, +fitted with iron-barred stalls as in a stable. These stalls were +tenanted by animals; there were dogs, tigers, and lions. They were +all very tame, and delighted to see me. I used to go into the +stalls one by one, feed and play with the animals, and enjoy myself +very much. There was never any custodian to be seen, and it never +occurred to me to wonder how the animals had got there, nor to whom +they belonged. After spending a long time with my menagerie, I used +to return; and the only thing that seemed of importance to me was +that I should not be seen leaving the place. I used to raise the +step cautiously and listen, so as to be sure that there was no one +about; generally in the dream some one came down the stairs over my +head; and I then waited, crouched below, with a sense of delightful +adventure, until the person had passed by, when I cautiously +extricated myself. This dream became quite familiar to me, so that +I used to hope in my mind, on going to bed, that I might be about +to see the animals. but I was often disappointed, and dreamed of +other things. This dream visited me at irregular intervals for I +should say about two or three years, and then I had it no more; but +the singular fact about it was that it always came with the same +sense of wonder and delight, and while actually dreaming it, I +never realised that I had seen it before. + +The only other tendency to a recurring dream that I have ever +noticed was in the course of the long illness of which I have +written elsewhere; my dreams were invariably pleasant and agreeable +at that time; but I constantly had the experience in the course of +them of seeing something of a profound blackness. Sometimes it was +a man in a cloak, sometimes an open door with an intensely black +space within, sometimes a bird, like a raven or a crow; oftenest of +all it took the shape of a small black cubical box, which lay on a +table, without any apparent lid or means of opening it. This I used +to take up in my hands, and find very heavy; but the predominance +of some intensely black object, which I have never experienced +before or since, was too marked to be a mere coincidence; and I +have little doubt that it was some obscure symptom of my condition, +and had some definite physical cause. Indeed, at the same time, I +was occasionally aware of the presence of something black in waking +hours, not a thing definitely seen, but existing dimly in a visual +cell. After I recovered, this left me, and I have never seen it +since. + +These are the more coherent kind of dreams; but there is another +kind of a vaguely anxious character, which consist of endless +attempts to catch trains, or to fulfil social engagements, and are +full of hurry and dismay. Or one dreams that one has been condemned +to death for some unknown offence, and the time draws near; some +little while ago I spent the night under these circumstances +interviewing different members of the Government in a vain attempt +to discover the reasons for my condemnation; they could none of +them give me a specific account of the affair, and could only +politely deplore that it was necessary to make an example. "Depend +upon it," said Mr. Lloyd-George to me, "SUBSTANTIAL justice will +be done!" "But that is no consolation to me," I said. "No," he +replied kindly, "it would hardly amount to that!" + +But out of all this there emerges the fact that after a vivid +dream, one's memory is full of pictures of things seen quite as +distinctly, indeed often more distinctly, than in real life. I have +a clearer recollection of certain dream-landscapes than I have of +many scenes actually beheld with the eye; and this sets me +wondering how the effect is brought about, and how the memory is +enabled to store what appears to be a visual impression, by some +reflex action of the nerves of sight. + +Then there is the second point, that of the lively emotions stirred +by dreams. It would really appear that there must be two distinct +personalities at work, without any connection between them, one +unconsciously inventing and the other consciously observing. I +dreamed not long ago that I was walking beside the lake at +Riseholme, the former palace of the bishops of Lincoln, where I +often went as a child. I saw that the level of the lake had sunk, +and that there was a great bank of shingle between the water and +the shore, on which I proceeded to pace. I was attracted by +something sticking out of the bank, and on going up to it, I saw +that it was the base of a curious metal cup. I pulled it out and +saw that I had found a great golden chalice, much dimmed with age +and weather. Then I saw that farther in the bank there were a +number of cups, patens, candlesticks, flagons, of great antiquity +and beauty. I then recollected that I had heard as a child (this +was wholly imaginary, of course) that there had once been a great +robbery of cathedral plate at Lincoln, and that one of the bishops +had been vaguely suspected of being concerned in it; and I saw at +once that I had stumbled on the hoard, stowed there no doubt by +guilty episcopal hands--I even recollected the name of the bishop +concerned. + +Now as a matter of fact one part of my mind must have been ahead +inventing this story, while the other part of the mind was +apprehending it with astonishment and excitement. Yet the observant +part of the mind was utterly unaware of the fact that I was myself +originating it all. And the only natural inference would seem to be +that there is a real duality of mind at work. + +For when one is composing a story, in ordinary waking moments, one +has the sense that one is inventing and controlling the incidents. +In dreams this sense of proprietorship is utterly lost; one seems +to have no power over the inventive part of the mind; one can only +helplessly follow its lead, and be amazed at its creations. And +yet, sometimes, in a dream of tragic intensity, as one begins to +awake, a third person seems to intervene, and says reassuringly +that it is only a dream. This intervention seems to disconcert the +inventor, who then promptly retires, while it brings sudden relief +to the timid and frightened observer. It would seem then that the +rational self reasserts itself, and that the two personalities, one +of which has been creating and the other observing, come in like +dogs to heel. + +Another very curious part of dreams is that they concern themselves +so very little with the current thoughts of life. My dreams are +mostly composed, as I have said, of landscapes, ceremonies, +conversations, sensational adventures, muddling engagements. When I +was a schoolmaster, I seldom dreamed of school; now that I am no +longer a schoolmaster, I do sometimes dream of school, of trying to +keep order in immense classrooms, or hurrying about in search of my +form. When I had my long and dreary illness, lasting for two years, +I invariably had happy dreams. Now that I am well again, I often +have dreams of causeless and poignant melancholy. It is the rarest +thing in the world for me to be able to connect my dreams with +anything which has recently happened; I cannot say that marvellous +landscapes, ceremonies, conversations with exalted personages, +sensational incidents, play any considerable part in my life; and +yet these are the constituent elements in my dreams. The scientific +students of psychology say that the principal stuff of dreams seems +to be furnished by the early experience of life; and when they are +dealing with mental ailments, they say that delusions and +obsessions are often explained by the study of the dreams of +diseased brains, which point as a rule either to some unfulfilled +desire, or to some severe nervous shock sustained in childhood. But +I cannot discern any predominant cause of my own elaborate visions; +the only physical cause which seems to me to be very active in +producing dreams is if I am either too hot or too cold in bed. A +sudden change of temperature in the night is the one thing which +seems to me quite certain to produce a great crop of dreams. + +Another very curious fact about my dreams is that I am wholly +deserted by any moral sense. I have stolen interesting objects, I +have even killed people in dreams, without adequate cause; but I am +then entirely devoid of remorse, and only anxious to escape +detection. I have never felt anything of the nature of shame or +regret in a dream. I find myself anxious indeed, but fertile in +expedients for escaping unscathed. On the other hand, certain +emotions are very active in dreams. I sometimes appear to go with a +brother or sister through the rooms or gardens of a house, which on +awaking proves to be wholly imaginary, and recall with my companion +all sorts of pathetic and delightful incidents of childhood which +seem to have taken place there. + +Again, though much of my life is given to writing, I hardly ever +find myself composing anything in a dream. Once I wrote a poem in +my sleep, a curious Elizabethan lyric, which may be found in the +Oxford Book of Verse, called "The Phoenix." It is not the sort of +thing that I have ever written before or since. It came to me on +the night before my birthday, in 1891, I think, when I was staying +with a friend at the Dun Bull Hotel, by Hawes Water in Westmorland. +I scribbled the lyric down on awaking. I afterwards added a verse, +thinking the poem incomplete. I published it in a book of poems, +and showed the proof to a friend, who said to me, pointing to the +added stanza: "Ah, you must omit that stanza--it is quite out of +keeping with the rest of the poem!" + +But this is a quite unique experience, except that I once dreamed I +was present at a confirmation service, at which a very singular +hymn was sung, which I recollected on waking, and which is far too +grotesque to write down, being addressed, as it was, to the bishop +who was to perform the rite. At the time, however, it seemed to me +both moving and appropriate. + +It is often said that dreams only take place either when one is +just going to sleep or beginning to awake. But that is not my +experience. I have occasionally been awakened suddenly by some loud +sound, and on those occasions I have come out of dreams of an +intensity and vividness that I have never known equalled. Neither +is it true in my experience that dreamful sleep is unrefreshing. I +should say it was rather the other way. Profound and heavy sleep is +generally to me a sign that I am not very well; but a sleep full of +happy and interesting dreams is generally succeeded by a feeling of +freshness and gaiety, as if one had been both rested and well +entertained. + +These are only a few scattered personal experiences, and I have no +philosophy of dreams to suggest. It is in my case an inherited +power. My father was the most vivid and persistent dreamer I have +ever met, and his dreams had a quality of unexpectedness and +interest of which I have never known the like. The dream of his, +which I have told in his biography, of the finding of the grave of +the horse of Titus Oates, seems to me one of the most extraordinary +pieces of invention I have ever heard, because of the conversation +which took place before he realised what the slab actually was. + +He dreamed that he was standing in Westminster Abbey with Dean +Stanley, looking at a small cracked slab of slate with letters on +it. "We've found it," said Stanley. "Yes," said my father, "and how +do you account for it?" "Why," said Stanley, "I suppose it is +intended to commemorate the fact that the animal innocence was not +affected by the villainies of the master." "Of course!" said my +father, who was still quite unaware what the inscription referred +to. He then saw on the slab the letters ITI CAPITANI, and knew that +the stone was one that had marked the grave of Titus Oates' horse, +and that the whole inscription must have been EQUUS TITI CAPITANI,- +-"The horse of Titus the Captain"--the "Captain" referring to the +fact that my father then recollected that Titus Oates had been a +Train-band Captain. + +My only really remarkable dream containing a presentiment or rather +a clairvoyance of a singular kind, hardly explicable as a mere +coincidence, has occurred to me since I began this paper. + +On the night of December 8, 1914, I dreamed that I was walking +along a country road, between hedges. To the left was a little +country house, in a park. I was proposing to call there, to see, I +thought, an old friend of mine, Miss Adie Browne, who has been dead +for some years, though in my dream I thought of her as alive. + +I came up with four people, walking along the road in the same +direction as myself. There was an elderly man, a younger man, red- +haired, walking very lightly, in knickerbockers, and two boys whom +I took to be the sons of the younger man. I recognised the elder +man as a friend, though I cannot now remember who he appeared to +be. He nodded and smiled to me, and I joined the party. Just as I +did so, the younger man said, "I am going to call on a lady, an +elderly cousin of mine, who lives here!" He said this to his +companions, not to me, and I became aware that he was speaking of +Miss Adie Browne. The older man said to me, "You have not been +introduced," and then, presenting the younger man, he said, "This +is Lord Radstock!" We shook hands and I said, "Do you know, I am +very much surprised; I understood Lord Radstock to be a much older +man!" + +I do not remember any more of the dream; but it had been very +vivid, and when I was called, I went over it in my mind. A few +minutes later, the Times of December 9 was brought to my bedroom, +and opening it, I saw the sudden death of Lord Radstock announced. +I had not known that he was ill, and indeed had never thought of +him for years; but the strange thing is this, that he was a cousin +of Miss Adie Browne's, and she used to tell me interesting stories +about him. I do not suppose that since her death I have ever heard +his name mentioned, and I had never met him. So that, as a matter +of fact, when I dreamed my dream, the old Lord Radstock was dead, +and his son, who is a man of fifty-four, was the new Lord Radstock. +The man I saw in my dream was not, I should say, more than about +forty-five; but I remember little of him, except that he had red +hair. + +I do not take in an evening paper, but I do not think there was any +announcement of Lord Radstock's illness, on the previous day; in +fact his death seems to have been quite sudden and unexpected. +Apart from coincidence, the rational explanation might be that my +mind was in some sort of telepathic communication with that of my +old and dear friend Miss Adie Browne, who is indeed often in my +mind, and one would also have to presuppose that her spirit was +likewise aware of her cousin Lord Radstock's death. I do not +advance this as the only explanation, but it seems to me a not +impossible one of a mysterious affair. + +My conclusion, such as it is, would be that the rational and moral +faculties are in suspense in dreams, and that it is a wholly +primitive part of one's essence that is at work. The creative power +seems to be very strong, and to have a vigorous faculty of +combining and exaggerating the materials of memory; but it deals +mainly with rather childish emotions, with shapes and colours, with +impressive and distinguished people, with things marvellous and +sensational, with troublesome and perplexed adventures. It does not +go far in search of motives; in the train-catching dreams, for +instance, I never know exactly where I am going, or what is the +object of my journey; in the ceremonial dreams, I seldom have any +notion of what is being celebrated. + +But what I cannot in the least understand is the complete +withdrawal of consciousness from the inventive part of the mind, +especially when the observant part is so eagerly and alertly aware +of all that is happening. Moreover, I can never understand the +curious way in which dream-experiences, so vivid at the time, melt +away upon awakening. If one rehearses a dream in memory the moment +one awakes, it becomes a very distinct affair. If one does not do +this, it fades swiftly, and though one has a vague sense of rich +adventures, half an hour later there seems to be no power whatever +of recovering them. + +Strangest of all, the inventive power in dreams seems to have a +range and an intensity which does not exist when one is awake. I +have not the slightest power, in waking life, of conceiving and +visualising the astonishing landscapes which I see in dreams. I can +recall actual scenes with great distinctness, but the glowing +colour and the prodigious forms of my landscape visions are wholly +beyond my power of thought. + +Lastly, I have never had any dream of any real or vital +significance, any warning or presentiment, anything which bore in +the least degree upon the issues of life. + +There is a beautiful passage in the "Purgatorio" of Dante about the +dawn: he writes + + + In that hour + When near the dawn the swallow her sad song, + Haply remembering ancient grief, renews; + And when our minds, more wanderers from the flesh + And less by thought restrained, are, as 't were, full + Of holy divination in their dreams. + + +I suppose that it would be possible to interpret one's dreams +symbolically; but in my own case my dream-experiences all seem to +belong to a wholly different person from myself, a light-hearted, +childish, careless creature, full of animation and inquisitiveness, +buoyant and thoughtless, content to look neither forwards nor +backwards, wholly without responsibility or intelligence, just +borne along by the pleasure of the moment, perfectly harmless and +friendly as a rule, a sort of cheerful butterfly. That is not in +the least my waking temperament; but it fills me sometimes with an +uneasy suspicion that it is more like myself than I know. + + + + + + +X + +THE VISITANT + + + + + +I am going to try to put into words a very singular and very +elusive experience which visits me not infrequently. I cannot say +when it began, but I first became aware of it about four years ago. + +It takes the form of an instantaneous mental vision, not very +distinct but still not to be mistaken for anything else, of two +people, a husband and wife, who are living somewhere in a large +newly built house. The husband is a man of, I suppose, about forty-- +the wife is a trifle younger, and they are childless. The husband +is an active, well-built man with light, almost golden hair, rather +coarse in texture, and with a pointed beard of the same hue. He has +fine, clean-cut, muscular hands, and he wears, as I see him, a +rough, rather shabby suit of light, homespun cloth. The wife is of +fair complexion, a beautiful woman, with brown hair, and dressed, I +think, in a very simple and rather peculiar dress. They are people +of high principle, wealthy, and with cultivated tastes. They care +for music and books and art. The husband has no profession. They +live in a wide, well-wooded landscape, I am inclined to think in +Sussex, in a newly built house, as I have said, of white plaster +and timber, tiled, with many gables and with two large, bow- +windowed rooms, rather low, the big mullioned oriels of which, with +leaded roofs, are a rather conspicuous feature of the house. The +house stands on a slightly rising ground, in a park-like demesne +of a few acres, well timbered, and with open paddocks of grass. The +house is approached by a drive from the main road, with two big +gateposts of brick, and a white gate between. To the right of the +house among the trees is the louvre of a stable. There is a terrace +just in front of the house, full of flowers, with a low brick wall +in front of it separating it from the field. I see the house and +its surroundings more clearly than I see the figures themselves. + +I cannot see the interior of the house at all clearly, with the +exception of one room. I do not know where the front door is, nor +have I ever seen any of the upper rooms. The one exception is a big +room on the right of the house as one looks at it from the main +road. This room I see with great distinctness. It is large and low, +papered with a white paper and with a parquetry floor, designed for +a music room. There is a grand piano, but what I see most clearly +are a good many books, rather inconveniently placed in low white +bookcases which run round most of the room, under the windows, with +three shelves in each. It seems to me to be a bad arrangement, +because it would be necessary to stoop down so much for the books, +but I do not think that there is much reading done in the room. +There are several low armchairs draped in a highly coloured chintz +with a white ground; there are pictures on the walls, but I cannot +see them distinctly. I think they are water-colours. The curtains +are of a very peculiar and bright blue. A low window-seat runs +round the oriel, with cushions of the same blue. It is in this room +only that I see the two people, always together; and I have never +seen anyone else in the house. They are seen in certain definite +positions, oftenest standing together looking out of the window, +which must face the west, because I see the sunset out of it. As a +rule, the woman's hand is passed through the man's arm. + +The vision simply flashes across my mind like a picture, whatever I +am doing at the time. Sometimes I see it several times in a week, +sometimes not for weeks together. I should recognise the house in a +moment if I saw it; I do not think I should recognise the people. I +cannot see the shapes of their features or their expressions, but I +can see the bloom on the wife's cheek and its pure outline. + +To the best of my knowledge I have never seen either the people or +the house in real life; and yet I have strongly the sense that it +is a real house and that the people are real. it does not seem to +me like a mere imagination, because it comes too distinctly and too +accurately for that. Nor does it seem to me to be a mere +combination of things which I have seen. The curious part of it is +that some parts of the vision are absolutely clear--thus I can see +the very texture of the smooth plaster of the house, and the oak +beams inset; and I can also see the fabric of the man's clothes and +the colour of his hair; but, however much I interrogate my memory +or my fancy about other details, they are all involved in a sort of +mist which I cannot pierce. It is this which convinces me of the +reality of the house, and makes me believe that it is not +imagination; because, if it were, I think I should have enlarged my +vision of the whole; but this I cannot do. There is a door, for +instance, in the music-room, which is sometimes open, but even so +I cannot see anything outside in the hall or passage to which it +leads. Moreover, though I can recollect the visions with absolute +distinctness, I cannot evoke them. I may be reading or writing, and +I suddenly see in my mind the house across the meadows; or I am in +the music-room, and the two figures are standing together in the +window. + +So strongly do I feel the actuality of it all, that if this book +should fall into the hands of the people to whom the vision refers, +I will ask them to communicate with me. I have no idea what their +past has been, but I know their characters well. The fact that they +have no children is a sorrow to them, but has served to centre +their affections strongly on each other. The husband is a very +tranquil and unaffected man. There is no sort of pose about his +life. He just lives as he likes best. He is unambitious, and he has +no sense of a duty owed to others. But this is not coupled with any +sense of contempt or aloofness--he is invariably kind and gentle. +He is an intellectual man, highly trained and clear-minded. The +wife has less knowledge of the technique of artistic things, but a +very fine, natural, critical taste. She cares, however, less for +the things themselves than because her husband cares for them; but +I do not think that she knows this. They have always enjoyed good +health, and I cannot discern that they have had troubles of any +kind. And I have the strongest sense of a perfectly natural high- +mindedness about both, a healthy instinct for what is right and +fine. They are absolutely without meanness; and they are entirely +free from any sort of morbidity or dreariness. They have travelled +a good deal, but they now seldom leave home; they designed and +built their own house. One curious thing is that I have never heard +music in the house, nor have I ever seen them reading, and yet I +feel that they are much occupied with music and books. + +What is the possible explanation of this curious vision? I have +sometimes wondered if they have been brought into some unconscious +rapport with me through one of my books. It seems to me just +possible that when I have seen them standing together there may be +some phrase in one of my books which has struck them and which they +are accustomed to remember; and I think it may be some phrase about +the sunset, because it is at sunset that I generally see them. But +this does not explain my vision of the house, because I have never +seen either of them outside of the house, and I have several times +seen the music-room with no one in it; how does the vision of the +house, which is so strangely distinct, come to me? + +They inspire me with a great feeling of respect and friendship; the +vision is very beautiful, and is always attended by a great sense +of pleasure. I feel that it does me good in some obscure way to be +brought into touch with them. Yet I can never retain my hold on the +scene for more than an instant; it is just there and then it is +gone. + +It is a very strange thing to be conscious of two quite distinct +personalities, and yet without any power of winding myself any +further into their thoughts. There seems to be no vital contact. I +am admitted, as it were, at certain times to a sight of the place, +but I am sure that there is no sort of volition on their part about +it; I do not feel that their thoughts are ever bent actually upon +me, as I exist, but perhaps upon something connected with me. + +I must add that, though I am a great dreamer at night and have +always at all times a strong power of mental visualisations, I am +not accustomed to be controlled by it, but rather to control it; +and I have never at any time had any sort of similar vision, of a +thing apart from memory or fancy. + +I do believe very firmly in the telepathic faculty. I think that +our thoughts are much affected both consciously and unconsciously +by the thoughts of others. I believe thought takes place in a +spiritual medium and that there is much interlacing and +transference of thought. I have never tried any definite +experiments in it, but I have had frequent evidence of my thoughts +being affected by the thoughts of my friends. It seems to me that +this may be a case of some open channel of communication, as if two +wires had become in some way entangled. The whole method of thought +is so obscure that it is hard to say under what conditions this +takes place. But I allow myself the happiness of believing that the +place and the people of whom I have been so often aware are real +and tangible existences, and that impressions of things unseen and +unrecognised by me have passed into my brain, so that some secret +fellowship has been established. It would be a great joy to me if +this could be definitely established; and I am not without hopes +that this piece of writing may by some happy chance be the bearer +of definite tidings to two people whom unseen I love, and whose +thought may have been bent aimlessly perhaps and indistinctly upon +mine, but never without some touch of kinship and goodwill. + + + + + + +XI + +THAT OTHER ONE + + + + + +I am going to try, in these few pages, to draw water out of a deep +well--the well of which William Morris wrote as the "Well at the +World's End." I shall try to describe a very strange and secret +experience, which visits me rarely and at unequal intervals; +sometimes for weeks together not at all, sometimes several times in +a day. When it happens it is not strange at all, nor wonderful; the +only wonder about it is that it does not happen more often, because +it seems at the moment to be the one true thing in a world of vain +shadows; everything else falls away, becomes accidental and remote, +like the lights, let me say, of some unknown town, which one sees +as one travels by night and as one twitches aside the curtain from +the window of a railway-carriage, in a sudden interval between two +profound slumbers. The train has relaxed its speed; one looks out; +the red and green signal lamps hang high in the air; and one glides +past a sleeping town, the lamps burning quietly in deserted +streets; there are house-fronts below, in a long thoroughfare +suddenly visible from end to end; above, there are indeterminate +shadows, the glimmering faces of high towers; it is all ghost-like +and mysterious; one only knows that men live and work there; and +then the tides of slumber flow in upon the brain, and one dives +thirstily to the depths of sleep. + +Before I say more about it, I will just relate my last taste of the +mood. I was walking alone in the autumn landscape; bare fields +about me; the trees of a village to my right touched sharply with +gold and russet red; some white-gabled cottages clustered +together, and there was a tower among the trees; it was near +sunset, and the sun seemed dragging behind him to the west long +wisps of purple and rusty clouds touched with fire; below me to the +left a stream passing slowly among rushes and willow-beds, all +beautiful and silent and remote. I had an anxious matter in my +mind, a thing that required, so it seemed to me, careful +deliberation to steer a right course among many motives and +contingencies. I had gone out alone to think it over. I weighed +this against that, and it seemed to me that I was headed off by +some obstacle whichever way I turned. Whatever I desired to do +appeared to be disadvantageous and even hurtful. "Yes," I said to +myself, "this is one of those cases where whatever I do, I shall +wish I had done differently! I see no way out." It was then that a +deeper voice still seemed to speak in me, the voice of something +strong and quiet and even indolent, which seemed half-amused, +half-vexed, by my perturbation. It said, "When you have done +reasoning and pondering, I will decide." Then I thought that a sort +of vague, half-spoken, half-dumb dialogue followed. + +"What are you?" I said. "What right have you to interfere?" + +The other voice did not trouble to answer; it only seemed to laugh +a lazy laugh. + +"I am trying to think this all out," I said, half-ashamed, half- +vexed. "You may help me if you will; I am perplexed--I see no way +out of it!" + +"Oh, you may think as much as you like," said the other voice. "I +am in no hurry, I can wait." + +"But I AM in a hurry," I said, "and I cannot wait. This has got to +be settled somehow, and without delay." + +"I shall decide when the time comes," said the voice to me. + +"Yes, but you do not understand," I said, feeling partly irritated +and partly helpless. "There is this and that, there is so-and-so to +be considered, there is the effect on these other persons to be +weighed; there is my own position too--I must think of my health-- +there are a dozen things to be taken into account." + +"I know," said the voice; "I do not mind your balancing all these +things if you wish. I shall take no heed of that! I repeat that, +when you have finished thinking it out, I shall decide." + +"Then you know what you mean to do?" said I, a little angered. + +"No, I do not know just yet," said the voice; "but I shall know +when the time comes; there will be no doubt at all." + +"Then I suppose I shall have to do what you decide?" I said, angry +but impressed. + +"Yes, you will do what I decide," said the voice; "you know that +perfectly well." + +"Then what is the use of my taking all this trouble?" I said. + +"Oh, you may just as well look into it," said the voice; "that is +your part! You are only my servant, after all. You have got to work +the figures and the details out, and then I shall settle. Of course +you must do your part--it is not all wasted. What is wasted is your +fretting and fussing!" + +"I am anxious," I said. "I cannot help being anxious!" + +"That is a pity!" said the voice. "It hurts you and it hurts me +too, in a way. You disturb me, you know; but I cannot interfere +with you; I must wait." + +"But are you sure you will do right?" I said. + +"I shall do what must be done," said the voice. "If you mean, shall +I regret my choice, that is possible; at least you may regret it. +But it will not have been a mistake." + +I was puzzled at this, and for a time the voice was silent, so that +I had leisure to look about me. I had walked some way while the +dialogue went on, and I was now by the stream, which ran full and +cold into a pool beside the bridge, a pool like a clouded jewel. +How beautiful it was! . . . The old thoughts began again, the old +perplexities. "If he says THAT," I said to myself, thinking of an +opponent of my plan, "then I must be prepared with an answer--it +is a weak point in my case; perhaps it would be better to write; +one says what one thinks; not what one means to say. . . ." + +"Still at work?" said the voice. "You are having a very +uncomfortable time over there. I am sorry for that! Yet I cannot +think why you do not understand!" + +"What ARE you?" I said impatiently. + +There was no answer to that. + +"You seem very strong and patient!" I said at last. "I think I +rather like you, and I am sure that I trust you; but you irritate +me, and you will not explain. Cannot you help me a little? You seem +to me to be out of sight--the other side of a wall. Cannot you +break it down or look over?" + +"You would not like that," said the voice; "it would be +inconvenient, even painful; it would upset your plans very much. +Tell me--you like life, do you not?" + +"Yes," I said, "I like life--at least I am very much interested in +it. I do not feel sure if I like it; I think you know that better +than I do. Tell me, do I like it?" + +"Yes," said the voice; "at least I do. You have guessed right for +once; it matters more what I like than what you like. You see, I +believe in God, for one thing." + +"So do I," I said eagerly. "I have reached that point! I am sure He +is there. It is largely a question of argument, and I have really +no doubt, no doubt at all. There are difficulties of course-- +difficulties about personality and intention; and then there is the +origin of evil--I have thought much about that, and I have arrived +at a solution; it is this. I can explain it best by an analogy. . . ." + +There came a laugh from the other side of the wall, not a scornful +laugh or an idle laugh, but a laugh kind and compassionate, like a +father with a child on his knee; and the voice said, "I have seen +Him--I see Him! He is here all about us, and He is yonder. He is +not coming to meet us, as you think. . . . Dear me, how young you +must be. . . . I had forgotten." + +This struck me dumb for an instant; then I said, "You frighten me! +Who are you, what are you, . . . WHERE are you?" + +And then the voice said, in a tone of the deepest and sweetest +love, as if surprised and a little pained, "My child!" + +And then I heard it no more; and I went back to my cares and +anxieties. But it was as the voice had said, and when the time came +to decide, I had no doubt at all what to do. + +Now I have told all this in the nearest and simplest words that I +can find. I have had to use similitudes of voices and laughter and +partition-walls, because one can only use the language which one +knows. But it is all quite true and real, more real than a hundred +talks which one holds with men and women whose face and dress one +sees in rooms and streets, and with whom one bandies words about +things for which one does not care. There was indeed some one +present with me, whom I knew perfectly well though I could not +discern him, whom I had known all my life, who had gone about with +me and shared all my experiences, in so far as he chose. But before +I go on to speak further, I will tell one more experience, which +came at a time when I was very unhappy, longing to escape from +life, looking forward mournfully to death. + +It had been under similar circumstances--a dreadful argument +proceeding in my mind as to what I could do to get back to +happiness again, whom to consult, where to go, whether to give up +my work, whether to add to it, what diet to use, how to get sleep +which would not visit me. + +"Can't you help me?" I said over and over again to the other +person. At last the answer came, very faint and far away. + +"I am sick," said the voice, "and I cannot come forth!" + +That frightened me exceedingly, because I felt alone and weak. So I +said, "Is it my fault? Is it anything that I have done?" + +"I have had a blow," said the other voice. "You dealt it me--but it +is not your fault--you did not know." + +"What can I do?" I said. + +"Ah, nothing," said the voice. "You must not disturb me! I am +trying to recover, and I shall recover. Go on with your play, if +you can, and do not heed me." + +"My play!" I said scornfully. "Do you not know I am miserable?" + +The voice gave a sigh. "You hurt me," it said. "I am weak and +faint; but you can help me; be as brave as you can. Try not to +think or grieve. I shall be able to help you again soon, but not +now. . . . Ah, leave me to myself," it added. "I must sleep, a long +sleep; it is your turn to help!" + +And then I heard no more; till a day long after, when the voice +came to me on a bright morning by the sea, with the clear waves +breaking and hissing on the shingle; the voice came blithe and +strong, "I am well again; you have done your part, dear one! Give +me your burden, and I will carry it; it is your time of joy!" + +And then for a long time after that I did not hear the voice, and I +was full of delight, hour by hour, grudging even the time I must +spend in sleep, because it kept me from the life I loved. + +These then are some of the talks we have held together, that Other +One and I. But I must say this, that he will not always come for +being called. I sometimes call to him and get no answer; sometimes +he cries out beside me suddenly in the air. He seems to have a life +of his own, quite distinct from mine. Sometimes when I am fretted +and vexed, he is quietly joyful and elate, and then my troubles die +away, like the footsteps of the wind upon water; and sometimes when +I would be happy and contented, he is heavy and displeased, and +takes no heed of me; and then I too fall into sorrow and gloom. He +is much the stronger, and it matters far more to me what he feels +than what I feel. I do not know how he is occupied--very little, I +think, and what is strangest of all, he changes somewhat; very +slowly and imperceptibly; but he has changed more than I have in +the course of my life. I do not change at all, I think. I can say +better what I think, I am more accomplished and skilful; but the +thought and motive is unaltered from what it was when I was a +child. But he is different in some ways. I have only gone on +perceiving and remembering, and sometimes forgetting. But he does +not forget; and here I feel that I have helped him a little, as a +servant can help his master to remember the little things he has to +do. + +I think that many people must have similar experiences to this. +Tennyson had, when he wrote "The Two Voices," and I have seen hints +of the same thing in a dozen books. The strange thing is that it +does not help one more to be strong and brave, because I know this, +if I know anything, that when the anxious and careful part of me +lies down at last to rest, I shall slip past the wall which now +divides us, and be clasped close in the arms of that Other One; +nay, it will be more than that! I shall be merged with him, as the +quivering water-drop is merged with the fountain; that will be a +blessed peace; and I shall know, I think, without any questioning +or wondering, many things that are obscure to me now, under these +low-hung skies, which after all I love so well. . . . + + + + + + +XII + +SCHOOLDAYS + + + + + +1 + + +It certainly seems, looking back to the early years, that I have +altered very little--hardly at all, in fact! The little thing, +whatever it is, that sits at the heart of the machine, the speck of +soul-stuff that is really ME, is very much the same creature, +neither old nor young; confident, imperturbable, with a strange +insouciance of its own, knowing what it has to do. I have done many +things, gathered many impressions, ransacked experience, enjoyed, +suffered; but whatever I have argued, expressed, tried to believe, +aimed at, hoped, feared, has hardly affected that central core of +life at all. And I feel as though that strange, dumb, cheerful +self--it is always cheerful, I think--had played the part all along +of a silent and not very critical spectator of all I have tried to +be. The mind, the reason, the emotion, have each of them expanded, +acquired knowledge, learned skill, but that innermost cell has lain +there, sleepless, perceptive, dreaming head on hand, watching, +seldom making a sign of either approval or disapproval. + +In childhood it was more dominant than it is now, perhaps. It went +its way more securely, because, in my case at least, the mind was, +in those far-off days, strangely inactive. The whole nature was +bent upon observation. Ruskin is the only writer who has described +what was precisely my own experience, when he says that as a child +he lived almost entirely in the region of SIGHT. It was the only +part of me, the eye, that was then furiously and untiringly awake. +Taste, smell, touch, had each of them at moments a sharp +consciousness; but it was the shape, the form, the appearance of +things, that interested me, took up most of my time and energy, +occupied me unceasingly. Even now my memory ranges, with lively +precision, over the home, the garden, the heathery moorland, the +firwoods, the neighbouring houses of the scene where I lived. I can +see the winding walks, the larch shrubberies, the flower-borders, +the very grain of the brickwork; while in the house itself, the +wall papers, the furniture, the patterns of carpets and chintzes, +are all absolutely clear to the memory. + +Thus I lived, from day to day and from year to year, in the moment +as it passed; but I remember no touch of speculation or curiosity +as to how or why things existed as they did. The house, the +arrangements, the servants, the meal-times, the occupations were +all simply accepted as they were, just the will of my parents +taking shape. I never thought of interrogating or altering +anything. Life came to me just so. I remember no sharp emotions, no +dominant affections. My parents seemed to me kind and powerful; but +it did not occur to me that, if I had died, they would feel any +particular grief. I was just a part of their arrangements; and my +idea of life was simply to manage so that I should be as little +interfered with as possible, and go my way, annexing such little +property as I could, and learning the appearance of the things that +were too large to be annexed. + +Then my elder brother went off to school. I do not remember being +sorry, or missing his company; in fact, I rather welcomed the +additional independence it gave me. I was glad in a mild way when +he came back for the holidays; but I do not recollect the faintest +curiosity about what he did at school, or what it was all like. He +told us some stories about boys and masters; but it was all quite +remote, like a fairy-tale; and then the time gradually drew near +when I too was to go to school; but I remember neither interest or +curiosity or excitement or anxiety. I think I rather enjoyed a few +extra presents, and the packing of my school-box with a +consciousness of proprietorship. And then the day came, and I +drifted off like thistledown into the big world. + + +2 + + +My father and mother took us down to school. It was a fine place +at Mortlake, called Temple Grove, near Richmond Park. Mortlake was +hardly more than an old-fashioned village then, in the country, not +joined to London as it is now by streets and rows of villas. It was +a place of big suburban mansions, with high walls everywhere, +cedars looking over, towering chestnuts, big classical gate-posts. +Temple Grove, so called from the statesman, the patron of Swift, +was a large, solid, handsome house with fine rooms, and large +grounds well timbered. Schoolrooms and dormitories had been tacked +on to the house, but all built in a solid, spacious way. It was +dignified, but bare and austere. We arrived, and went in to see the +headmaster, Mr. Waterfield, a tall, handsome, extremely alarming +man, with curled hair and beard and flashing eyes. He was a fine +gentleman, a brilliant talker, and an excellent teacher, though +unnecessarily severe. I had been used to see my father, who was +then himself headmaster of Wellington College, treated with obvious +deference; but Waterfield, who was an old family friend, met him +with a dignified sort of equality. My parents went in to luncheon +with the family. My brother and I crawled off to the school dinner; +he of course had many friends, and I was plunged, shy and +bewildered, into the middle of them. There were over a hundred boys +there. Some of them seemed to me alarmingly old and strong; but my +brother's friends were kind to me, and I remember thinking at first +that it was going to be a very pleasant sort of place. Then in the +early afternoon my parents went off; we went to the station with +them, and I said good-bye without any particular emotion. It seemed +to me a nice easy kind of life. But as my brother and I walked +away, between the high-walled gardens, back to the school, the +first shadow fell. He was strangely silent and dull, I thought; and +then he turned to me, and in an accent of tragedy which I had never +heard him use before, he said, "Thirteen weeks at this beastly +place!" + +I took a high place for my age, and after due examination in the +big schoolroom, where four masters were teaching at estrades, with +little rows of lockered desks much hacked and carved, arranged +symmetrically round each, the big fireplace guarded with high iron +bars, I was led across the room, and committed to the care of a +little, pompous, stout man, with big side-whiskers, a reddish nose, +and an air half irritable, half good-natured, in a short gown, who +was holding forth to a class. It was all complete: I had my place +and my duty before me; and then gradually day by day the life +shaped itself. I had a little cubicle in a high dormitory. There +was the big, rather frowsy dining-room, where we took our meals; a +large comfortable library where we could sit and read; outside +there were two or three cricket fields, a gravelled yard for drill, +a gymnasium; and beyond that stretched what were called "the +grounds," which seemed to me then and still seem a really beautiful +place. It had all been elaborately laid out; there was a big lawn, +low-lying, where there had once been a lake, shrubberies and +winding walks, a ruinous building, with a classical portico, on the +top of a wooded mound, a kitchen garden and paddocks for cows +beyond; and on each side the walls and palings of other big +mansions, all rather grand and mysterious. And there within that +little space my life was to be spent. + +The only sight we ever had of the outer world was that we went on +Sundays to an extraordinarily ugly and tasteless modern church, +where the services were hideously performed; and occasionally we +were allowed to go over to Richmond with a shilling or two of +pocket-money to shop; and sometimes there were walks, a dozen boys +with a good-natured master rambling about Richmond Park, with its +forest clumps and its wandering herds of deer, all very dim and +beautiful to me. + +Very soon I settled in my own mind that it was a detestable place. +Yet I was never bullied or molested in any way. The tone of the +place was incredibly good; not one word or hint of moral evil did I +ever hear there during the whole two years I spent there, so that I +left the school as innocent as I had entered it. + +But it was a place of terrors and solitude. There were rules which +one did not know, and might unawares break. I did not, I believe, +make a single real friend there. I liked a few of the boys, but was +wholly bent on guarding my inner life from everyone. The work was +always easy to me, the masters were good-natured and efficient. But +I lived entirely in dreams of the holidays--home had become a +distant heavenly place; and I recollect waking early in the summer +mornings, hearing the scream of peacocks in a neighbouring +pleasaunce, and thinking with a sickening disgust of the strict, +ordered routine of the place, no one to care about, dull work to be +done, nothing to enjoy or to be interested in. There were games, +but they were not much organised, and I seldom played them. I +wandered about in free times in the grounds, and the only times of +delight that I recollect were when one buried oneself in a book in +the library, and dived into imaginations. + +The place was well managed; we were wholesomely fed; but there had +grown up a strange kind of taboo about many of the things we were +supposed to eat. I had a healthy appetite, but the tradition was +that all the food was unutterably bad, adulterated, hocussed. The +theory was that one must just eat enough to sustain life. There +was, for instance, an excellent tapioca pudding served on certain +days; but no one was allowed to eat it. The law was that it had to +be shovelled into envelopes and afterwards cast away in the +playground. I do not know if the masters saw this--it was never +adverted upon--and I did it ruefully enough. The consequence was +that one lived hungrily in the midst of plenty, and food became the +one prepossession of life. + +I was a delicate boy in those days, and used often to be sent off +to the sanatorium with bad throats and other ailments. It was a +little, old-fashioned house in Mortlake, and the matron of it had +been an old servant of our own. She was the only person there whom +I regarded with real affection, and to go to the sanatorium was +like heaven. One had a comfortable room, and dear Louisa used to +embrace and kiss me stealthily, provide little treats for me, take +me out walks. I have spent many hours happily in the little walled +garden there, with its big box trees, or gazing from a window into +the street, watching the grocer over the way set out his shop- +window. + +Of incidents, tragic or comic, I remember but few. I saw a stupid +boy vigorously caned with a sickening extremity of horror. I +recollect a "school licking" being given to an ill-conditioned boy +for a nasty piece of bullying. The boys ranged themselves down the +big schoolroom, and the culprit had to run the gauntlet. I can see +his ugly, tear-stained face coming slowly along among a shower of +blows. I joined in with a will, I remember, though I hardly knew +what he had done. I remember a few afternoons spent at the houses +of friendly masters; but otherwise it was all a drab starved sort +of level, a life lived by a rule, with no friendships, no +adventures; I marked off the days before the holidays on a little +calendar, simply bent on hiding what I was or thought or felt from +everyone, with a fortitude that was not in the least stoical. What +I was afraid of I hardly know; my aim was to be absolutely +inoffensive and ordinary, to do what everyone else did, to avoid +any sort of notice. I was a strange mixture of indifference and +sensitiveness. I did not in the least care how I was regarded, I +had no ambitions of any kind, did not want to be liked, or to +succeed, or to make an impression; while I was very sensitive to +the slightest comment or ridicule. It seems strange to me now that +I should have hated the life with such an intensity of repugnance, +for no harm or ill-usage ever befell me; but if that was life, +well, I did not like it! I trusted no one; I neither wanted nor +gave confidences. The term was just a dreary interlude in home +life, to be lived through with such indifference as one could +muster. + +I spent two years there; and remember my final departure with my +brother. I never wanted to see or hear of anyone there again-- +masters, servants, or boys. It was a case of good-bye for ever, and +thank God! And I remember with what savage glee and delicious +anticipation I saw the last of the high-walled house, with its +roofs and wings, its great gate-posts and splendid cedars. I could +laugh at its dim terrors on regaining my freedom; but I had not the +least spark of gratitude or loyalty; such kindnesses as I received +I had taken dumbly, never thinking that they arose out of any +affection or interest, but treating them as the unaccountable +choice of my elders;--we stopped for an instant at the little +sanatorium--that had been a happy place at least--and I was +tearfully hugged to Louisa's ample bosom, Louisa alone being a +little sorry that I should be so glad to get away. + +I do not think that the life there, sensible, healthy, and well- +ordered as it was, did me much good. I was a happy enough boy in +home life, but had little animal spirits, and none of the +boisterous, rough-and-tumble ebullience of boyhood. I was shy and +sensitive; but I doubt if it was well that interest, enjoyment, +emotion, should all have been so utterly starved as they were. It +made me suspicious of life, and incurious about it; I did not like +its loud sounds, its combative merriment, its coarse flavours; the +real life, that of observation, imagination, dreams, fancies, had +been hunted into a corner; and the sense that one might incur +ridicule, enmity, severity, dislike, harshness, had filled the air +with uneasy terrors. I came away selfish, able--I had won a +scholarship at Eton with entire ease--innocent, childish, +bewildered, wholly unambitious. The world seemed to me a big, +noisy, stupid place, in which there was no place for me. The little +inner sense of which I have spoken was hardly awake; it had had its +first sight of humanity, and it disliked it; it was still solitary +and silent, finding its own way, and quite unaware that it need +have any relation with other human beings. + + +3 + + +Then came Eton. Into which big place I drifted again in a state +of mild bewilderment. But big as Eton is--it was close on a +thousand boys, when I went there--at no time was I in the least +degree conscious of its size as an uncomfortable element. The truth +is that Eton runs itself on lines far more like a university than a +school: each house is like a college, with its own traditions and +its own authority. There is very little intercourse between the +younger boys at different houses, and there is an instinctive +disapproval among the boys themselves of external relations. The +younger boys of a house play together, to a large extent work +together, and live a common life. It is tacitly understood that a +boy throws in his lot with his own house, and if he makes many +friends outside he is generally unpopular, on the ground that he is +thought to find his natural companions not good enough for him. +Neither have boys of different ages much to do with each other; +each house is divided by parallel lines of cleavage, so that it is +not a weltering mass of boyhood, but a collection of very clearly +defined groups and circles. + +Moreover, in my own time there was no building at Eton which could +hold the whole school, so that on no occasion did I ever see the +school assembled. There were two chapels, the schoolrooms were +considerably scattered; even on the occasions when the headmaster +made a speech to the school, he did not even invite the lower boys +to attend, while there was no compulsion on the upper boys to be +present, so that it was not necessary to go, unless one thought it +likely to be amusing. + +I was myself on the foundation, one of the seventy King's Scholars, +as we were called; we lived in the old buildings; we dined together +in the college hall, a stately Gothic place, over four centuries +old, with a timbered roof, open fireplaces, and portraits of +notable Etonians. We wore cloth gowns in public, and surplices in +the chapel. It was all very grand and dignified, but we were in +those days badly fed, and very little looked after. There were many +ancient and curious customs, which one picked up naturally, and +never thought them either old or curious. For instance, when I +first went there, the small boys, three at a time, waited on the +sixth form at their dinner, being called servitors, handing plates, +pouring out beer, or holding back the long sleeves of the big boys' +gowns, as they carved for themselves at the end of the table. This +was abolished shortly after my arrival as being degrading. But it +never occurred to us that it was anything but amusing; we had the +fun of watching the great men at their meal, and hearing them +gossip. I remember well being kindly but firmly told by the present +Dean of Westminster, then in sixth form, that I must make my +appearance for the future with cleaner hands and better brushed +hair! + +We were kindly and paternally treated by the older boys; I was +assigned as a fag to Reginald Smith, now my publisher. I had to +fill and empty his bath for him, make his tea and toast, call him +in the morning, and run errands. In return for which I was allowed +to do my work peacefully in his room, in the evenings, when the +fags' quarters were noisy, and if I had difficulties about my work, +he was always ready to help me. So normal a thing was it, that I +remember saying indignantly to my tutor, when he marked a false +quantity in one of my verses, "Why, sir, my fagmaster did that!" He +laughed, and said, "Take my compliments to your fagmaster, and tell +him that the first syllable of senator is short!" + +We lived as lower boys in a big room with cubicles, which abutted +on the passage where the sixth form rooms were. It was a noisy +place, with its great open fireplace and huge oak table. If the +noise was excessive, the sixth form intervened; and I remember +being very gently caned, in the company of the present Dean of St. +Paul's, for making a small bonfire of old blotting-paper, which +filled the place with smoke. + +The liberty, after the private school, was astonishing. We had to +appear in school at certain hours, not very numerous; and some +extra work was done with the private tutor; but there was no +supervision, and we were supposed to prepare our work and do our +exercises, when and as we could. There were a few compulsory games, +but otherwise we were allowed to do exactly as we liked. The side +streets of Windsor were out of bounds, but we were allowed to go up +the High Street; we had free access to the castle and park and all +the surrounding country. On half holidays--three a week--our names +were called over; but it left one with a three-hour space in the +afternoon, when we could go exactly where we would. The saints' +days and certain anniversaries were whole holidays, and we were +free from morning to night. Then there was a delightful room, the +old school library, now destroyed, where we could go and read; and +many an hour did I spend there looking vaguely into endless books. +I well remember seeing the present Lord Curzon and one of the +Wallops standing by the fireplace there, and discussing some +political question, and how amazed I was at the profundity of their +knowledge and the dignity of their language. + +But in many ways it was a very isolated life; for a long time I +hardly knew any boys, except just the dozen or so who entered the +place with me. I knew no boys at other houses, except a few in my +school division, and never did more than exchange a few words with +them. One never thought of speaking to a casual boy, unless one +knew him; and there are many men whom I have since known well who +were in the school with me, and with whom I never exchanged a +syllable. + +Though there was a master in college, who read evening prayers, +gave leaves and allowances, and was consulted on matters of +business, he had practically nothing to do with the discipline. +That was all in the hands of the sixth form, who kept order, put up +notices, and were allowed not only to cane but to set lines. No one +ever thought of appealing to the master against them, and their +powers were never abused. But there was very little overt +discipline anywhere. The masters could not inflict corporal +punishment. They could set punishments, and for misbehaviour, or +continued idleness, they could send a boy to the headmaster to be +flogged. But the discipline of the place was instinctive, and +public opinion was infinitely strong. One found out by the light of +nature what one might do and what one might not, and the dread of +being in any way unusual or eccentric was very potent. There were +two or three very ill-governed houses, where things went very wrong +indeed behind the scenes; but as far as public order went, it was +perfect. The boys managed their own games and their own affairs; a +strong sense of subordination penetrated the whole place, and the +old Eton aphorism, that a boy learned to know his place and to keep +it, held good without any sense of coercion or constraint. + +I do not think that the educational system was a good one. In my +days there was little taught besides classics and mathematics and +divinity. There was a little French and science and history; but +the core of the whole thing was undiluted classics. We did a good +deal of composition, Greek and Latin, and the Latin verses were +exercises out of which I got much real enjoyment, and some of the +pride of authorship. But it was possible to be very idle, and to +get much contraband help in work from other boys. Most of the +school work consisted of repetition, and of classical books, dully +and leisurely construed. I do not think I ever attempted to attend +to the work in school; and there were few stimulating teachers. I +needed strict and careful teaching, and got some from my private +tutor; but otherwise there was no individual attention. The net +result was that a few able boys turned out very good scholars, +saturated with classics; but a large number of boys were really not +educated at all. The forms were too large for real supervision; and +as long as one produced adequate exercises, and sat quiet in one's +corner, one was left genially alone. It was not fashionable to +"sap," as it was called; and though a few ambitious boys worked +hard, we most of us lived in a happy-go-lucky way, just doing +enough to pass muster. I took not the faintest interest in my work +for a long time; but I read a great many English books, wrote +poetry in secret, picked up a vague acquaintance, of a very +inaccurate kind, with Latin and Greek, but possessed no exact +knowledge of any sort. + +Gradually, as I rose in the school, a faint idea of social values +shaped itself. Let me say frankly that we were wholly democratic. +There were many wealthy boys, many with titles; but not the +faintest interest was taken in either. I was surprised to find +later on in my career at school, that boys whose names I had known +by hearsay were peers, though at first I had no idea what the +peerage was. Whatever we were free from, we were at all events free +from snobbishness. Athletics were what constituted our aristocracy, +pure and simple. Boys in the eleven and the eight were the heroes +of the place, and the school club called Pop, to which mainly +athletes were elected, enjoyed an absolute supremacy, and indeed +ran the out-of-doors discipline of the school. In fact, on +occasions like big matches, the boys were kept back behind the +lines, by members of Pop parading with canes, and slashing at the +crowd if they came past the boundaries. All the social standing of +boys was settled entirely by athletics. A boy might be clever, +agreeable, manly, a good game-shot, or a rider to hounds in the +holidays, but if he was no good at the prescribed games, he was +nobody at all at Eton. It was wholesome in a sense; but a bad boy +who was a good athlete might and did wield a very evil influence. +Such boys were above criticism. The moral tone was not low so much +as strangely indifferent. A boy's private life was his own affair, +and public opinion exercised no particular moral sway. Yet vague +and guileless as I myself was, I gratefully record that I never +came in the way of any evil influence whatever at Eton, in any +respect whatever. Talk was rather loose, and one believed evil of +other boys easily enough. To express open disapproval would have +been held to be priggish; and though undoubtedly the tone of +certain houses and certain groups was far from good, there yet ran +through the place a mature sense of a boy's right to be +independent, and undesirable ways of life were more a matter of +choice than of coercion. It was, in fact, far more a mirror of the +larger world than any other school I have ever heard of; and I know +of no school story which gives any impression of a life so +curiously free as it all was. There was none of that electrical +circulation of the news of events and incident that is held to be +characteristic of school life. One used to hear long after or not +at all, of things which had happened. There were rumours, there was +gossip; but I cannot imagine any place where a boy of solitary or +retiring character might be so entirely unaware of anything that +was going on. It was a highly individualistic place; and if one +conformed to superficial traditions, it was possible to lead, as I +certainly did, a very quiet and secluded sort of life, reading, +rambling about, talking endlessly and eagerly to a few chosen +friends, quite unconscious that anything was being done for one, +socially or educationally, entirely unmolested, as long as one was +good-natured and easy-going. + +It was therefore a good school for a boy with any toughness of mind +or originality; but it tended in the case of normal and +unreflective boys to develop a conventional type; good-mannered, +sensible, with plenty of savoir faire, but with a wrong set of +values. It made boys over-estimate athletics, despise intellectual +things, worship social success. It gave them the wrong sort of +tolerance, by which I mean the tolerance that excuses moral lapses, +but that also thinks contemptuously of ideas and mental +originality. The idols of the place were good-humoured, modest, +orderly athletes. The masters made friends with them because a good +mutual understanding conduced to discipline, and they were, +moreover, pleasant and cheerful companions. But boys of character +and force, unless they were also athletic, were apt to be +overlooked. The theory of government was not to interfere, and +there was an absence of enthusiasm and inspiration. The headmaster +was Dr. Hornby, afterwards provost, a courteous, handsome, +dignified gentleman, a fine preacher, and one of the most charming +public speakers I have ever heard. We respected and admired him, +but he knew little of his masters, and never made his personal +influence, which might have been great, felt among the boys. He was +a man of matchless modesty and refinement; he never fulminated or +lectured; I never heard an irritable word fall from his lips; but +on the other hand he never appealed to us, or asked our help, or +spoke eagerly or indignantly about any event or tendency. He hated +evil, but closed his eyes to it, and preferred to think that it was +not there. There were masters who in their own houses and forms +displayed more vivid qualities; but the whole tone of the place was +against anything emotional or passionate or uplifting; the ideal +that soaked into the mind was one of temperate, orderly, well- +mannered athleticism. + +At the end of my time I rose to moderate distinction. I began to +read the classics privately, I reached sixth form, and even was +elected into Pop. But I was always unadventurous, and in a way +timid. I nurtured a private life of my own on books and talk, and +felt that the centre of life had insensibly shifted from home to +school. But in and through it all, I never gained any deep +patriotism, any unselfish ambition, any visions which could have +inspired me to play a noble part in the world. I am sure that was +as much the result of my own temperament as of the spirit of the +place; but the spirit of the place was potent, and taught me to +acquiesce in an ideal of decorum, of subordination, of regular, +courteous, unenthusiastic life. + +Leaving the school was a melancholy business; one's roots were +entwined very deep with the soil, the buildings, the memories, the +happiness of the place--for happy above all things it was--in the +last few weeks there were many strange emotional outbursts from +boys who had seemed conventional enough; and there was a dreary +sense that life was at an end, and would have little of future +brightness or excitement to provide. I packed, I made my farewells, +I distributed presents; and as I drove away, the carriage, +ascending the bridge by the beloved playing-fields, with its lawns +and elms, the gliding river and the castle towering up behind, +showed me in a glance the old red-brick walls, the turrets, the +high chapel, with its pinnacles and great buttresses, where seven +good years had been spent. I burst, I remember, into unashamed +tears; but no sense of regret for failure, or idleness, or vacuous +case, or absence of all fine intention, came over me, though I had +been guilty of all these things. I wish that I had felt remorse! +But I was only grateful and fond and sad at leaving so untroubled +and delightful a piece of life behind me. The world ahead did not +seem to me to hold out anything which I burned to do or to achieve; +it was but the closing of a door, the end of a chapter, the sudden +silencing of a music, sweet to hear, which could not come again. + +That was all five-and-thirty years ago! Since that time--I have +seen it unmistakably, both as a schoolmaster and as a don--a +different spirit has grown up, a sense of corporate and social +duty, a larger idea of national service, not loudly advertised but +deeply rooted, and far removed from the undisciplined individualism +of my boyhood. It has been a secret growth, not an educational +programme. The Boer War, I think, revealed its presence, and the +war we are now waging has testified to its mature strength. It has +come partly by organisation, and still more through the workings of +a more generous and self-sacrificing ideal. In any case it is a +great and noble harvest; and I rejoice with all my heart that it +has thus ripened and borne fruit, in courage and disinterestedness, +and high-hearted public spirit. + + + + + + +XIII + +AUTHORSHIP + + + + + +1 + + +The essay which stands next in this volume, "Herb Moly and +Heartsease," was the subject of a curious and interesting +experiment. It seemed to me, when I first thought of it, to be a +suggestive subject, a substantial idea. One ought not to write a +commentary on one's own work, but the underlying theme is this: I +have been haunted all my life, at intervals, sometimes very +insistently, by the sense of a quest; and I have often seemed to +myself to be searching for something which I have somehow lost; to +be engaged in trying to rediscover some emotion or thought which I +had once certainly possessed and as certainly have forgotten or +mislaid. At times I felt on the track of it, as if it had passed +that way not long before; at times I have felt as if I were close +upon it, and as if it were only hidden from me by the thinnest of +veils. I have reason to know that other people have the same +feeling; and, indeed, it is that which constitutes the singular and +moving charm of Newman's poem, "Lead, kindly Light," where all is +summed up in those exquisite lines, often so strangely +misinterpreted and misunderstood, which end the poem: + + + "And with the morn those angel faces smile, + Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile." + + +I wish that he had not written "those angel faces," because it +seems to limit the quest to ecclesiastical lines, as, indeed, I +expect Newman did limit it. But we must not be so blind as to be +unable to see behind the texture of prepossessions that decorate, +as with a tapestry, the chambers of a man's inner thought; and I +have no doubt whatever that Newman meant the same thing that I +mean, though he used different symbols. Again, we find the same +idea in Wordsworth's "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality," the +thought that life is not circumscribed by birth and death, but that +one's experience is a much larger and older thing than the +experience which mere memory records. It is that which one has +lost; and one of the greatest mysteries of art lies in the fact +that a picture, or a sudden music, or a page in a book, will +sometimes startle one into the consciousness of having heard, seen, +known, felt the emotion before, elsewhere, beyond the visible +horizon. + +Well, I tried to put that idea into words in "Herb Moly and +Heartsease"; and because it was a deep and dim idea, and also +partly because it fascinated me greatly, I spent far more time and +trouble on the little piece than I generally spend. + +Then it occurred to me, in a whimsical moment, that I would try an +experiment. I would send out the thing as a ballon d'essai, to see +if anyone would read it for itself, or would detect me underneath +the disguise. Through the kind offices of a friend, I had it +published secretly and anonymously. I chose the most beautiful type +and paper I could find; it cost me far more than the sale of the +whole edition could possibly recoup. I had it sent to papers for +review, and I even had some copies sent to literary friends of my +own. + +The result was a quite enchanting humiliation. One paper reviewed +it kindly, in a little paragraph, and said it was useful; another +said that the writer used the word "one" much too frequently; while +only one of my friends even acknowledged it. It is pleasant to +begin at the bottom again, and find that no one will listen, even +to a very careful bit of writing by one who has at all events had a +good deal of practice, and who did his very best! + + +2 + + +This set me thinking over my literary adventures, and I think +they may be interesting to other authors or would-be authors; and +then I wish to go a little further, and try to say, if I can, what +I believe the writing of books really to be, why one writes, and +what one is aiming at. I have a very clear idea about it all, and +it can do no harm to state it. + +I was brought up much among books and talk about books. Indeed, I +have always believed that my father, though he had great practical +gifts of organisation and administration, which came out in his +work as a schoolmaster and a bishop, was very much of an artist at +heart, and would have liked to be a poet. Indeed, the practice of +authorship has run in my family to a quite extraordinary degree. In +four generations, I believe that some twenty of my blood-relations +have written and published books, from my cousin Adelaide Anne +Procter to my uncle Henry Sidgwick. When we were children we +produced little magazines of prose and poetry, and read them in the +family circle. I wrote poetry as a boy at Eton, and at Cambridge as +an undergraduate; and at the end of my time at Cambridge I produced +a novel, which I sent to Macmillan's Magazine, of which Lord Morley +was then editor, who sent it back to me with a kind letter to say +that it was sauce without meat, and that I should not be proud of +the book in later life if it were published. + +Then as an undergraduate I began an odd little book called Memoirs +of Arthur Hamilton, a morbid affair, which was published +anonymously, and, though severely handled by reviewers, had a +certain measure of success. But then I became a busy schoolmaster, +and all I did was to write laboured little essays, which appeared +in various magazines, and were afterwards collected. Then I took up +poetry, and worked very hard at it indeed for some years, producing +five volumes, which very few people ever read. It was a great +delight, writing poetry, and I have masses of unpublished poems. +But I do not grudge the time spent on it, because I think it taught +me the use of words. Then came two volumes of stories, mostly told +or read to the boys in my house, with a medieval sort of flavour-- +The Hill of Trouble and The Isles of Sunset. + +I also put together a little book on Tennyson, which has, I +believe, the merit of containing all the most interesting anecdotes +about him, and I also wrote the Rossetti in the Men of Letters +Series, a painstaking book, rather rhetorical; though the truth +about Rossetti cannot be told, even if it could be known. + +All this work was done in the middle of hard professional work, +with a boarding-house and many pupils. I will dare to say that I +was an active and diligent schoolmaster, and writing was only a +recreation. I could only get a few hours a week at it, and it never +interfered with my main work. + +My father died in 1896, and I wrote his life in two big volumes, a +very solid piece of work; but it was after that, I think, that my +real writing began. I believe it was in 1899 that I slowly composed +The House of Quiet, but I could not satisfy myself about the +ending, and it was laid aside. + +Then I was offered the task of editing Queen Victoria's letters. I +resigned my mastership with a mixture of sorrow and relief. The +work was interesting and absorbing, but I did not like our system +of education, nor did I believe in it. But I put my beliefs into a +little book called The Schoolmaster, which made its way. + +I left my work as a teacher in 1903, when I was forty-one. The +House of Quiet appeared in that year anonymously, and began to +sell. I lived on at Eton with an old friend; went daily up to +Windsor Castle, and toiled through volumes of papers. But I found +that it was not possible to work more than a few hours a day at the +task of selection, because one's judgment got fatigued and blurred. + +The sudden cessation of heavy professional work made itself felt in +an extreme zest and lightness of spirit. It was a very happy and +delightful time. I was living among friends who were all very hard +at work, and the very contrast of my freedom with their servitude +was enlivening. I was able, too, to think over my schoolmastering +experience; and the result was The Upton Letters, an inconsequent +but I think lively book, also published anonymously and rather +disregarded by reviewers. But the book was talked about and read; +and for the next year or two I worked with indefatigable zest at +writing. I brought out monographs on Edward FitzGerald and Walter +Pater; I wrote The Thread of Gold, which also succeeded; and in the +next year I settled at Cambridge, and wrote From a College Window +as a serial in the Cornhill, and The Gate of Death, both +anonymously; and in the following year Beside Still Waters and The +Altar Fire. All this time the Queen's letters were going quietly on +in the background. + +I have written half-a-dozen books since then. But that is how I +began my work; and the one point which is worth noticing is that +the four books which have sold most widely, The House of Quiet, The +Upton Letters, The Thread of Gold, and the College Window, were all +of them issued anonymously, and the authorship was for a +considerable time undetected. So that it is fair to conclude that +the public is on the look-out for books which interest it, and will +find out what it wants; because none of those books owed anything +whatever to my parentage or my position or my friends--or indeed to +the reviewers either; and it proves the truth of what a publisher +said to me the other day, that neither reviews nor advertisements +will really do much for a book; but that if readers begin to talk +about a book and to recommend it, it is apt to go ahead. And, +further, I conclude from the fact that none of my subsequent books +have been as popular as these, though I have no cause to complain, +that a new voice and new ideas are what prove attractive--and +perhaps not so much new ideas as familiar ideas which have not been +clearly expressed and put into words. There was a little mystery +about the writer then, and there is no mystery now; everyone knows +exactly what to expect; and the new generation wants a fresh voice +and a different way of putting things. + + +3 + + +As to the motive force, whatever it may be, that lies behind +writing, we may disengage from it all subsidiary motives, such as +the desire for money, philanthropy, professional occupation; but +the main force is, I think, threefold--the motive of art pure and +simple, the desire for communication with one's fellows, and the +motive of ambition, which may almost be called the desire for +applause. + +The ultimate instinct of art is the expression of the sense of +beauty. A scene, or a character, or an idea, or an emotion, strikes +the mind as being salient, beautiful, strange, wonderful, and the +mind desires to record it, to depict it, to isolate it, to +emphasize it. The process becomes gradually, as the life of the +world continues, more and more complex. It seemed enough at first +just to record; but then there follows the desire to contrast, to +heighten effects, to construct elaborate backgrounds; then the +process grows still more refined, and it becomes essential to lay +out materials in due proportion, and to clear away all that is +otiose or confusing, so that the central idea, whatever it is, +shall stand out in absolute clarity and distinctness. Gradually a +great deal of art becomes traditional and conventional; certain +forms stereotype themselves, and it becomes more and more difficult +to invent a new form of any kind. When art is very much bound by +tradition, it becomes what is called classical, and makes its +appeal to a cultured circle; and then there is a revolutionary +outburst of what is called a romantic type, which means on the one +hand a weariness of the old traditions and longing for freedom, and +on the other hand a corresponding desire, on the part of an +extended and less cultured circle, for art of a more elastic kind. +Literature has this cyclic ebb and flow; but what is romantic in +one age tends to become classical in the next, as the new departure +becomes in its turn traditional. These variations are no doubt the +result of definite, psychological laws, at present little +understood. The renaissance of a nation, when from some +unascertained cause there is a fresh outburst of interest in ideas, +is quite unaccounted for by logical or mathematical laws of +development. The French Revolution and the corresponding romantic +revival in England are instances of this. A writer like Rousseau +does not germinate interest in social and emotional ideas, but +merely puts into attractive form a number of ideas vaguely floating +in numberless minds. A writer like Scott indicates a sudden +repulsion in many minds against a classical tradition grown +sterile, and a widespread desire to extract romantic emotions from +a forgotten medieval life. Of course a romantic writer like Scott +read into the Middle Ages a number of emotions which were not +historically there; and the romantic writer, generally speaking, +tends to treat of life in its more sublime and glowing moments, and +to amass brilliant experience and absorbing emotion in an +unscientific way. Just now we are beginning to revolt against this +over-emotionalised treatment of life, and realism is a deliberate +attempt to present life as it is--not to improve upon it or to +select it, but to give an impression of its complexity as well as +of its bleakness. The romanticist typifies and stereotypes +character, the realist recognises the inconsistency and the +changeableness of personality. The romanticist presents qualities +and moods personified, the realist depicts the flux and +variableness of mood, and the effects exerted by characters upon +each other. But the motive is ultimately the same, only the +romanticist is interested in the passion and inspiration of life, +the realist more in the facts and actual stuff of life. But in both +cases the motive is the same: to depict and to record a personal +impression of what seems wonderful and strange. + +The second motive in art is the desire to share and communicate +experience. Every one must know how intolerable to a perceptive +person loneliness is apt to be, and how instinctive is the need of +some companion with whom to participate in the beauty or +impressiveness or absurdity of a scene. The enjoyment of experience +is diminished or even obliterated if one has to taste it in +solitude. Of course there are people so constituted as to be able +to enjoy, let us say, a good dinner, or a concert of music, or a +play, in solitude; but if such a person has the instinct of +expression, he enjoys it all half-consciously as an amassing of +material for artistic use; and it is almost inconceivable that an +artist should exist who would be prepared to continue writing books +or painting pictures or making statues, quite content to put them +aside when completed, with no desire to submit them to the judgment +of the world. My own experience is that the thought of sharing +one's enjoyment with other people is not a very conscious feeling +while one is actually engaged in writing. At the moment the thought +of expression is paramount, and the delight lies simply in +depicting and recording. Yet the impulse to hand it all on is +subconsciously there, to such an extent that if I knew that what I +wrote could never pass under another human eye, I have little doubt +that I should very soon desist from writing altogether. The social +and gregarious instinct is really very dominant in all art; and all +writers who have a public at all must become aware of this fact, by +the number of manuscripts which are submitted to them by would-be +authors, who ask for advice and criticism and introductions to +publishers. It would be quite easy for me, if I complied fully with +all such requests, to spend the greater part of my time in the +labour of commenting on these manuscripts. It is indeed the nearest +that many amateurs can get to publication. As Ruskin, I think, once +said, it is a curious irony of authorship that if a writer once +makes a success the world does its best, by inundating him with +every sort of request, to prevent his ever repeating it. I suppose +that painters and sculptors do not suffer so much in this way, +because it is not easy to send about canvases or statues by parcels +post. But nothing is easier than to slip a manuscript into an +envelope and to require an opinion from an author. I will confess +that I very seldom refuse these requests. At the moment at which I +write I have three printed novels and a printed book of travel, a +poem, and two volumes of essays in manuscript upon my table, and I +shall make shift to say something in reply, though except for the +satisfaction of the authors in question, I believe that my pains +will be wholly thrown away, for the simple reason that it is a very +lengthy business to teach any one how to write, and also partly +because what these authors desire is not criticism but sympathy and +admiration. + +The third motive which underlies the practice of art is undoubtedly +the sense of performance and the desire for applause. It is easy +from a pose of dignity and high-mindedness to undervalue and +overlook this. But it may safely be said that when a man challenges +the attention of the public, he does not do it that he may give +pleasure, but that he may receive praise. As Elihu the Buzite said +with such exquisite frankness in the book of Job, "I will speak, +that I may be refreshed!" The amateurs who send their work for +inspection cannot as a rule bear to face this fact. They constantly +say that they wish to do good, or to communicate enjoyment and +pleasure. To be honest, I do not much believe that the motive of +the artist is altruistic. He writes for his own enjoyment, perhaps, +but he publishes that his skill and power of presentment may be +recognised and applauded. In FitzGerald's Letters there is a +delightful story of a parrot who had one accomplishment--that of +ruffling up his feathers and rolling his eyes so that he looked +like an owl. When the other domestic pets were doing their tricks, +the owner of the parrot, to prevent its feelings being hurt, used +carefully to request it "to do its little owl." And the truth is +that we most of us want to do our little owl. Stevenson said +candidly that applause was the breath of life to an artist. Many, +indeed, find the money they make by their work delightful as a +symbol of applause in the sense of Shelley's fine dictum, "Fame is +love disguised." It is not a wholly mean motive, because many of us +are beset by an idea that the shortest way to be loved is to be +admired. It is a great misapprehension, because admiration breeds +jealousy quite as often as it breeds affection--indeed oftener! But +from the child that plays its little piece, or the itinerant +musician that blows a flat cornet in the street, to the great +dramatist or musician, the same desire to produce a favourable +impression holds good. + +I once dined alone with a celebrated critic, who indicated, as we +sat smoking in his study, a great pile of typewritten sheets upon +his table. "That is the next novel of So-and-so," he said, +mentioning a well-known novelist; "he asks me for a candid +criticism; but unfortunately the only language he now understands +is the language of adulation!" + +That is a true if melancholy fact, plainly stated; that to many an +artist to be said to have done well is almost more important than +to know that the thing has been well done. It is not a wholesome +frame of mind, perhaps; but it cannot be overlooked or gainsaid. + +Even the greatest of authors are susceptible to it. Robert +Browning, who, except for an occasional outburst of fury against +his critics, was far more tolerant of and patient under +misunderstanding than most poets, said in a moment of elated +frankness, when he received an ovation from the students of a +university, that he had been waiting for that all his life; +Tennyson managed to combine a hatred of publicity with a thirst for +fame. Wordsworth, as Carlyle pungently said, used to pay an annual +visit to London in later life "to collect his little bits of +tribute." And even though Keats could say that his own criticism of +his own works had given him far more pain than the opinions of any +outside critics, yet the possibility of recognition and applause +must inevitably continue to be one of the chief raisons d'etre of +art. + +But the main motive of writing lies in the creative instinct, pure +and simple; and the success of all literary art must depend upon +the personality of the writer, his vitality and perception, his +combination of exuberance and control. The reason why there are +comparatively so few great writers is that authorship, to be wholly +successful, needs so rich an outfit of gifts, creative thought, +emotion, style, clearness, charm, emphasis, vocabulary, +perseverance. Many writers have some of these gifts; and the +essential difference of amateur writing from professional writing +is that the amateur has, as a rule, little power of rejection and +selection, or of producing a due proportion and an even surface; +amateur poetry is characterised by good lines strung together by +weak and patchy rigmaroles--like a block of unworked ore, in which +the precious particles glitter confusedly; while the artistic poem +is a piece of chased jewel-work. It is true that great poets have +often written hurriedly and swiftly; but probably there is an +intense selectiveness at work in the background all the time, +produced by instinctive taste as well as by careful practice. + +Amateur prose, again, has an unevenness of texture and arrangement, +good ideas and salient thoughts floundering in a vapid and inferior +substance; it is often not appreciated by amateurs how much depends +on craftsmanship. I have known brilliant and accomplished +conversationalists who have been persuaded, perhaps in mature life, +to attempt a more definite piece of writing; when it is pathetic to +see suggestive and even brilliant thought hopelessly befogged by +unemphatic and disorderly statement. Still more difficult is it to +make people of fine emotions and swift perceptions understand that +such qualities are only the basis of authorship, and that the vital +necessity for self-expression is to have a knowledge, acquired or +instinctive, of the extremely symbolical and even traditional +methods and processes of representation. Vivid life is not the same +thing as vivid art; art is a sort of recondite and narrow +symbolism, by which the word, the phrase, the salient touch, +represents, suggests, hints the larger vision. It is in the +reducing of broad effects to minute effects that the mastery of art +lies. + +Good work has often been done for the sake of money; I could name +some effective living writers who never willingly put pen to paper, +and would be quite content to express themselves in familiar talk, +or even to live in vivid reflection, if they were not compelled to +earn their living. Ambition will do something to mould an artist; +the philanthropic motive may put some wind into his sails, but by +itself it has little artistic value. Speaking for myself, in so far +as it is possible to disentangle complex motives, the originating +impulse has never been with me pecuniary, or ambitious, or +philanthropic, or even communicative. It has been simply and solely +the intense pleasure of putting as emphatically and beautifully and +appropriately as possible into words, an idea of a definite kind. +The creative impulse is not like any other that I know; some +thought, scene, picture, darts spontaneously into the mind. The +intelligence instantly sets to work arranging, subdividing, +foreseeing, extending, amplifying. Much is done by some unconscious +cerebration; for I have often planned the development of a thought +in a few minutes, and then dropped it; yet an hour or two later the +whole thing seems ready to be written. + +Moreover, the actual start is a pleasure so keen and delightful as +to have an almost physical and sensuous joy about it. The very act +of writing has become so mechanical that there is nothing in the +least fatiguing about it, though I have heard some writers say +otherwise; while the process is actually going on, one loses all +count of time and place; the clock on the mantelpiece seems to leap +miraculously forward; while the mind knows exactly when to desist, +so that the leaving off is like the turning of a tap, the stream +being instantaneously cut off. I do not recollect having ever +forced myself to write, except under the stress of illness, nor do +I ever recollect its being anything but the purest pleasure from +beginning to end. + +In saying this I know that I am confessing myself to be a frank +improvisatore, and where such art fails, as mine often fails, is in +a lack of the power of concentration and revision, which is the +last and greatest necessity of high art. But I owe to it the +happiest and brightest experiences of life, to which no other +pleasure is even dimly comparable. Easy writing, it is said, makes +hard reading; but is it true that hard writing ever makes easy +reading? + +The end of the matter would seem to be that if the creative impulse +is very strong in a man, it will probably find its way out. If +ordinary routine-work destroys it, it is probably not very robust; +yet authorship is not to be recommended as a profession, because +the prizes are few, the way hard, the disappointments poignant and +numerous; and though there are perhaps few greater benefactors to +the human race than beautiful and noble writers, yet there are many +natures both noble and beautiful who would like to approach life +that way, but who, from lack of the complete artistic equipment, +from technical deficiencies, from failure in craftsmanship, must +find some other way of enriching the blood of the world. + + + + + + +XIV + +HERB MOLY AND HEARTSEASE + + + + + +1 + + +When Odysseus was walking swiftly, with rage in his heart, through +the island of Circe, to find out what had befallen his companions, +he would have assuredly gone to his doom in the great stone house +of the witch, the smoke of which went up among the thickets, if +Hermes had not met him. + +The God came in the likeness of a beautiful youth with the first +down of manhood upon his lips. He chid the much-enduring one for +his rash haste, and gave him what we should call not very good +advice; but he also gave him something which was worth more than +any good advice, a charm which should prevail against the spells of +the Nymph, which he might carry in his bosom and be unscathed. + +It was an ugly enough herb, a prickly plant which sprawled low in +the shadow of the trees. Its root was black, and it had a milk- +white flower; the Gods called it Moly, and no mortal strength could +avail to pull it from the soil; but as Odysseus says, telling the +story, "There is nothing which the Gods cannot do"; and it came up +easily enough at the touch of the beardless youth. We know how the +spell worked, how Odysseus rescued his companions, and how Circe +told him the way to the regions of the dead; but even so he did not +wholly escape from her evil enchantment! + + +2 + + +No one knows what the herb Moly really was; some say it was the +mandrake, that plant of darkness, which was thought to bear a +dreadful resemblance, in its pale swollen stalk and outstretched +arms, to a tortured human form, and to utter moans as it was +dragged from the soil; but later on it was used as the name for a +kind of garlic, employed as a flavouring for highly-spiced salads. +The Greeks were not, it seems, very scientific botanists, so far as +nomenclature went, and applied any name that was handy to any plant +that struck their fancy. They believed, no doubt, that things had +secret and intimate names of their own, which were known perhaps to +the Gods, but that men must just call them what they could. + +It would be best perhaps to leave the old allegory to speak for +itself, because poetical thoughts are often mishandled, and suffer +base transformation at the hands of interpreters; but for all that, +it is a pretty trade to expound things seen in dreams and visions, +or obscurely detected out of the corner of the eye in magical +places; while the best of really poetical things is that they have +a hundred mystical interpretations, none of which is perhaps the +right one; because the poet sees things in a flash, and describes +his visions, without knowing what they mean, or indeed if they have +any meaning at all. + +A place like a university, where one alights for an adventure, in +the course of a long voyage, is in many ways like the island of +Circe. There is the great stone mansion with its shining doors and +guarded cloisters. It is a place of many enchantments and various +delights. There are mysterious people going to and fro, whose +business it is hard to discern: there are plenty of bowls and +dishes, and water pleasantly warmed for the bath. Circe herself had +a private life of her own, and much curious information: she was +not for ever turning people into pigs; and indeed why she did it at +all is not easy to discover! It amused her, and she felt more +secure, perhaps, when her visitors were safely housed, grunting and +splashing about together. One must not press an allegory too +closely, but in any place where human beings consort, there is +always some turning of men into pigs, even if they afterwards +resume their shape again, and shed tears of relief at the change. + + +3 + + +My purpose here is to speculate a little upon what the herb Moly +can be, how it can be found and used. Hermes, the messenger of the +Gods, is always ready to pull it up for anyone who really requires +it. And just because "the isle," as Shakespeare says, "is full of +noises--sounds and sweet airs," it is a matter of concern to know +which of them "give delight and hurt not," and which of them lead +only to manger and sty. My discourse is not planned in a spirit of +heavy rectitude, or from any desire to shower good advice about, as +from a pepper-pot. Indeed, I believe that there are many things in +the correct conventional code which are very futile and grotesque; +some which are directly hurtful; and further, that there are many +things quite outside the code which are both fine and beautiful; +because the danger of all civilised societies is that the members +of it take the prevailing code for granted; do not trouble to think +what it means, accept it as the way of life, and walk contentedly +enough, like the beetle in the bone, which, as we know, can neither +turn nor miss its way. + +To fall feebly into the conventions of a place takes away all the +joyful spirit of adventure; but the little island set in the ocean, +with its loud sea-beaches, its upstanding promontories, its wooded +glades, its open spaces, and above all the great house standing +among its lawns, is a place of adventure above everything, with +unknown forces at work, untamed emotions, swift currents of +thought, many choices, strange delights; and then there is the +shadowy sea beyond, with all its crested billows rolling in, and +other islands looming out beyond the breakers, at which the ship +may touch, before it finds its way to the regions of death and +silence. + +I myself had my own time of adventure, took ship again, and voyaged +far; and now that I have come back again to the little island with +all its thickets, I wish to retrace in thought, if I can, some of +the adventures which befell me, and what they brought me, and to +speak too of adventures which I missed, either out of diffidence or +folly. I am not at all sure whether Hermes, whom I certainly +encountered, ever gave me a plant of Moly, or, if I did indeed +receive it, what use I made of it. But I knew others who certainly +had the herb at their hearts, and as certainly others who had not; +and I will try and tell what he thinks it is, and how it may be +found. It is deeply planted, no doubt; its root is as black as +death, and its flower as pure as the light; while the leaves are +prickly and clinging; it is not a plant for trim gardens, nor to be +grown in rows in the furrow; it is hard to come by, and harder +still to extract; but having once attained it, the man who bears it +knows that there are certain things he cannot do again, and certain +spells which henceforth have no power over him; and though it does +not deliver him from all dangers, he will not at all events be +penned with the regretful swine, that had lost all human attributes +except the power of shedding tears. + + +4 + + +Now I shall drop all allegories for the present, because it is +confusing both to writers and readers to be always speaking of two +things in terms of each other. And I will say first that when I was +at college myself as a young man, I seemed to myself to be for ever +looking for something which I could not find. It was not always so; +there were plenty of contented hours, when one played a game, or +sat over the fire afterwards with tea and tobacco, talking about +it, or talking about other people--I do not often remember talking +about anything else, except on set occasions--or later in the +evening some one played a piano not very well, or we sang songs, +not very tunefully; or one sat down to work, and got interested, if +not in the work itself, at least in doing it well and completely. I +am not going to pretend, as elderly men often do with infinite +absurdity, that I did no work, and scored off dons and proctors, +and broke every rule, and defied God and man, and spent money which +I had not got, and lived a generally rake-hell life. There are very +few of my friends who did these things, and they have mostly fallen +in the race long ago, leaving a poor and rueful memory behind. Nor +do I see why it is so glorious to pretend to have done such things, +especially if one has not done them! I was a sober citizen enough, +with plenty of faults and failings; and this is not a tract to +convert the wicked, who indeed are providing plenty of materials to +effect their own conversion in ways very various and all very +uncomfortable! I should like it rather to be read by well-meaning +people, who share perhaps the same experience as myself--the +experience, as I have said, of searching for something which I +could not find. Sometimes in those days, I will make bold to +confess, I read a book, or heard an address or sermon, or talked to +some interesting and attractive person, and felt suddenly that I +was on the track of it; was it something I wanted, or was it +something I had lost? I could not tell! But I knew that if I could +find it, I should never be in any doubt again how to act or what to +choose. It was not a set of rules I wanted--there were rules +enough and to spare, some of them made for us, and many which we +made for ourselves. We mapped out every part of life which was left +unmapped by the dons, and we knew exactly what was correct and what +was not; and oh, how dull much of it was! + +But I wanted a motive of some sort, an aim; I wanted to know what I +was out for, as we now say. I did not see what the point of much of +my work was, or know what my profession was to be; I did not see +why I did, for social reasons, so many things which did not +interest me, or why I pretended to think them interesting. I would +sit, one of half-a-dozen men, the air dim with smoke, telling +stories about other people. A-- had had a row with B--, he +would not go properly into training; he had lunched before a match +off a tumbler of sherry and a cigar; he was too good to be turned +out of the team--it was amusing enough, but it certainly was not +what I was looking for. + +Then one made friends; it dawned upon one suddenly what a charming +person C---- was, so original and amusing, so observant; it became +a thrilling thing to meet him in the court; one asked him to tea, +one talked and told him everything. A week later, one seemed to +have got to the end of it; the path came to a stop; there was not +much in it after all, and presently he was rather an ass; he looked +gloomily at one when one met him, but one was off on another chase; +this idealising of people was rather a mistake; the pleasure was in +the exploration, and there was very little to explore; it was +better to have a comfortable set of friends with no nonsense; and +yet that was dull too. That was certainly not the thing one was in +search of. + +What was it, then? One saw it like a cloud-shadow racing over the +hill, like a bird upon the wing. The perfect friend could not help +one, for his perfections waned and faded. Yet there was certainly +something there, singing like a bird in the wood; only when one +reached the tree the bird was gone, and another song was in the +air. It seemed, then, at first sight as if one was in search of an +emotion of some kind, and not only a solitary emotion, like that +which touched the spirit at the sudden falling of the ripe rose- +petals from their stem, or at the sight of the far-off plain, with +all its woods and waters framed between the outrunning hills, or at +the sound of organ-music stealing out of the soaring climbing +woodwork with all its golden pipes, on setting foot in the dim and +fragrant church; they were all sweet enough, but the mind turned to +some kindred soul at hand with whom it could all be shared; and the +recognition of some other presence, visibly beckoning through +gesture and form and smiling wide-opened eyes, that seemed the best +that could be attained, that nearness and rapture of welcome; and +then the moment passed, and that too ebbed away. + +It was something more than that! because in bleak solitary +pondering moments, there stood up, like a massive buttressed crag, +a duty, not born of whispered secrets or of relations, however +delicate and awestruck, with other hearts, but a stern +uncompromising thing, that seemed a relation with something quite +apart from man, a Power swift and vehement and often terrible, to +whom one owed an unmistakable fealty in thought and act. +Righteousness! That old-fashioned thing on which the Jews, one was +taught, set much store, which one had misconceived as something +born of piety and ceremony, and which now revealed itself as a +force uncompromisingly there, which it was impossible to overlook +or to disobey; if one did disobey it, something hurt and wounded +cried out faintly in the soul; and so it dawned upon one that this +was a force, not only not developed out of piety and worship, but +of which all piety and worship were but the frail vesture, which +half veiled and half hampered the massive stride and stroke. + +It did not attract or woo; it rather demanded and frightened; but +it became clear enough that any inner peace was impossible without +it; and little by little one learned to recognise that there was no +trace of it in many conventional customs and precepts; those could +be slighted and disregarded; but there were still things which the +spirit did truly recognise as vices and sins, abominable and +defiling, with which no trafficking was possible. + +This, then, was clear; that if one was to find the peace one +desired--it was that, it was an untroubled peace, a journey taken +with a sense of aim and liberty that one hoped to make--then these +were two certain elements; a concurrence with a few great and +irresistible prohibitions and positive laws of conduct, though +these were far fewer than one had supposed; and next to that, a +sense of brotherhood and fellowship with those who seemed to be +making their way harmoniously and finely towards the same goal as +oneself. To understand and love these spirits, to be understood and +loved by them, that was a vital necessity. + +But this must be added; that the sense of duty of which I speak, +which rose sturdily and fiercely above the shifting forms of life, +like a peak above the forest, did not appear at once either +desirable or even beautiful. It blocked the view and the way; it +forbade one to stray or loiter; but the obedience one reluctantly +gave to it came simply from a realisation of its strength and of +its presence. It stood for an order of some kind, which interfered +at many points with one's hopes and desires, but with which one was +compelled to make terms, because it could and did strike, +pitilessly and even vindictively, if one neglected and transgressed +its monitions; and thus the quest became an attempt to find what +stood behind it, and to discover if there was any Personality +behind it, with which one could link oneself, so as to be conscious +of its intentions or its goodwill. Was it a Power that could love +and be loved? Or was it only mechanical and soulless, a condition +of life, which one might dread and even abhor, but which could not +be trifled with? + +Because that seemed the secret of all the happiness of life--the +meeting, with a sense of intimate security, something warm and +breathing, that had need of me as I of it, that could smile and +clasp, foster and pity, admire and adore, and in the embrace of +which one could feel one's hope and joy grow and stir by contact +and trust. That was what one found in the hearts about one's path; +and the wonder was, did some similar chance of embracing, clasping, +trusting, and loving that vaster Power await one in the dim spaces +beyond the fields and homes of earth? + +I guessed that it was so, but saw, as in a faint vision, that many +harsh events, sorry mischances, blows and wounds and miseries, +hated and dreaded and endured, lay between me and that larger +Heart. But I perceived at last, with terror and mistrust, that the +adventure did indeed lie there; that I should often be disdained +and repulsed, untended and unheeded, bitterly disillusioned, shaken +out of ease and complacency, but assuredly folded to that greater +Heart at last. + + +5 + + +And then there followed a different phase. Up to the very end of +the university period, the same uneasiness continued; then quite +suddenly the door opened, one slipped into the world, one found +one's place. There were instantaneously real things to be done, +real money to earn, men and women to live with and work with, to +conciliate or to resist. A mist rolled away from my eyes. What a +fantastic life it had been hitherto, how sheltered, how remote from +actuality! I seemed to have been building up a rococo stucco +habitation out of whims and fancies, adding a room here and a row +of pinnacles there, all utterly bizarre and grotesque. Vague dreams +of poetry and art, nothing penetrated or grasped, a phrase here, a +fancy there; one's ideal of culture seemed like Ophelia in Hamlet, +a distracted nymph stuck all over with flowers and anxious to +explain the sentimental value of each; the friendships themselves-- +they had nothing stable about them either; they were not based upon +any common aim, any real mutual concern; they were nothing more +than the enshrining of a fugitive charm, the tracking of some +bright-eyed fawn or wild-haired dryad to its secret haunt, only to +find the bird flown and the nest warm. But now there was little +time for fancies; there was a real burden to carry, a genuine task +to perform; day after day slipped past, like the furrows in a field +seen from some speeding car; the contented mind, pleasantly wearied +at the end of the busy day, heaved a light-hearted sigh of relief, +and turned to some recreation with zest and delight. It was not +that the quest had been successful; it seemed rather that there was +no quest at all, and that it was the joy of daily work that had +been the missing factor . . . the weeks melted into months, the +months became years. + +Meanwhile the earth and air, as well as the comrades and companions +of the pilgrimage, were touched with a different light of beauty. +The beauty was there, and in even fuller measure. The sun in the +hot summer days poured down upon the fragrant garden, with all its +bright flower-beds, its rose-laden alleys, its terraced walks, its +green-shaded avenues; the autumn mists lay blue and faint across +the far pastures, and the hill climbed smoothly to its green +summit; or the spring came back after the winter silence with all +its languor of unfolding life, while bush and covert wove their +screens of dense-tapestried foliage, to conceal what mysteries of +love and delight! and the faces or gestures of those about one took +on a new significance, a richer beauty, a larger interest, because +one began to guess how experience moulded them, by what aims and +hopes they were graven and refined, by what failures they were +obliterated and coarsened. But the difference was this, that one +was not now for ever trying to make these charms one's own, to +establish private understandings or mutual relations. It was enough +now to observe them as one could, to interpret them, to enjoy them, +and to pass by. The acquisitive sense was gone, and one neither +claimed nor grasped; one admired and wondered and went forwards. +And this again seemed a wholesome balance of thought, for, as the +desire to take diminished, the power, of interpreting and enjoying +grew. + +But very gradually a slow shadow began to fall, like the shadow of +a great hill that reaches far out over the plain. I passed one day +an old churchyard deep in the country, and saw the leaning +headstones and the grassy barrows of the dead. A shudder passed +through me, a far-off chill, at the thought that it must come to +THIS after all; that however rich and intricate and delightful life +was--and it was all three--the time would come, perhaps with pain +and languid suffering, when one must let all the beautiful threads +out of one's hands, and compose oneself, with such fortitude as one +could muster, for the long sleep. And then one called Reason to +one's aid, and bade her expound the mystery, and say that just as +no smallest particle of matter could be disintegrated utterly, or +subtracted from the sum of things, so, and with infinitely greater +certainty, could no pulse or desire or motion of the spirit be +brought to nought. True, the soul lived like a bird in a cage, +hopping from perch to perch, slumbering at times, moping dolefully, +or uttering its song; but it was even more essentially imperishable +than the body that obeyed and enfolded and at last failed it. So +said Reason; and yet that brought no hope, so dear and familiar had +life become,--the well-known house, the accustomed walks, the daily +work, the forms of friend and comrade. It was just those things +that one wanted; and reason could only say that one must indeed +leave them and begone, and she could not look forwards nor forecast +anything; she could but bid one note the crag-faces and the +monstrous ledges of the abyss into which the spirit was for ever +falling, falling. . . . + +Alas! it was there all the time, the sleepless desire to know and +to be assured; I had found nothing, learned nothing; it was all +still to seek. I had but just drugged the hunger into repose, +beguiled it, hidden it away under habits and work and activities. +It was something firmer than work, something even more beautiful +than beauty, more satisfying than love that I wanted; and most +certainly it was not repose. I had grown to loathe the thought of +that, and to shrink back in horror from the dumb slumber of sense +and thought. It was energy, life, activity, motion, that I desired; +to see and touch and taste all things, not only things sweet and +delightful, but every passionate impulse, every fiery sorrow that +thrilled and shook the spirit, every design that claimed the +loyalty of mankind. I grudged, it seemed, even the slumber that +divided day from day; I wanted to be up and doing, struggling, +working, loving, hating, resisting, protesting. And even strife and +combat seemed a waste of precious time; there was so much to do, to +establish, to set right, to cleanse, to invigorate, great designs +to be planned and executed, great glories to unfold. Yet sooner or +later I was condemned to drop the tools from my willing hand, to +stand and survey the unfinished work, and to grieve that I might no +longer take my share. + + +6 + + +It was even thus that the vision came to me, in a dream of the +night. I had been reading the story of the isle of Circe, and the +thunderous curve of the rolling verse had come marching into the +mind as the breakers march into the bay. I dropped the book at +last, and slept. + +Yes, I was in the wood itself; I could see little save undergrowth +and great tree-trunks; here and there a glimpse of sky among the +towering foliage. The thicket was less dense to the left, I +thought, and in a moment I came out upon an open space, and saw a +young man in the garb of a shepherd, a looped blue tunic, with a +hat tossed back upon the shoulders and held there by a cord. He had +leaned a metal stave against a tree, the top of it adorned by a +device of crossed wings. He was stooping down and disengaging +something from the earth, so that when I drew near, he had taken it +up and was gazing curiously at it. It was the herb itself! I saw +the prickly flat leaves, the black root, and the little stars of +milk-white bloom. He looked up at me with a smile as though he had +expected me, which showed his small white teeth and the shapely +curl of his lips; while his dark hair fell in a cluster over his +brow. + +"There!" he said, "take it! It is what you are in need of!" + +"Yes," I said, "I want peace, sure enough!" He looked at me for a +moment, and then let the herb drop upon the ground. + +"Ah no!" he said lightly, "it will not bring you that; it does not +give peace, the herb of patience!" + +"Well, I will take it," I said, stooping down; but he planted his +foot upon it. "See," he said, "it has already rooted itself!" And +then I saw that the black root had pierced the ground, and that the +fibres were insinuating themselves into the soil. I clutched at it, +but it was firm. + +"You do not want it, after all," he said. "You want heartsease, I +suppose? That is a different flower--it grows upon men's graves." + +"No," I cried out petulantly, like a child. "I do not want +heartsease! That is for those who are tired, and I am not tired!" + +He smiled at me and stooped again, raised the plant and gave it to +me. It had a fresh sharp fragrance of the woodland and blowing +winds, but the thorns pricked my hands. . . . + +The dream was gone, and I awoke; lying there, trying to recover the +thing which I had seen, I heard the first faint piping of the birds +begin in the ivy round my windows, as they woke drowsily and +contentedly to life and work. The truth flashed upon me, in one of +those sudden lightning-blazes that seem to obliterate even thought. + +"Yes," I cried to myself, "that is the secret! It is that life does +not end; it goes on. To find what I am in search of, to understand, +to interpret, to see clearly, to sum it up, that would be an end, a +soft closing of the book, the shutting of the door--and that is +just what I do not want. I want to live, and endure, and suffer, +and experience, and love, and NOT to understand. It is life +continuous, unfolding, expanding, developing, with new delights, +new sorrows, new pains, new losses, that I need: and whether we +know that we need it, or think we need something else, it is all +the same; for we cannot escape from life, however reluctant or sick +or crushed or despairing we may be. It waits for us until we have +done groaning and bleeding, and we must rise up again and live. +Even if we die, even if we seek death for ourselves, it is useless. +The eye may close, the tide of unconsciousness may flow in, the +huddled limbs may tumble prone; a moment, and then life begins +again; we have but flown like the bird from one tree to another. +There is no end and no release; it is our destiny to live; the +darkness is all about us, but we are the light, enlacing it with +struggling beams, piercing it with fiery spears. The darkness +cannot quench it, and wherever the light goes, there it is light. +The herb Moly is but the patience to endure, whether we like it or +no. It delivers us, not from ourselves, not from our pains or our +delights, but only from our fears. They are the only unreal things, +because we are of the indomitable essence of light and movement, +and we cannot be overcome nor extinguished--we can but suffer, we +cannot die; we leap across the nether night; we pass resistless on +our way from star to star." + + + + + + +XV + +BEHOLD, THIS DREAMER COMETH + + + + + +I saw in one of the daily illustrated papers the other day a little +picture--a snapshot from the front--which filled me with a curious +emotion. It was taken in some village behind the German lines. A +handsome, upright boy of about seventeen, holding an accordion +under his arm--a wandering Russian minstrel, says the comment--has +been brought before a fat, elderly, Landsturm officer to be +interrogated. The officer towers up, in a spiked helmet, holding +his sword-hilt in one hand and field-glasses in the other, looking +down at the boy truculently and fiercely. Another officer stands by +smiling. The boy himself is gazing up, nervous and frightened, +staring at his formidable captor, a peasant beside him, also +looking agitated. There is nothing to indicate what happened, but I +hope they let the boy go! The officer seemed to me to typify the +tyranny of human aggressiveness, at its stupidest and ugliest. The +boy, graceful, appealing, harmless, appeared, I thought, to stand +for the spirit of beauty, which wanders about the world, lost in +its own dreams, and liable to be called sharply to account when it +strays within the reach of human aggressiveness occupied in the +congenial task of making havoc of the world's peaceful labours. + +The Landsturm officer in the picture had so obviously the best of +it; he was thoroughly enjoying his own formidableness; while the +boy had the look of an innocent, bright-eyed creature caught in a +trap, and wondering miserably what harm it could have done. + +Something of the same kind is always going on all the world over; +the collision of the barbarous and disciplined forces of life with +the beauty-loving, detached instinct of man. The latter cannot +give a reason for its existence, and yet I am by no means sure that +it is not going to triumph in the end. + +There is every reason to believe that within the last twenty years +the sowing of education broadcast has had an effect upon the human +outlook, rather than perhaps upon the human character, which has +not been adequately estimated. The crop is growing up all about us, +and we hardly yet know what it is. I am going to speak of one out +of the many results of this upon one particular section of the +community, because I have become personally aware of it in certain +very definite ways. It is easy to generalise about tendencies, but +I am here speaking from actual evidence of an unmistakable kind. + +The section of the community of which I speak is that which can be +roughly described as the middle class--homes, that is, which are +removed from the urgent, daily pressure of wage-earning; homes +where there is a certain security of outlook, of varying wealth, +with professional occupation in the background; homes in which +there is some leisure; and some possibility of stimulating, by +reading, by talk, by societies, an interest in ideas. It is not a +tough, intellectual interest, but it ends in a very definite desire +to idealise life a little, to harmonise it, to give colour to it, +to speculate about it, to lift it out of the region of immediate, +practical needs, to try experiments, to live on definite lines, +with a definite aim in sight--that aim being to enlarge, to adorn, +to enrich life. + +I am perfectly sure that this instinct is greatly on the increase; +but the significant thing about it is this, that whereas formerly +religion supplied to a great extent the poetry and inspiration of +life for such households, there is now a desire for something as +well of a more definitely artistic kind; to put it simply, I +believe that more people are in search of beauty, in the largest +sense. This instinct does not run counter to religion at all, but +it is an impulse not only towards a rather grim and rigid +conception of righteousness, but towards a wider appreciation of +the quality of life, its interest, its grace, its fineness, and its +fulness. + +I am always sorry when I hear people talking about art as if it +were a rather easy and not very useful profession, when, as a +matter of fact, art is one of the sharp, swordlike things, like +religion and patriotism, which run through life, and divide it, and +separate people, and make men and women misunderstand each other. +Art means a temperament, and a method, and a point-of-view, and a +way of living. There are accomplished people who believe in art and +talk about it and even practise it, who do not understand what it +is; while there are people who know nothing about what is +technically called art, who are yet wholly and entirely artistic in +all that they do or think. Those who have not got the instinct of +art are wholly incapable of understanding what those who have got +the instinct are about; while those who possess it recognise very +quickly others who possess it, and are quite incapable of +explaining what it is to those who do not understand it. + +I am going to make an attempt in this essay to explain what I +believe it to be, not because I hope to make it plain to those who +do not comprehend it. They will only think this all a fanciful sort +of nonsense: and I would say in passing that whenever in this world +one comes across people who talk what appears to be fantastic +nonsense, and who yet obviously understand each other and +sympathise with each other, one may take for granted that one is in +the presence of one of the hidden mysteries, and that if one does +not understand, it is because one does not see or hear something +which is perfectly plain to those who describe it. It is impossible +to do a more stupid thing than to fulminate against secrets which +one does not know, and say that "it stands to reason" that they +cannot be true. The belief that one has all the experience worth +having is an almost certain sign that one ranks low in the scale of +humanity! + +But what I do hope is that I may make the matter a little plainer +to people who do partly understand it, and would like to understand +it better; because art is a very big thing, and if it is even dimly +understood, it can add much significance and happiness to life. +Everyone must recognise the happiness which radiates from the +people who have a definite point-of-view and a definite aim. They +do not always make other people happy, but there is never any doubt +about their own happiness; and when one meets them and parts +company with them, it is impossible to think of them as lapsing +into any dreariness or depression; they are obviously going back to +comfortable schemes and businesses of their own; and we know that +whenever we meet them, we shall have just that half-envious feeling +that they know their own mind, never want to be interested or +amused, but are always occupied in something that continues to +interest them, even if they are ill or unfortunate. + +To be happy, we all need a certain tenacity and continuity of aim +and view; and I would like to persuade people who are only half- +aware of it, that they have a power which they could use if they +would, and which they would be happier for using. For the best of +the art of which I speak is that it does not need rare experiences +of expensive materials to apply it, but can be applied to +commonplace and quiet ways of life just as easily as to exciting +and exceptional circumstances. + +Let me say then that art, as a method and a point-of-view, has not +necessarily anything whatever to do with poetry or painting or +music. These are all manifestations of it in certain regions; but +what it consists in, to put it as simply as I can, is in the +perception and comparison of quality. If that sounds a heavy sort +of formula, it is because all formulas sound dull. But the faculty +of which I am speaking is that which observes closely all that +happens or exists within range--the sky, the earth, the trees, the +fields, the streets, the houses, the people; and then it goes +further and observes not only what people look like, but how they +move and speak and think; and then we come down to smaller things +still, to animals and flowers, to the colour and shape of things of +common use, furniture and tools, everything which is used in +ordinary life. + +Now every one of these things has a certain quality--of suitability +or unsuitability, of proportion or disproportion. Let me take a few +quite random instances. Look at a spade, for instance. The sensible +man proceeds to call it a spade, and thinks he has done all that is +necessary; the wise man considers what length of experience and +practice has gone to make it perfectly adapted for its purpose, its +length and size, the ledge for the foot to rest on, the hole for +the fingers to pass through as they clasp it; all the tools and +utensils of men are human documents of far-reaching interest. Or +take the strange shapes and colours of flowers, the snapdragon with +its blunt lips, the nasturtium with its round flat leaves and +flaming horns--they are endless in variety, but all expressing +something not only quite definite, but remotely inherited. Or take +houses--how perfectly simple and graceful an old homestead can be, +how frightfully pretentious and vulgar the speculative builder's +work often is, how full of beauty both of form and colour almost +all the houses in certain parts of the country are, as in the +Cotswolds, where the soft stone has tempted builders to try +experiments, and to touch up a plain front with a little delicate +and well-placed ornament. Or take the aspect of men, women, and +children; how attractive some cannot help being, whatever they do; +how helplessly unattractive and uninteresting others can be, and +yet how, even so, a fine and sweet nature can make beautiful the +plainest and ungainliest of faces. And then in a further region +still there are the thoughts and habits and prejudices of people, +all wholly distinct, some beautiful and desirable, and others +unpleasant and even intolerable. + +I could multiply instances indefinitely; but my point is that art +in the largest sense is or can be concerned with observing and +comparing all these separate qualities, wherever they appear. Of +course every one's observation does not extend to everything. There +are some people who are wholly unobservant, let us say, of scenery +or houses, who are yet very shrewd judges of character. + +It is not only the beauty of things that one may observe; they may +be dreary, hideous, even horrible. The interest of quality does not +by any means depend upon its beauty. The point is whether it is +strongly and markedly itself. What could be more crammed with +quality than an enormous old pig, with its bristles, its +elephantine ears, its furtive little eyes, its twitching snout? +What a look it has of a fallen creature, puzzled by its own +uncleanliness and yet unable to devise any way out! + +All this is only to show that life wherever it is lived affords a +rich harvest for eye and mind. And if one dives but a very little +way beneath the surface, one is instantly in the presence of the +darkest and deepest of mysteries. Who set this all going, and why? +Whose idea is it all? What is it all driving at? What is the +meaning of our being set down here, in our own particular shape, +feeling entirely distinct from it all, with very little idea what +our place in it is or what we are intended to do? and above all +that strange sense that we cannot be compelled to do anything +unless we choose--a sense which remains with us, even though day +after day and all day long we are doing things that we would not +choose to do, if we could help it. + +The whole thing indeed is so strange as to be almost frightening, +the moment that we dare to think at all: and yet we feel on the +whole at our ease in it, and in our place; and the one thing that +does terrify us is the prospect of leaving it. + +What I mean, then, by art in its largest sense is the faculty we +have of observing and comparing and wondering; and the people who +make the most of life are the people who give their imagination +wings; and then, too, comes in the further feeling, which leads us +to try and shape our own life and conduct on the lines of what we +admire and think beautiful; the dull word duty means that, that we +choose what is not necessarily pleasant because for some mysterious +reason we feel happier so; because, however much we may pretend to +think otherwise, we are all of us at every moment intent upon +happiness, which is a very different thing from pleasure, and +sometimes quite contrary to it. + +And so we come at last to the art of living, which is really a very +delicate balancing and comparing of reasons, an attempt, however +blind and feeble, to get at happiness; and the moment that this +attempt ceases and becomes merely a dull desire to be as +comfortable as we can, that moment the spirit begins to go down +hill, and the value of life is over; unless perhaps we learn that +we cannot afford to go down hill, and that every backward step will +have to be painfully retraced, somewhere or other. + +What, then, I would try to persuade anyone who is listening to me +is that we must use our wills somehow to try experiments, to +observe, to distinguish, to follow what we think fine and +beautiful. It may be said that this is only a sort of religion, and +indeed it is exactly that at which I am aiming. It is a religion, +which is within the reach of many people who cannot be touched by +what is technically called religion. Religion is a word that has +unhappily become specialised. It stands for beliefs, doctrines, +ceremonies, practices. But these may not, and indeed do not, suit +many of us. The worst of definite religions is that they are too +definite. They try to enforce upon us a belief in things which we +find incredible, or perhaps think to be simply unknowable; or they +make out certain practices to be important, which we do not think +important. We must never do violence to our minds and souls by +professing to believe what we do not believe, or to think things +certain which we honestly believe to be uncertain; but at the same +time we must remember that there is always something of beauty +inside every religion, because religion involves a deliberate +choice of better motives and better actions, and an attempt to +exclude the baser and viler elements of life. + +Of course the objection to all this--and it is a serious one--is +that people may say, "Of course I see the truth of all that, and +the advantage of being actively and vividly interested in life; you +might as well preach the advantage of being happy; but my own +interest is fitful and occasional; sometimes for days together I +have no sense of the interest or quality of anything. I have no +time, I have no one to enjoy these things with. How am I to become +what I see it would be wise to be?" It is as when the woman of +Samaria said, "Thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is +deep!" It is true that civilisation does seem more and more to +create men and women with these instincts, and to set them in +circumstances where it is hard to gratify them. And then such +people are apt to say, "Is it after all worth while to aim at so +impossible a standard? Is it not better just to put it all aside, +and make oneself as comfortable as one can?" And that is the +practical answer which a good many people do make to the question; +and when such people get older, they are the most discouraging of +all advisers, because they ridicule the whole thing as nonsense, +which young men and young women had better get out of their heads +as soon as they can; as Jowett wrote of his pupil Swinburne, that +he was a clever fellow, and would do well enough as soon as he had +got rid of all this poetry and nonsense. I feel no doubt that these +ideas, this kind of interest in life, in the wonder and strangeness +of it, can be pursued by many who do not pursue it. It is like the +white deer, which in the old stories the huntsman was for ever +pursuing in the forest; he did not ever catch it, but the pursuit +of it brought him many high adventures. + +Of course it is far easier if one has a friend who shares the same +tastes; but if one has not, there are always books, in which the +best minds can be found thinking and talking at their finest and +liveliest. But here again a good many people are betrayed by +reading books as one may collect stamps, just triumphing in the +number and variety of the repertory. I believe very little in +setting the foot on books, as sailors take possession of an unknown +isle. One must make experiments, just to see what are the kind of +books which nurture and sustain one; and then I believe in arriving +at a circle of books, which one really knows through and through, +and reads at all times and in all moods, till they get soaked and +enriched with all sorts of moods and associations. I have a dozen +such, which I read and mark and scribble in, write when and where I +read them, and who were my companions. Of course the same books do +not always last through one's course. You grow out of books as you +grow out of clothes; and I sometimes look at old favourites, and +find myself lost in wonder as to how I can ever have cared for them +like that! They seem now like little antechambers and corridors, +through which I have passed to something far more noble and +gracious. But all the time we must be trying to weave the books +really into life, not let them stand like ornaments on a shelf. It +is poetry that enkindles the mind most to dwell in the thoughts of +which I have been speaking. But it must not be read straight on; it +must rather be tasted, brooded over, repeated, learned by heart. +Let me take a personal instance. As a boy I had no opinion of +Wordsworth, except that I admired one or two of the great poems +like the "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality" and the "Ode to +Duty," which no one who sets out to love poetry at all can afford +to ignore. Then, as I grew older, I began to see that quotations +from Wordsworth had a sort of grandeur in their very substance, +which was unlike any other grandeur. And then I took the whole of +the poems away for a vacation, and worked at them; and then I found +how again and again Wordsworth touches a thought to life, which is +like the little objects you pick up on the seashore, the evidence +of another life close at hand, indubitably there, and yet unknown, +which is being lived under the waste of waters. When Wordsworth +says such things as + + + And many love me, but by none + Am I enough beloved, + + +or when he says, + + + Some silent laws our hearts may make + Which they shall long obey-- + + +then he seems to uncover the very secrets of the world, and to +speak as when in the prophet's vision the seven thunders uttered +their voices. Only to-day I was working with a pupil; in his essay +he had quoted Wordsworth, and we looked up the place. While I was +speaking, my eye fell upon "The Poet's Epitaph," and I saw, + + + Come hither in thy hour of strength, + Come, weak as is a breaking wave! + + +Those two lines of unutterable magic; he could not understand why I +stopped and faltered, nor could I have explained it to him. But it +was as Coleridge says, + + + Weave a circle round him thrice, + And close your eyes in holy dread, + For he on honey-dew hath fed, + And drunk the milk of paradise. + + +It is just a mystery of beauty that has been seen, not to be +explained or understood. + +Of course there are people, there will be people, who will read +what I have just written in an agony of rationality, and say that +it is all rubbish. But I am describing an experience of ecstasy +which is not very common perhaps; but just as real an experience as +eating or drinking. I have had the experience before. I shall have +it again; I recognise it at once, and it is quite distinct from +other experiences. One cannot sit down to it as regularly as one +sits down to a meal, of course. It is not a thing to be proud of, +because I have had it as far back as I can remember. Nor am I at +all sure what the effect of it is. It does not transfigure life +except for the moment; and if I were in a dull frame of mind, it +might not visit me at all, though it is very apt to come if I am in +a sad or anxious frame of mind. + +Then how do I interpret it? Very simply indeed; that there is a +region which I will call the region of beauty, to which the view of +life that I have called art does sometimes undoubtedly admit one; +though as I have also said the view of which I speak is concerned +with many perceptions which are not beautiful, and even sometimes +quite the opposite. + +If I were frankly asked whether it is worth while trying to think +or imagine or thrust oneself into this particular kind of rapture, +I should say, "Certainly not!" It is very doubtful if it could be +genuinely attained unless it has been already experienced; and I do +not believe in the wholesomeness of self-suggested emotions. + +But I do believe most firmly that it is worth while for anyone who +is interested in such effects at all to try experiments, by looking +at things critically, hearing things, observing, listening to other +people, reading books, trying in fact to practise observation and +judgment. + +I was visiting some printing works the other day. The great +cylinders were revolving, the wheels buzzing, the levers clicking. +A boy perched on a platform by the huge machine lightly disengaged +a sheet of paper; it was drawn in, and a moment after a thing like +a gridiron flew up, made a sort of bow, and deposited a printed +sheet in a box, the sides of which kept moving, so as to pat the +papers into one solid pad. + +I came away with the master-printer, and asked him idly whether the +boy knew what book he was printing. He laughed. "No," he said, "and +the less he is interested the better--his business is just to feed +the machine, and it becomes entirely mechanical." I felt a kind of +shame at the thought of a human being becoming so entirely and +completely a machine; but the boy looked cheerful, well, and +intelligent, and as if he had a very decisive little life of his +own quite apart from the whizzing engine, for ever bowing over and +putting a new sheet in the box. + +But it is just that dull and mechanical handling of life which I +believe we ought to avoid. It is harder to avoid it for some people +than for others, and it is more difficult to escape from under +certain conditions. But all art and all artistic perception is just +a sign of the irresponsible and irrepressible joy of life, and an +attempt, as I said at first, to perceive and distinguish and +compare the quality of things. What I am here maintaining is that +art is not necessarily the production of something artistic; that +is the same impulse only when it rises in the heart of an +inventive, accomplished, deft-fingered, eager-minded craftsman. If +a man or a woman has a special gift of words, or a mastery of form +and colour, or musical phrases, the passion for beauty is bound to +show itself in the making of beautiful things--and such lives are +among the happiest that a man can live, though there is always the +shadow of realising the beauty that is out of reach, that cannot be +captured or expressed. And if it could be captured and expressed, +the quest would vanish! + +But there are innumerable hearts and minds which have the +perception of quality, though not the power of expressing it; and +these are the people whom I wish to persuade of the fact that they +hold in their hands a thread, which, like the clue in the old +story, can conduct a searcher safely through the dark recesses of +the great labyrinth. He tied it, the dauntless youth in the tale, +to the ancient thorn-tree that grew by the cavern's mouth; and then +he stepped boldly in, and let it unwind within his hand. + +For many people, indeed for all people who have any part in the +future of the world, the clue of life must be found in beauty of +some kind or another; not necessarily in the outward beauties of +colours, sounds, and words, but in the beauty of conduct, in the +kind, sweet-tempered, pure, unselfish life. Those who choose such +qualities do so simply because they seem more beautiful than the +spiteful, angry, greedy, selfish life. There is a horror of +ugliness about that; and thus beauty of every kind is of the nature +of a signal to us from some mighty power behind and in the world. +Evil, ugly, hateful, base things are strong indeed; but no peace, +no happiness, lies in that direction. It is just that power of +distinguishing, of choosing, of worshipping the beautiful quality +which has done for the world all that has ever been done to improve +it; and to follow it is to take the side of the power, whatever it +may be, that is trying to help and guide the world out of confusion +and darkness and strife into light and peace. It may be gratefully +admitted, of course, that religion is one of the foremost +influences in this great movement; but it also needs to be said +that religion, by connecting itself so definitely as it does with +ecclesiastical life, and ceremony, and theological doctrine, has +become a specialised thing, and does not meet all the desires of +the heart. It is not everyone who finds full satisfaction for all +the visions of the mind and soul in a church organisation. Some +people, and those neither wicked nor heartless nor unsympathetic, +find a real dreariness in systematised religion, with its +conventional beliefs, its narrow instruction, its catechisings, +missionary meetings, gatherings, devotions, services. It may be all +true enough in a sense, but it often leaves the sense of beauty and +interest and emotion and poetry unfed; it does not represent the +fulness of life. The people who are dissatisfied with it all are +often dumbly ashamed of their dissatisfaction, but yet it does not +feed the heart; the kind of heaven that they are taught awaits them +is not a place that they recognise as beautiful or desirable. They +do not want to do wrong, or to rebel against morality at all, but +they have impulses which do not seem to be recognised by technical +religion: adventure, friendship, passion, beauty, the strange and +wonderful emotions of life. The work of great poets and artists and +musicians, the lovely scenes of earth, these seem to have no place +inside systematic religion, to be things rather timorously +permitted, excused, and apologised for. Men need something richer, +freer, and larger. They do not want to shirk their duty or to +follow evil; but many things seem to be insisted upon by religion +as important which seem unimportant, many beliefs spoken of as true +which seem at best uncertain. It is not that such people are +disloyal to God and to virtue, but they feel stifled and confined +in an atmosphere which dares not attribute to God many of the +finest and sweetest things in the world. + +Such a feeling is not so much a rebellion against old ideas, as a +new wine which is too strong for the old bottles; it is a desire to +extend the range of ideals, to find more things divine. + +I do not believe that this instinct is going to be crushed or +overcome; I believe it will grow and spread, and play an immense +part in the civilisation of the future. I hope indeed that religion +will open its arms to meet it, because the spirit of which I speak +is in the truest sense religious; since it is concerned with +purifying and enriching life, and in living life, not on base or +mean lines, but with constant reference to the message of a Power +which is for ever reminding us that life is full of fire and music, +great, free, and wonderful. That is the meaning of it all, an +increased sense of the largeness and richness of life, which +refuses to be bound inside a gloomy, sad, suspicious outlook. It is +all an attempt to trust God more rather than less, and to recognise +the worth of life in wider and wider circles. + +"Behold, this dreamer cometh," said Joseph's envious brethren, when +they saw him afar off; "we shall see what will become of his +dreams!" They conspired to slay him; they sold him into slavery. +Yet the day was to come when they stood trembling before him, and +when he freely forgave them and royally entertained them. We can +never afford to despise or deride dreams, because they are what men +live by; they come true; they bring a great deliverance with them. + +THE END + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 4652 *** |