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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0964d7b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60783 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60783) diff --git a/old/60783-0.txt b/old/60783-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 074a4b7..0000000 --- a/old/60783-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5232 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The House of Quiet, by Arthur Christopher Benson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The House of Quiet - An Autobiography - -Author: Arthur Christopher Benson - -Release Date: November 26, 2019 [EBook #60783] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF QUIET *** - - - - -Produced by Susan Skinner, Julie Barkley and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by Cornell University Digital Collections) - - - - - - - - - - -THE HOUSE OF QUIET - - - - -[Illustration: _The House of Quiet_] - - - - - THE - HOUSE OF QUIET - - AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY - - BY - ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY - 1907 - - COPYRIGHTED BY - E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY - 1907 - - The Knickerbocker Press, New York - - - - -PREFACE - - -I have been reading this morning a very pathetic and characteristic -document. It is a paper that has lurked for years in an old collection of -archives, a preface, sketched by a great writer, who is famous wherever -the English language is spoken or read, for the second edition of a -noble book. The book, on its first appearance, was savagely and cruelly -attacked; and the writer of it, hurt and wounded by a mass of hateful -and malevolent criticisms, piled together by an envious and narrow mind, -tried, with a miserable attempt at jaunty levity, to write an answer to -the vicious assailant. This answer is deeply pathetic, because, behind -the desperate parade of cheerful _insouciance_, one seems to hear the -life-blood falling, drop by drop; the life-blood of a dauntless and -pure spirit, whose words had been so deftly twisted and satanically -misrepresented as to seem the utterances of a sensual and cynical mind. - -In deference to wise and faithful advice, the preface was withheld and -suppressed; and one is thankful for that; and the episode is further a -tender lesson for all who have faithfully tried to express the deepest -thoughts of their heart, frankly and sincerely, never to make the least -attempt to answer, or apologise, or explain. If one’s book, or poem, -or picture survives, that is the best of all answers. If it does not -survive, well, one has had one’s say, thought one’s thought, done one’s -best to enlighten, to contribute, to console; and, like millions of other -human utterances, the sound is lost upon the wind, the thought, like a -rainbow radiance, has shone and vanished upon the cloud. - -The book which is here presented has had its share both of good and evil -report; and it fell so far short of even its own simple purpose, that -I should be the last to hold that it had been blamed unduly. I have no -sort of intention of answering my critics; but I would wish to make plain -what the book itself perhaps fails to make plain, namely, what my purpose -in writing it was. The book grew rather than was made. It was, from the -first, meant as a message to the weak rather than as a challenge to the -strong. There is a theory of life, wielded like a cudgel by the hands of -the merry and high-hearted, that the whole duty of man is to dash into -the throng, to eat and drink, to love and wed, to laugh and fight. That -is a fine temper; it is the mood of the sailor-comrades of Odysseus— - - “That ever with a frolic welcome took - The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed - Free hearts, free foreheads.” - -Such a mood, if it be not cruel, or tyrannous, or brutal, or overbearing, -is a generous and inspiriting thing. Joined, as I have seen it joined, -with simplicity and unselfishness and utter tenderness, it is the finest -spirit in the world—the spirit of the great and chivalrous knight of old -days. But when this mood shows itself without the kindly and gracious -knightly attributes, it is a vile and ugly thing, insolent, selfish, -animal. - -The problem, then, which I tried to present in my book, was this: I -imagined a temperament of a peaceful and gentle order, a temperament -without robustness and _joie de vivre_, but with a sense of duty, a -desire to help, an anxious wish not to shirk responsibility; and then -I tried to depict such a character as being suddenly thrust into the -shadow, set aside, as, by their misfortune or their fault, a very large -number of persons are set aside, debarred from ambition, pushed into a -backwater of life, made, by some failure of vitality, into an invalid -(a word which conceals many of the saddest tragedies of the world)—and I -set myself to reflect how a man, with such limitations, might yet lead a -life that was wholesome and contented and helpful; and then, at the last, -I thought of him as confronted with a prospect of one of the deepest and -sweetest blessings of life, the hope of a noble love; and then again, -the tyrannous weakness that had laid him low, swept that too out of his -grasp, and bade him exchange death for life, darkness for the cheerful -day. - -Who does not know of home after home where such things happen? of life -after life, on which calamities fall, so that the best that the sufferer -can do is _to gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost_? -This book, _The House of Quiet_, was written for all whose life, by -some stroke of God, seemed dashed into fragments, and who might feel so -listless, so dismayed, that they could not summon up courage even to try -and save something from the desolate wreck. - -To compare small things with great, it was an attempt to depict, in -modern unromantic fashion, such a situation as that of _Robinson -Crusoe_, where a man is thrown suddenly upon his own resources, shut off -from sympathy and hope. In that great fiction one sees the patience, the -courage, the inventiveness of the simple hero grow under the author’s -hand; but the soul of my own poor hero had indeed suffered shipwreck, -though he fell among less stimulating surroundings than the caverns -and freshets, the wildfowl and the savages, of that green isle in the -Caribbean Sea. - -In the _Life_ of William Morris, a man whose chosen motto was _si je -puis_, and who, whatever else he was accused of, was never accused of a -want of virile strength, there is an interesting and pathetic letter, -which he wrote at the age of fifty-one, when he was being thrust, against -his better judgment, into a prominent position in the Socialist movement. - -“My habits are quiet and studious,” he said, “and, if I am too much -worried with ‘politics,’ _i.e._, intrigue, I shall be no use to the cause -as a writer. All this shows, you will say, a weak man: that is true, but -I must be taken as I am, not as I am not.” - -This sentence sums up, very courageously and faithfully, the difficulty -in which many people, who believe in ideas, and perceive more clearly -than they are able to act, are placed by honest diffidence and candid -self-knowledge. We would amend life, if we could; but the impossibility -lies, not in seeing what is beautiful and just and right, but in making -other people desire it. It is conceivable, after all, that God knows -best, and has good reasons for delay—though many men, and those not the -least gallant, act as though they knew better still. But it matters very -little whether we betray our own weakness, by what we say or do. What -does matter is that we should have desired something ahead of us, should -have pointed it out to others. We may not attain it; others may not -attain it; but we have shown that we dare not acquiesce in our weakness, -that we will not allow ourselves to be silent about our purer hopes, that -we will not recline in a false security, that we will not try to solve -the problem by overlooking its difficulties; but that we will strive to -hold fast, in a tender serenity, to a belief in the strong and loving -purpose of God, however dark may be the shadow that lies across the path, -however sombre the mountain-barrier that lies between us and the sunlit -plain. - - A. C. B. - -_April 12, 1907._ - - - - -PREFATORY NOTE TO ORIGINAL EDITION - - -_The writer of the following pages was a distant cousin of my own, and -to a certain extent a friend. That is to say, I had stayed several times -with him, and he had more than once visited me at my own home. I knew -that he was obliged, for reasons of health, to live a very quiet and -retired life; but he was not a man who appeared to be an invalid. He -was keenly interested in books, in art, and above all in people, though -he had but few intimate friends. He died in the autumn of 1900, and his -mother, who was his only near relation, died in the following year; it -fell to me to administer his estate, and among his papers I found this -book, prepared in all essential respects for publication, though it is -clear that it would not have seen the light in his lifetime. I submitted -it to a friend of wide literary experience; his opinion was that the book -had considerable interest, and illustrated a definite and peculiar point -of view, besides presenting a certain attraction of style. I accordingly -made arrangements for its publication; adding a few passages from the -diary of the last days, which was composed subsequently to the date at -which the book was arranged._ - -_I need hardly say that the names are throughout fictitious; and I will -venture to express a hope that identification will not be attempted, -because the book is one which depends for its value, not on the material -circumstances of the writer, but upon the views of life which he formed._ - - - - -THE HOUSE OF QUIET - - - - -INTRODUCTORY - - - _Christmas, Eve, 1898._ - -I have been a good deal indoors lately, and I have been amusing myself by -looking through old papers and diaries of my own. It seems to me that, -though the record is a very uneventful one, there is yet a certain unity -throughout—I can hardly call it a conscious, definite aim, or dignify it -by the name of a philosophy. But I have lived latterly with a purpose, -and on a plan that has gradually shaped itself and become more coherent. - -It was formerly my ambition to write a book, and it has gone the way of -most ambitions. I suppose I have not the literary temperament; I have -not got the instinct for _form_ on a large scale. In the books which -I have attempted to write, I have generally lost myself among details -and abandoned the task in despair. I have never been capable of the -_fundamental brainwork_; the _fundamental conception_ which Rossetti -said made all the difference between a good piece of art and a bad one. -When I was young, my idea of writing was to pile fine phrases together, -and to think that any topic which occurred to my mind was pertinent to -the matter in hand. Now that I am older, I have learnt that form and -conception are not everything but nearly everything, and that a definite -idea austerely presented is better than a heap of literary ornament. - -And now it seems to me that I have after all, without intending it, -written a book,—the one book, that, it is said, every man has in his -power to write. I feel like the King of France who said that he had -“discovered” a gallery in one of his palaces by the simple process of -pulling down partition walls. I have discarded a large amount of writing, -but I have selected certain episodes, made extracts from my diaries, -and added a few passages; and the result is the story of my life, told -perhaps in a desultory way, but with a certain coherence. - -Whether or no the book will ever see the light I cannot tell; probably -not. I do not suppose I shall have the courage to publish it myself, and -I do not know any one who is likely to take the trouble of editing it -when I am gone. But there it is—the story of a simple life. Perhaps it -will go the way of waste paper, kindle fires, flit in sodden dreariness -about ashpits, till it is trodden in the mire. Perhaps it may repose -in some dusty bookshelf, and arouse the faint and tender curiosity of -some far-off inheritor of my worldly goods, like the old diaries of -my forefathers which stand on my own bookshelf. But if it came to be -published I think that there are some to whom it would appeal, as the -thin-drawn tremor of the violin stirs the note in vase or glass that have -stood voiceless and inanimate. I have borne griefs, humiliations, dark -overshadowings of the spirit; there are moments when I have peered, as it -were, into the dim-lit windows of hell; but I have had, too, my fragrant -hours, tranquil joys, imperishable ecstasies. And as a pilgrim may tell -his tale of travel to homekeeping folks, so I may allow myself the -license to speak, and tell what of good and evil the world has brought -me, and of my faint strivings after that interior peace, which can be -found, possessed, and enjoyed. - - - - -1 - - - _Dec. 7, 1897._ - -[Sidenote: MY ROOM] - -I sit this evening, towards the end of the year, in a deep arm-chair in -a large, low panelled room that serves me as bedroom and study together: -the windows are hung with faded tapestry curtains; there is a great -open tiled fireplace before me, with logs red-crumbling, bedded in grey -ash, every now and then winking out flame and lighting up the lean iron -dogs that support the fuel; odd Dutch tiles pave and wall the cavernous -hearth—this one a quaint galleon in full sail on a viscous, crested sea; -that, a stout sleek bird standing in complacent tranquillity; at the back -of the hearth, with the swift shadows flickering over it, is a large iron -panel showing a king in a war chariot, with a flying cloak, issuing from -an arched portal, upon a bridge which spans a furious stream, and shaking -out the reins of two stamping steeds; on the high chimney-board is a row -of Delft plates. The room is furnished with no precision or propriety, -the furniture having drifted in fortuitously as it was needed: here is a -tapestried couch; there an oak bookcase crammed with a strange assortment -of books; here a tall press; a picture or two—a bishop embedded in lawn -with a cauliflower wig; a crayon sketch of a scholarly head. There is -no plan of decoration—all fantastic miscellany. At the far end, under -an arch of oak, stands a bed, screened from the room by a dark leather -screen. Outside, all is unutterably still, not with the stillness that -sometimes falls on a sleeping town, where the hush seems invaded by -imperceptible cries, but with the deep tranquillity of the country-side -nestling down into itself. The trees are silent. Listening intently, I -can hear the trickle of the mill-leat, and the murmur of the hazel-hidden -stream; but that slumbrous sound ministers, as it were, the dreamful -quality, like the breathing of the sleeper—enough, and not more than -enough, to give the sense of sleeping life, as opposed to the aching, icy -stillness of death. - - - - -2 - - -[Sidenote: EARLY DAYS] - -I may speak shortly of my parentage and circumstances. I was the only -son of my father, a man who held a high administrative position under -Government. He owed his advancement not to family connections, for our -family though ancient was obscure. No doubt it may be urged that all -families are equally ancient, but what I mean is that our family had for -many generations preserved a sedulous tradition of gentle blood through -poverty and simple service. My ancestors had been mostly clergymen, -doctors, lawyers—at no time had we risen to the dignity of a landed -position or accumulated wealth: but we had portraits, miniatures, -plate—in no profusion, but enough to be able to feel that for a century -or two we had enjoyed a liberal education, and had had opportunities -for refinement if not leisure, and aptitude for cultivating the arts of -life; it had not been a mere sordid struggle, an inability to escape from -the coarsening pressure of gross anxieties, but something gracious, -self-contained, benevolent, active. - -My father changed this; his profession brought him into contact with men -of rank and influence; he was fitted by nature to play a high social -part; he had an irresistible geniality, and something of a courtly air. -He married late, the daughter of an impoverished offshoot of a great -English family, and I was their only child. - -The London life is dim to me; I faintly recollect being brought into the -room in a velvet suit to make my bow to some assembled circle of guests. -I remember hearing from the nursery the din and hubbub of a dinner-party -rising, in faint gusts, as the door was opened and shut—even of brilliant -cascades of music sparkling through the house when I awoke after a first -sleep, in what seemed to me some dead hour of the night. But my father -had no wish to make me into a precocious monkey, playing self-conscious -tricks for the amusement of visitors, and I lived for the most part in -the company of my mother—herself almost a child—and my faithful nurse, -a small, simple-minded Yorkshire woman, who had been my mother’s nurse -before. - -When I was about six years old my father died suddenly, and the first -great shock of my life was the sight of the handsome waxen face, with the -blurred and flinty look of the dulled eyes, the leaden pallor of the thin -hands crossed on his breast; to this day I can see the blue shadows of -the ruffled shroud about his neck and wrists. - -Our movements were simple enough. Only that summer, owing to an accession -of wealth, my father and mother had determined on some country home to -which they might retire in his months of freedom. My mother had never -cared for London; together they had found in the heart of the country a -house that attracted both of them, and a long lease had been taken within -a week or two of my father’s death. Our furniture was at once transferred -thither, and from that hour it has been my home. - - - - -3 - - -[Sidenote: THE HOME LAND] - -The region in which I live is a land of ridge and vale, as though it had -been ploughed with a gigantic plough. The high-roads lie as a rule along -the backs of the uplands, and the villages stand on the windy heights. -The lines of railway which run along the valley tend to create a new -species of valley village, but the old hamlets, with their grey-stone -high-backed churches, with slender shingled spires, stand aloft, the -pure air racing over them. The ancient manors and granges are as a rule -built in the more sheltered and sequestered valleys, approached from the -high-road by winding wood-lanes of exquisite beauty. The soil is sandy, -and a soft stone is quarried in many places by the road-side, leaving -quaint miniature cliffs and bluffs of weathered yellow, sometimes so -evenly stratified as to look like a rock-temple or a buried ruin with -mouldering buttresses; about these pits grow little knots of hazels and -ash-suckers, and the whole is hung in summer with luxuriant creepers and -climbing plants, out of which the crumbling rock-surfaces emerge. The -roads go down very steeply to the valleys, which are thick-set with copse -and woodland, and at the bottom runs a full-fed stream, with cascades and -pebbly shingles, running dark under scarps of sandstone, or hidden deep -under thick coverts of hazel, the water in the light a pure grey-green. -Some chalk is mingled with these ridges, so that in rainy weather the -hoof-prints in the roads ooze as with milk. The view from these uplands -is of exquisite beauty, ridge after ridge rolling its soft outlines, -thinly wooded. Far away are glimpses of high heathery tracts black with -pines, or a solitary clump upon some naked down. But the views in the -valleys are even more beautiful. The steep wood rises from the stream, -or the grave lines of some tilted fallow; in summer the water-plants -grow with rich luxuriance by the rivulet, tall willow-herb and velvety -loosestrife, tufted meadowsweet, and luxuriant comfrey. The homesteads -are of singular stateliness, with their great brick chimney-stacks, the -upper storeys weather-tiled and the roof of flat tiles of sandstone; the -whole mellowed by orange and grey lichens till the houses seem to have -sprung from the very soil. - - - - -4 - - -[Sidenote: GOLDEN END] - -My own home—bearing the tranquil name of Golden End—is an ancient manor; -out of a sandy lane turns an avenue of great Scotch firs, passing the -house and inclining gradually in its direction. The house is a strange -medley; one part of it is an Elizabethan building, mullioned, of grey -stone; one wing is weather-tiled and of simple outline. The front, -added at some period of prosperity, is Georgian, thickly set with large -windows; over all is a little tiled cupola where an alarm bell hangs. -There is a small square garden in front surrounded by low walls; above -the house lies what was once a bowling-green, with a terraced walk -surrounding it. The kitchen garden comes close up to the windows, and is -protected on the one side by a gigantic yew hedge, like a green bastion, -on the other by an ancient stone wall, with a tiled roof; below the house -lie quaint farm-buildings, cartsheds, barns, granaries, and stables; -beyond them are pools, fringed with self-sown ashes, and an orchard, -in the middle of which stands a brick dovecot with sandstone tiles. The -meadows fall from the house to the stream; but the greater part of the -few acres which we hold is simple woodland, where the copse grows thick -and dark, with here and there a stately forest tree. The house seen, as -I love best to see it, from the avenue on a winter evening, rises a dark -irregular pile, crowned with the cupola and the massive chimneys against -a green and liquid sky, in which trembles a single star; the pine-trees -are blacker still; and below lies the dim mysterious woodland, with the -mist rising over the stream, and, beyond that, soft upland after upland, -like a land of dreams, out to the horizon’s verge. - -Within all is dark and low; there is a central panelled hall with round -oak arches on either hand leading through little anterooms to a parlour -and dining-room. There are wide, meaningless corridors with steps up and -down that connect the wings with the central building; the staircases -are of the most solid oak. All the rooms are panelled except the attics, -which show the beams crossing in the ancient plasterwork. At the top -of the house is a long room which runs from end to end, with a great -open fireplace. The kitchen is a huge, paved chamber with an oak pillar -in the centre. A certain amount of massive oak furniture, sideboards, -chests, and presses, with initials or dates, belongs to the place; but -my father was a great collector of books, china, and pictures, which, -with the furniture of a large London house, were put hurriedly in, with -little attempt at order; and no one has since troubled to arrange them. -One little feature must be mentioned; at the top of the house a crazy oak -door gives access to a flight of stairs that leads on to a parapet; but -below the stairs is a tiny oratory, with an altar and some seats, where -the household assemble every morning for a few prayers, and together sing -an artless hymn. - - - - -5 - - -[Sidenote: MY MOTHER] - -My mother, who through the following pages must be understood to be the -presiding deity of the scene—_O quam te memorem?_—how shall I describe -her? Seen through her son’s eyes she has an extraordinary tranquillity -and graciousness of mien. She moves slowly with an absolutely unconscious -dignity. She is naturally very silent, and has a fixed belief that she -is entirely devoid of all intellectual power, which is in one sense -true, for she reads little and has no taste for discussion. At the same -time she is gifted with an extraordinary shrewdness and penetration in -practical matters, and I would trust her judgment without hesitation. She -is intensely affectionate, and has the largest heart I have ever known; -but at the same time is capable of taking almost whimsical prejudices -against people, which, however I have combated them at the time, have -generally proved to be justified by subsequent events. Her sympathy and -her geniality make her delightful company, for she delights in listening -to the talk of clever people and has a strong sense of humour. She likes -being read to, though I do not think she questions the thought of what is -read. She is deeply religious, though I do not suppose she could give a -reason for her faith, and is constantly tolerant of religious differences -which she never attempts to comprehend. In the village she is simply -adored by men, women, and children alike, though she is not particularly -given to what is called “visiting the poor.” - -At the same time if there is trouble in any house, no matter of what -kind, she goes there straight by instinct, and has none of the dread of -emotional scenes which make so many of us cowards in the presence of -sorrow and suffering. I do not think she feels any duty about it, but it -is as natural and spontaneous for her to go as it is for most of us to -desire to keep away. A shrewd woman of the village, a labourer’s wife, -whom my mother had seen through a dreadful tragedy a year or two before, -once said in reply to a question of mine, “It isn’t as if her ladyship -said or did more than any one else—every one was kind to us—but she used -to come in and sit with me and look at me, and after a little I used to -feel that it was all right.” - -She manages the household with less expenditure of trouble than I have -ever seen. Our servants never seem to leave us; they are paid what many -people would call absurdly high wages, but I do not think that is the -attraction. My mother does not see very much of them, and finds fault, -when rarely necessary, with a simple directness which I have in vain -tried to emulate; but her displeasure is so impersonal that there seems -to be no sting in it. It is not that they have failed in their duty to -herself, but they have been untrue to the larger duty to which she is -herself obedient. - -She never seems to labour under any strong sense of the imperative duty -of philanthropic activity—indeed it is hard to say how her days are -filled—but in her simplicity, her unselfishness, her quiet acceptance -of the conditions of life, her tranquillity and her devoted lovingness -she seems to me the best Christian I have ever seen, and to come nearest -to the ideals of Christ. But, though a large part of her large income -is spent in unostentatious benevolence, she would think it preposterous -if it were suggested to her that Christianity demanded an absolute -sacrifice of worldly possessions. Yet she sets no store on comfort or -the evidences of wealth; she simply accepts them, and has a strong -instinctive feeling of stewardship. - -I cannot help thinking that such women are becoming rarer; and yet it is -hard to believe that they can ever have been other than rare. - - - - -6 - - -I gratefully acknowledge the constant presence of an element in my -life which for want of a better name I will call the sense of beauty. -I mean by that the unaccountable thrill of emotion by which one is -sometimes surprised, often quite suddenly and unexpectedly; this sense -of wonder, which darts upon the mind with an almost physical sensation, -seems to come in two different ways. With some, the majority I believe, -it originates entirely in personal relations with other human beings -and is known as love; with others it arises over a larger region, and -is inspired by a sudden perception of some incommunicable beauty in a -flower, a scent, a view, a picture, a poem. Those in whom the latter -sense predominates are, I think, less apt to be affected by human -relationships, but pass through the world in a certain solitary and -wistful mood, with perhaps more wide and general sources of happiness but -less liable to be stirred to the depths of their being by a friendship -or a passion. To take typical examples of such a class I conceive that -Wordsworth and William Morris were instances. Wordsworth derived, I -believe, his highest inspiration from the solemn dignities of nature, in -her most stupendous and majestic forms; while to Morris belonged that -power, which amounted in him to positive genius, for seeing beauty in the -most homely and simple things. - -[Sidenote: BEAUTY AND MYSTERY] - -I was myself haunted from a very early date by the sense of beauty and -mystery, though not for many years could I give it a name; but I have -found in my case that it originated as a rule in some minute effect of -natural things. I have seen some of the wildest and most astounding -natural prospects in Europe; I have climbed high rocky peaks and threaded -mountain solitudes, but some overshadowing of horror and awe has robbed -emotion of its most intimate joy; and I have always found myself more -thrilled by some tranquil vignette—the moon rising through a forest -glade, a red sunset between the boughs of pines, the crisping wave of -some broken eddy, the “green-dense and dim-delicious” depth of a woodland -pool, the weathered gables of an ancient manor, an orchard white with -the snows of spring—than I have ever been by the sight of the most solemn -mountain-head or the furious breakers of some uncontrolled tide. - -Two or three of these sacred sights I may venture to describe, taking -them at random out of the treasure-house of memory; two belong to my -schooldays. I was a pupil at a big suburban school; the house which we -inhabited had once been the villa of a well-known statesman, and had -large and dignified grounds, where with certain restrictions, we were -allowed to ramble. They were bounded on one side by a high paling, -inaccessible to small limbs, and a vague speculation as to what was -behind the fence long dwelt with me. One day, however, I found that I -could loose a portion of a broken paling, and looking through I saw a -quiet place, the tail of a neglected shrubbery; the spot seemed quite -unvisited; the laurels grew thickly about, and tall elms gave an austere -gloom to the little glade; the ground was pathless, and thickly overgrown -with periwinkles, but in the centre were three tiny grave-mounds, the -graves, I have since reflected, of dogs, but which I at the time -supposed to be the graves of children. I gazed with a singular sense -of mystery, and strange dream-pictures rose instinctively in my mind, -weaving themselves over the solitary and romantic spot. It is strange how -often in dreams and gentle reveries I have visited the place. - -[Sidenote: THE ENCHANTED LAND] - -The next is a later vision. Near the public school where I was educated -lay a forest to which we had free admittance. I found that by hard -walking it was just possible to reach a wooded hill which was a -conspicuous feature of the distant landscape, but the time at my disposal -between two school engagements never sufficed to penetrate farther. From -the top of this hill it was possible to get a view of a large tract -of forest ground, an open grassy glade, with large trees of towering -greenness standing sentinel on either side; the bracken grew luxuriantly -in places, and at the end of the glade was a glint of water in the horn -of some forest pool. This place was to me a veritable “magic casement”; -beyond lay the enchanted land into which I could not penetrate, the blue -hills on the horizon seen over the tree-tops. I never dreamt of them as -inhabited by human beings like myself, but as some airy region, with -leagues of dreaming woods and silent forest spaces. At times a deer would -slowly cross the open vale, and stand to sniff the breeze; the very -cooing of the doves in their leafy fastnesses had a richer and drowsier -sound. - -But the home of incommunicable dreams, beyond all others, is to me -a certain mill—Grately Mill—that is not many miles from my present -home. My mother had an old aunt who lived in a pleasant house in the -neighbourhood, and we used to go there when I was a child to spend a few -weeks of the early summer. - -A little vague lane led to it: a lane that came from nowhere in -particular, and took you nowhere; meandering humbly among the pastures -wherever it was convenient to them to permit it, like a fainthearted -Christian. Hard by was a tall, high-shouldered, gabled farm of red brick, -with a bell perched on the roof in a white pavilion of its own. Down the -lane on hot summer days we used to walk—my mother and I: my mother whom I -revered as a person of unapproachable age and dim experience, though she -had been in the schoolroom herself but a year or two before my birth; I -trotting by her side with a little fishing-rod in a grey holland case, to -fish for perch in the old pond at the Hall. - -The lane grew sandier and damper: a rivulet clucked in the ditch, -half-hidden in ragged-robin with its tattered finery, and bright -varnished ranunculus; the rivulet was a mysterious place enough ever -since the day when we found it full of waving clusters of strange dark -creatures, more eel than fish, which had all appeared with miraculous -unanimity in a single night—lamperns, the village naturalist called -them, and told us that in ancient days they were a delicacy; while I, in -my childish mind, at once knew that it was this which had gone to the -composition of that inexplicable dish, a surfeit of lampreys, as the -history had it, of which some greedy monarch died. - -Once, too, a bright-coloured eel had been seen at a certain point, who -had only just eluded the grasp of hot little fingers. How many times I -looked for master eel, expecting to meet him at the same place, and was -careful to carry a delightful tin box in my pocket, in which he might -travel home in my pocket, and live an honoured life in a basin in the -night nursery. Poor eel! I am glad now that he escaped, but then he was -only a great opportunity missed—an irreparable regret. - -[Sidenote: GRATELY MILL] - -Then the poor lane, which had been getting more like a water-course -every moment, no longer made any pretence, and disappeared into a -shallow sheet of clear water—the mill at last! The scene, as I remember -it, had a magical charm. On the left, by the side of the lane, rose a -crazy footpath of boards and posts with a wooden handrail, and a sluice -or two below. Beyond, the deep mill-pool slept, dark and still, all -fringed with trees. On the right the stream flowed off among the meadows, -disappearing into an arch of greenery; in summer the banks and islets -were all overgrown with tall rich plants, comfrey, figwort, water-dock. -The graceful willow-herb hung its pink horns; the loosestrife rose in -sturdier velvet spires. On the bank stood the shuttered, humming mill, -the water-wheel splashing and thundering, like a prisoned giant, in -a penthouse of its own. It was a fearful joy to look in and see it -rise dripping, huge and black, with the fresh smell of the river water -all about it. All the mill was powdered with the dust of grain; the -air inside was full of floating specks; the hoppers rattled, and the -gear grumbled in the roof, while the flour streamed merrily into the -open sack. The miller, a grave preoccupied man, all dusted over, like -a plum, with a thin bloom of flour, gave us a grave nod of greeting, -which seemed to make us free of the place. I dare say he was a shy mild -man, with but little of the small change of the mind at his disposal; -but he seemed to me then an austere and statesmanlike person, full to -the brim of grave affairs. Beyond the mill, a lane of a more determined -character led through arches of elms to the common. And now, on secular -days, the interests of the chase took precedence of all else; but there -were Sundays in the summer when we walked to attend Grately Church. -It seems to me at this lapse of time to have been almost impossibly -antique. Ancient yews stood by it, and it had a white boarded spire with -a cracked bell. Inside, the single aisleless nave, with ancient oak pews, -was much encumbered in one place by a huge hand-organ, with a forest of -gold pipes, turned by a wizened man, who opened a little door in the -side and inserted his hand at intervals to set the tune. The clergyman, -an aged gentleman, wore what was, I suppose, a dark wig, though at the -time I imagined it to be merely an agreeable variety on ordinary hair; -another pleasant habit he had of slightly smacking his lips, at every -little pause, as he read, which gave an air of indescribable gusto to the -service:—“Moab—tut—is my washpot—tut—; over Edom—tut—will I cast out my -shoe—tut—; upon Philistia—tut—will I triumph.” - -[Sidenote: GRATELY CHURCH] - -In the vestry of the church reposed a curious relic—a pyx, I believe, -is the correct name. It was a gilded metal chalice with a top, into -which, if my memory serves me, were screwed little soldiers to guard the -sacred body; these were loose, and how I coveted them! In the case were -certain spikes and branches of crystal, the broken remains, I believe, of -a spreading crystal tree which once adorned the top. How far my memory -serves me I know not, but I am sure that the relic which may still -survive, is a most interesting thing; and I can recollect that when a -high dignitary of the Church stayed with us, it was kindly brought over -by the clergyman for his inspection, and his surprise was very great. - -The Hall lay back from the common, sheltered by great trees. The -house itself, a low white building, was on those summer days cool -and fragrant. The feature of the place was the great fish-ponds—one -lay outside the shrubbery; but another, formerly I believe a monastic -stew-pond, was a long rectangle just outside the windows of the -drawing-room, and only separated from it by a gravel walk: along part of -it ran an ancient red-brick wall. This was our favourite fishing-place; -but above it, brooded over by huge chestnuts, lay a deeper and stiller -pond, half covered with water-lilies—too sacred and awful a place to be -fished in or even visited alone. - -Upon the fishing hours I do not love to dwell; I would only say that of -such cruelties as attended it I was entirely innocent. I am sure that I -never thought of a perch as other than a delightful mechanical thing, who -had no grave objection to being hauled up gasping, with his black stripes -gleaming, and prickling his red fins, to be presently despatched, and -carried home stiff and cold in a little basket. - -The tea under the tall trees of the lawn; the admiring inspection of our -prey; the stuffed dog in the hall with his foot upon a cricket-ball—all -these are part of the dream-pictures; and the whole is invested for me -with the purpureal gleams of childhood. - -[Sidenote: GRATELY THIRTY YEARS AFTER] - -The other day I found myself on a bicycle near enough to Grately to make -it possible to go there; into the Hall grounds I did not venture, but I -struck across the common and went down the lane to the mill. I was almost -ashamed of the agitation I felt, but the sight of the common, never -visited for nearly thirty years, induced a singular physical distress. It -was not that everything had grown smaller, even changed the places that -they occupy in my mental picture, but a sort of homesickness seemed to -draw tight bands across my heart. What does it mean, this intense local -attachment, for us flimsy creatures, snapped at a touch, and with so -brief a pilgrimage? A strange thought! The very intensity and depth of -the feeling seems to confer on it a right to permanence. - -The lane came abruptly to an end by the side of a commonplace, -straight-banked, country brook. There were no trees, no water-plants; -the road did not dip to the stream, and in front of me lay a yellow -brick bridge, with grim iron lattices. Alas! I had mistaken the turn, -and must retrace my steps. But stay! what was that squat white house by -the waterside? It was indeed the old mill, with its boarded projections -swept away, its barns gone, its garden walled with a neat wall. The old -high-timbered bridge was down; some generous landlord had gone to great -expense, and Grately had a good convenient road, a sensible bridge, and -an up-to-date mill. Probably there was not a single person in the parish -who did not confess to an improvement. - -But who will give me back the tall trees and the silent pool? Who will -restore the ancient charm, the delicate mysteries, the gracious dignity -of the place? Is beauty a mere trick of grouping, the irradiation of a -golden mood, a chance congeries of water and high trees and sunlight? If -beauty be industriously hunted from one place by ruthless hands, does she -spread her wings and fly? Is the restless, ceaseless effort of nature to -restore beauty to the dismal messes made by man, simply broken off and -made vain? Or has she leisure to work harder yet in unvisited places, -patiently enduring the grasp of the spoiling hand? - -It was with something like a sob that I turned away. But of one thing no -one can rob me, and that is the picture of Grately Mill, glorified indeed -by the patient worship of years, which is locked into some portfolio of -the mind, and can be unspread in a moment before the gazing eye. - -[Sidenote: EGERIA] - -And for one thing I can be grateful—that the still spirit of sweet and -secret places, that wayward nymph who comes and goes, with the wind in -her hair and the gleam of deep water in her eyes—she to whom we give many -a clumsy name—that she first beckoned to me and spoke words in my ear -beneath the high elms of Grately Mill. Many times have we met and spoken -in secret since, my Egeria and I; many times has she touched my shoulder, -and whispered a magic charm. That presence has been often withdrawn from -me; but I have but to recall the bridge, the water-plants, the humming -mill, the sunlight on the sandy shallows, to feel her hand in mine again. - - - - -7 - - -As a boy and a young man I went through the ordinary classical -education—private school, public school, and university. I do not think -I troubled my head at the time about the philosophical theory or motive -of the course; but now, looking back upon it after an interval of twenty -years, while my admiration of the theory of it is enhanced, as a lofty -and dignified scheme of mental education, I find myself haunted by -uneasy doubts as to its practical efficacy. While it seems to me to be -for a capable and well-equipped boy with decided literary taste, a noble -and refining influence, I begin to fear that for the large majority of -youthful English minds it is narrowing, unimproving, and conspicuous for -an absence of intellectual enjoyment. - -Is it not the experience of most people that little boys are -conscientious, duty-loving, interested not so much in the matter of -work, but in the zealous performance of it; and that when adolescence -begins, they grow indifferent, wearied, even rebellious, until they drift -at last into a kind of cynicism about the whole thing—a kind of dumb -certainty, that whatever else may be got from work, enjoyment in no form -is the result? And is not the moral of this, that the apprenticeship once -over and the foundation laid, special tastes should as far as possible -be consulted, and subjects simplified, so as to give boys a sense of -_mastery_ in something, and interest at all hazards. - -[Sidenote: METHODS OF STUDY] - -The champions of our classical system defend it on the ground that the -accurate training in the subtleties of grammar hardens and fortifies the -intelligence, and that the mind is introduced to the masterpieces of -ancient literature, and thus encouraged in the formation of correct taste -and critical appreciation. - -An excellent theory, and I admit at once its value for minds of high and -firm intellectual calibre. But how does it actually work out for the -majority? In the first place, look at what the study of grammar amounts -to—it comes, as a matter of fact, when one remembers the grammar papers -which were set in examinations, to be little more than a knowledge of -arbitrary, odd and eccentric forms such as a boy seldom if ever meets in -the course of his reading. Imagine teaching English on the same theory, -and making boys learn that metals have no plural, or that certain fish -use the same form in the singular and in the plural—things of which one -acquires the knowledge insensibly, and which are absolutely immaterial. -Moreover, the quantity of grammatical forms in Latin and Greek are -infinitely increased by the immensely larger number of inflexions. Is -it useful that boys should have to commit to memory the dual forms in -Greek verbs—forms of a repulsive character in themselves, and seldom -encountered in books? The result of this method is that the weaker mind -is warped and strained. Some few memories of a peculiarly retentive type -may acquire these useless facts in a mechanical manner; but it is hardly -more valuable than if they were required to commit to memory long lists -of nonsense words. Yet in most cases they are doomed to be speedily and -completely forgotten—indeed, nothing can ever be really learnt unless a -logical connection can be established between the items. - -[Sidenote: MASTERY AND SPIRIT] - -Then after the dark apprenticeship of grammar comes the next stage—the -appreciation of literature; but I diffidently believe here that not ten -per cent of the boys who are introduced to the classics have ever the -slightest idea that they are in the presence of literature at all. They -never approach the point which is essential to a love of literature—the -instinctive perception of the intrinsic beauty of majestic and noble -words, and still less the splendid associations which grow to be -inseparably connected with words, in a language which one really knows -and admires. - -[Sidenote: METHOD AND SPIRIT] - -My own belief is that both the method of instruction and the spirit of -that instruction are at fault. Like the Presbyterian Liturgy, the system -depends far too much on the individuality of the teacher, and throws too -great a strain upon his mood. A vigorous, brilliant, lively, humorous, -rhetorical man can break through the shackles of construing and parsing, -and give the boys the feeling of having been in contact with a larger -mind; but in the hands of a dull and uninspiring teacher the system is -simply famishing from its portentous aridity. The result, at all events, -is that the majority of the boys at our schools never get the idea that -they are in the presence of literature at all. They are kept kicking -their heels in the dark and cold antechamber of parsing and grammar, and -never get a glimpse of the bright gardens within. - -What is, after all, the aim of education? I suppose it is twofold: -firstly, to make of the mind a bright, keen, and effective instrument, -capable of seeing a point, of grappling with a difficulty, of presenting -facts or thoughts with clearness and precision. A young man properly -educated should be able to detect a fallacy, to correct by acquired -clearsightedness a false logical position. He should not be at the -mercy of any new theory which may be presented to him in a specious and -attractive shape. That is, I suppose, the negative side. Then secondly, -he should have a cultivated taste for intellectual things, a power -of enjoyment; he should not bow meekly to authority in the matter of -literature, and force himself into the admiration of what is prescribed, -but he should be possessed of a dignified and wholesome originality; he -should have his own taste clearly defined. If his bent is historical, he -should be eagerly interested in any masterly presentation of historical -theory, whether new or old; if philosophical, he should keep abreast of -modern speculation; if purely literary, he should be able to return hour -after hour to masterpieces that breathe and burn. - -[Sidenote: EDUCATIONAL RESULTS] - -But what is the result of our English education? In one respect -admirable; it turns out boys who are courteous, generous, brave, active, -and public-spirited; but is it impossible that these qualities should -exist with a certain intellectual standard? I remember now, though I did -not apply any theory at the time to the phenomenon, that when at school -I used dimly to wonder at seeing boys who were all these things—fond of -talk, fond of games, devoted to all open-air exercises, conscientious -and wholesome-minded, who were at the same time utterly listless in -intellectual things—who could not read a book of any kind except the -simplest novel, and then only to fill a vacant hour, who could not give a -moment’s attention to the presentment of an interesting episode, who were -moreover utterly contemptuous of all such things, inclined to think them -intolerably tedious and essentially priggish—and yet these were the boys -of whom most was made, who were most popular not only with boys but with -masters as well, and who, in our little microcosmography were essentially -the successful people, to be imitated, followed, and worshipped. - -Now if it were certain that the qualities which are developed by an -English education would be sacrificed if a higher intellectual standard -were aimed at, I should not hesitate to sacrifice the intellectual -side. But I do not believe it is necessary; and what is stranger still, -I do not believe that most of our educators have any idea that the -intellectual side of education is being sacrificed. - -I remember once hearing a veteran and successful educator say that he -considered a well-educated man was a man whose mind was not at the mercy -of the last new book on any ordinary subject. If that is an infallible -test, then our public schools may be said to have succeeded beyond all -reasonable expectation. The ordinary public-school type of man is not in -the least at the mercy of the last new book, because he is careful never -to submit himself to the chance of pernicious bias—he does not get so far -as to read it. - -[Sidenote: EDUCATIONAL AIMS] - -At present athletics are so much deferred to, that boys seem to me to -be encouraged deliberately to lay their plans as if life ended at -thirty. But I believe that schools should aim at producing a type that -should develop naturally and equably with the years. What we want to -produce is an unselfish, tranquil, contented type, full of generous -visions; neither prematurely serious nor incurably frivolous, nor -afraid of responsibility, nor morbidly desirous of influence; neither -shunning nor courting publicity, but natural, wholesome, truthful, and -happy; not afraid of difficulties nor sadly oppressed with a sense of -responsibility; fond of activity and yet capable of using and enjoying -leisure; not narrow-minded, not viewing everything from the standpoint -of a particular town or parish, but patriotic and yet not insular, -modern-spirited and yet not despising the past, practical and yet with a -sense of spiritual realities. - -I think that what is saddest is that the theoretical perfection screens -the practical inutility of the thing. If it seems good to the collective -wisdom of the country to let education go, and to make a public-school -a kind of healthy barrack-life for the physical training of the body, -with a certain amount of mental occupation to fill the vacant hours that -might otherwise be mischievous—pleasure with a hem of duty—let it be -frankly admitted that it is so; but that the education received by boys -at our public-schools is now, except in intention, literary—that is the -position which I entirely deny. - -Personally I had a certain feeble taste for literature. I read in a -slipshod way a good deal of English poetry, memoirs, literary history, -and essays, but my reading was utterly amateurish and unguided. I even -had some slight preferences in style, but I could not have given a reason -for my preference; I could not write an English essay—I had no idea -of arrangement. I had never been told to “let the bones show;” I had -no sense of proportion, and considered that anything which I happened -to have in my own mind was relevant to any subject about which I was -writing. I had never learnt to see the point or to insist upon the -essential. - -[Sidenote: THE CLASSICS] - -Neither do I think that I can claim to have had any particular love for -the classics; but I was blest with a pictorial mind, and though much -of my classical reading was a mere weariness to me, I was cheered at -intervals by a sudden romantic glimpse of some scene or other that -seized me with a vivid reality. The Odyssey and the Æneid were rich -in these surprises; for the talk of Gods, indeed, I had nothing but -bewildered contempt; but such a scene as that of Laertes in his patched -gaiters, fumbling with a young tree on his upland farm, at once seized -tyrannically upon my fancy. Catullus, Horace, even Martial, gave me -occasional food for the imagination; and all at once it seemed worth -while to traverse the arid leagues, or to wade, as Tennyson said, in a -sea of glue, for these divine moments. - -One such scene that affected my fancy I will describe in greater detail; -and let it stand as a specimen. It was in the third Æneid; we were -sitting in a dusty class-room, the gas flaring. The lesson proceeded -slowly and wearily, with a thin trickle of exposition from the desk, -emanating from a master who was evidently as sick of the whole business -as ourselves. - -Andromache, widow of Hector, after a forced union with Neoptolemus, -becomes the bride of Helenus, Hector’s brother. Helenus on the death of -Pyrrhus becomes his successor in the chieftainship, and Andromache is -once more a queen. She builds a rustic altar, an excuse for lamentation, -and there bewails the memory of her first lord. I was reflecting that she -must have made but a dreary wife for Helenus, when in a moment the scene -was changed. Æneas, it will be remembered, comes on her in her orisons, -with his troop of warriors behind him, and is greeted by the terrified -queen, who believes him to be an apparition, with a wild and artless -question ending a burst of passionate grief: “If you come from the world -of spirits,” she says, “Hector ubi est?” It is one of those sudden turns -that show the ineffable genius of Virgil. - -I saw in a moment a clearing in a wood of beeches; one great tree stood -out from the rest. Half hidden in the foliage stood a tall stone pillar, -supporting a mouldering urn. Close beside this was a stone alcove, with -a little altar beneath it. In the alcove stood a silent listening statue -with downcast head. From the altar went up a little smoke; the queen -herself, a slender figure, clad in black, with pale worn face and fragile -hands, bent in prayer. By her side were two maidens, also in the deepest -black, a priest in stiff vestments, and a boy bearing a box of incense. - -[Sidenote: VIRGIL] - -A slight noise falls on the ear of Andromache; she turns, and there -at the edge of a green forest path, lit by the red light of a low -smouldering sun, stands the figure of a warrior, his arms rusty and dark, -his mailed feet sunk in the turf, leaning on his spear. His face is pale -and heavily lined, worn with ungentle experience, and lit by a strange -light of recognition. His pale forked beard falls on his breast; behind -him a mist of spears. - -This was the scene; very rococo, no doubt, and romantic, but so intensely -real, so glowing, that I could see the pale-stemmed beeches; and below, -through a gap, low fantastic hills and a wan river winding in the plain. -I could see the white set face of Æneas, the dark-eyed glance of the -queen, the frightened silence of the worshippers. - - - - -8 - - -At Cambridge things were not very different. I was starved intellectually -by the meagre academical system. I took up the Classical Tripos, and -read, with translations, in the loosest style imaginable, great masses -of classical literature, caring little about the subject matter, -seldom reading the notes, with no knowledge of history, archæology, or -philosophy, and even strangely ignorant of idiom. I received no guidance -in these matters; my attendance at lectures was not insisted upon; and -the composition lecturers, though conscientious, were not inspiring men. -My tutor did, it must be confessed, make some attempt to influence my -reading, urging me to lay down a regular plan, and even recommending -books and editions. But I was too dilatory to carry it out; and though I -find that in one Long Vacation I read through the Odyssey, the Æneid, and -the whole of Aristotle’s Ethics, yet they left little or no impression -on my mind. I did indeed drift into a First Class, but this was merely -due to familiarity with, rather than knowledge of, the Classics; and my -ignorance of the commonest classical rules was phenomenal. - -[Sidenote: CAMBRIDGE LIFE] - -But I did derive immense intellectual stimulus from my Cambridge life, -though little from the prescribed course of study; for I belonged to a -little society that met weekly, and read papers on literary and ethical -subjects, prolonging a serious, if fitful, discussion late into the -night. I read a great deal of English in a sketchy way, and even wrote -both poetry and fiction; but I left Cambridge a thoroughly uneducated -man, without an idea of literary method, and contemning accuracy and -precision in favour of brilliant and heady writing. The initial impulse -to interest in literature was certainly instinctive in me; but I maintain -that not only did that interest never receive encouragement from the -professed educators under whose influence I passed, but that I was not -even professionally trained in the matter; that solidity and accuracy -were never insisted upon; and that the definiteness, which at least -education is capable of communicating, was either never imparted by -mental processes, or that I successfully resisted the imparting of -it—indeed, never knew that any attempt was being made to teach me the -value or necessity of it. - - - - -9 - - -I had a religious bringing-up. I was made familiar with the Bible and -the offices of religion; only the natural piety was wanting. I am quite -certain I had no sense of religion as a child—I do not think I had any -morality. Like many children, I was ruled by associations rather than by -principles. I was sensitive to disapproval; and being timid by nature, -I was averse to being found out; being moreover lacking in vitality, -I seldom experienced the sensation of being brought face to face with -temptation—rebellion, anger, and sensual impulse were unknown to me; but -while I was innocent, I was unconscientious and deceitful, not so much -deliberately as instinctively. - -The sense of religion I take to be, in its simplest definition, the -consciousness of the presence of the Divine Being, and the practice of -religion to be the maintenance of conscious union or communion with -the Divine. These were entirely lacking to me. I accepted the fact of -God’s existence as I accepted the facts of history and geography. But -my conception of God, if I may speak plainly and without profanity, was -derived from the Old Testament, and was destitute of attractiveness. I -conceived of Him as old, vindictive, unmerciful, occupied in tedious -matters, hostile to all gaiety and juvenility; totally uninterested in -the human race, except in so far that He regarded their transgressions -with morbid asperity and a kind of gloomy satisfaction, as giving Him an -opportunity of exercising coercive discipline. He was never represented -to me as the Giver of the simple joys of life—of light and warmth, of -food and sleep, as the Creator of curious and sweet-smelling flowers, -of aromatic shrubs, of waving trees, of horned animals and extravagant -insects. Considering how entirely creatures of sense children are, it has -seemed to me since that it would be well if their simplest pleasures, -the material surroundings of their lives, were connected with the idea -of God—if they felt that what they enjoyed was sent by Him; if it were -said of a toy that “God sends you this;” or of some domestic festivity -that “God hopes that you will be happy to-day,”—it appears to me that we -should have less of that dreary philosophy which connects “God’s will” -only with moments of bereavement and suffering. If we could only feel -with Job, that God, who sends us so much that is sweet and wholesome, -has equally the right to send us what is evil, we could early grow to -recognise that, when the greater part of our lives is made up of what -is desirable or interesting, and when we cling to life and the hope of -happiness with so unerring an instinct, it is probable, nay, certain, -that our afflictions must be ultimately intended to minister to the -fulness of joy. - -[Sidenote: RELIGION] - -Certainly religious practices, though I enjoyed them in many ways, had no -effect on conduct; indeed, I never thought of them as having any concern -with conduct. Religious services never seemed to me in childhood to be -solemnities designed for the hallowing of life, or indeed as having -any power to do so, but merely as part of the framework of duty, as -ceremonies out of which it was possible to derive a certain amount of -interest and satisfaction. - -Church was always a pleasure to me; I liked the _mise-en-scène_, the -timbered roof, the fallen day, the stained glass, the stone pillars, the -comfortable pew, the rubricated prayer-book, the music, the movements of -the minister—these all had a definite æsthetic effect upon me; moreover, -it was a pleasure to note, with the unshrinking gaze of childhood, the -various delightful peculiarities of members of the congregation: the -old man with apple-red cheeks, in his smock-frock, who came with rigid, -creaking boots to his place; the sexton, with his goat-like beard; the -solicitor, who emitted sounds in the hymns like the lowing of a cow; the -throaty tenor, who had but one vowel for all; the dowager in purple silk, -who sat through the Psalms and inspected her prayer-book through a gold -eye-glass as though she were examining some natural curiosity. All these -were, in childish parlance, “so funny.” And Church was thus a place to -which I went willingly and joyfully; the activity of my observation saved -me from the tedium with which so many children regard it. - -[Sidenote: RELIGIOUS SENTIMENT] - -This vacuous æstheticism in the region of religion continued with me -through my school days. Of purpose and principle there was no trace. I -do indeed remember one matter in which I had recourse to prayer. At my -private school, a big suburban establishment, I was thrust into a large -dormitory, a shrinking and bewildered atom, fresh from the privacies and -loving attentions of the nursery, and required to undress and go to bed -before the eyes of fifty boys. It was a rude introduction to the world, -and it is strange to reflect upon the helpless despair with which a -little soul can be filled under circumstances which to maturer thoughts -appear almost idyllic. But while I crouched miserably upon my bed, as -I prepared to slip between the sheets—of which the hard texture alone -dismayed me—I was struck by a shoe, mischievously, but not brutally -thrown by a bigger boy some yards away. Is it amusing or pathetic to -reflect that night after night I prayed that this might not be repeated, -using a suffrage of the Litany about our persecutors and slanderers, -which seemed to me dismally appropriate? - -At the public school to which I was shortly transferred, where I enjoyed -a tranquil and uneventful existence, religion was still a sentiment. -Being one of the older foundations we had a paid choir, and the musical -service was a real delight to me. I loved the dark roof and the thunders -of the organ; even now I can recollect the thrill with which I looked -day after day at the pure lines of the Tudor building, the innumerable -clustered shafts that ran from pavement to roof. I cared little for the -archæology and history of the place, but the grace of antiquity, the -walls of mellow brick, the stone-crop that dripped in purple tufts among -the mouldering stones of the buttress, the very dust that clung to the -rafters of the ancient refectory—all these I noted with secret thrills of -delight. - -Still no sense of reality touched me; life was but a moving pageant, -in which I played as slight a part as I could contrive to play. I was -inoffensive; my work was easy to me. I had some congenial friends, and -dreamed away the weeks in a gentle indolence set in a framework of -unengrossing duties. - -[Sidenote: PLEASURES OF RITUAL] - -About my sixteenth year I made friends with a high-church curate whom -I met in the holidays, who was indeed distantly related to me; he was -attached to a large London church, which existed mainly for ornate -services, and I used to go up from school occasionally to see him, -and even spent a few days in his house at the beginning or end of the -holidays. Looking back, he seems to me now to have been a somewhat -inert and sentimental person, but I acquired from him a real love of -liturgical things, wrote out with my own hand a book of Hours, carefully -rubricated—though I do not recollect that I often used it—and became -more ceremonial than ever. I had long settled that I was to take Orders, -and I well recollect the thrill with which on one of these visits I -saw my friend ascend the high stone pulpit of the tall church, with -flaring lights, in a hood of a strange pattern, which he assured me was -the antique shape. The sermon was, I even now recollect, deplorable -both in language and thought, but that seemed to me a matter of entire -indifference; the central fact was that he stood there vested with due -solemnity, and made rhetorical motions with an easy grace. - -[Sidenote: A BENEDICTION] - -At this time, too, at school, I took to frequenting the service of the -cathedral in the town whenever I was able, and became a familiar figure -to vergers and clergy. I have no doubt that were I to be made a bishop, -this fact would be cited as an instance of early piety, but the truth -was that it was, so to speak, a mere amusement. I can honestly say that -it had no sort of effect on my life, which ran indolently on, side by -side with the ritual preoccupation, unaffected by it, and indeed totally -distinct from it. My confirmation came in the middle of these diversions; -the solid and careful preparation that I received I looked upon as so -much tedious lecturing to be decorously borne, and beside a dim pleasure -in the ceremony, I do not think it had any influence of a practical kind. -Once, indeed, there did pass a breath of vital truth over my placid and -self-satisfied life, like a breeze over still water. There came to stay -with us in the holidays an elderly clergyman, a friend of my mother’s, -a London rector, whose whole life was sincerely given to helping souls -to the light, and who had escaped by some exquisite lucidity of soul -the self-consciousness—too often, alas, the outcome of the adulation -which is the shadow of holy influence. He had the gift of talking simply -and sweetly about spiritual things—indeed nothing else interested him; -conversation about books or politics he listened to with a gentle -urbanity of tolerance; yet when he talked himself, he never dogmatised, -but appealed with a wistful smile to his hearers to confirm the -experiences which he related. Me, though an awkward boy, he treated with -the most winning deference, and on the morning of his departure asked -me with delightful grace to accompany him on a short walk, and opened -to me the thought of the hallowing presence of Christ in daily life. It -seems to me now that he was inviting my confidence, but I had none to -give him; so with a memorable solemnity he bade me, if I ever needed -help in spiritual things, to come freely to him; I remember that he did -so without any sense of patronage, but as an older disciple, wrestling -with the same difficulties, and only a little further ahead in the vale -of life. Lastly he took me to his room, knelt down beside me, and prayed -with exquisite simplicity and affection that I might be enriched with the -knowledge of Christ, and then laid his hand upon my head with a loving -benediction. For days and even weeks that talk and that benediction dwelt -with me; but the time had not come, and I was to be led through darker -waters; and though I prayed for many days intensely that some revelation -of truth might come to me, yet the seed had fallen on shallow soil, and -was soon scorched up again by the genial current of my daily life. - -I think, though I say this with sadness, that he represented religion as -too much a withdrawal from life for one so young, and did not make it -clear to me that my merriment, my joys, my interests, and my ambitions -might be hallowed and invigorated. He had himself subordinated life and -character so completely to one end, and thrown aside (if he had ever -possessed them) the dear prejudices and fiery interests of individuality, -that I doubt if he could have thrown his imagination swiftly enough -back into all the energetic hopes, the engrossing beckonings of opening -manhood. - - - - -10 - - -The rest of my school life passed without any important change of view. I -became successful in games, popular, active-minded. I won a scholarship -at Cambridge with disastrous ease. - -Then Cambridge life opened before me. I speak elsewhere of my -intellectual and social life there, and will pass on to the next event of -importance in my religious development. - -My life had become almost purely selfish. I was not very ambitious of -academical honours, though I meant to secure a modest first-class; but -I was intensely eager for both social and literary distinction, and -submitted myself to the full to the dreamful beauty of my surroundings, -and the delicious thrill of artistic pleasures. - -I have often thought how strangely and secretly the crucial moment, the -most agonising crisis of my life drifted upon me. I say deliberately -that, looking back over my forty years of life, no day was so fraught -for me with fate, no hour so big with doomful issues, as that day which -dawned so simply and sped past with such familiar ease to the destined -hour—that moment which waved me, led by sociable curiosity, into the -darkness of suffering and agony. A new birth indeed! The current of my -days fell, as it were, with suddenness, unexpected, unguessed at, into -the weltering gulf of despair; that hour turned me in an instant from a -careless boy into a troubled man. And yet how easily it might have been -otherwise—no, I dare not say that. - -[Sidenote: THE EVANGELIST] - -It had been like any other day. I had been to the dreary morning -service, read huskily by a few shivering mortals in the chilly chapel; -I had worked, walked in the afternoon with a friend, and we had talked -of our plans—all we meant to do and be. After hall, I went to have -some coffee in the rooms of a mild and amiable youth, now a church -dignitary in the Colonies. I sat, I remember, on a deep sofa, which I -afterwards bought and still possess. Our host carelessly said that a -great Revivalist was to address a meeting that night. Some one suggested -that we should go. I laughingly assented. The meeting was held in a -hall in a side street; we went smiling and talking, and took our places -in a crowded room. The first item was the appearance of an assistant, -who accompanied the evangelist as a sort of precentor—an immense -bilious man, with black hair, and eyes surrounded by flaccid, pendent, -baggy wrinkles—who came forward with an unctuous gesture, and took his -place at a small harmonium, placed so near the front of the platform -that it looked as if both player and instrument must inevitably topple -over; it was inexpressibly ludicrous to behold. Rolling his eyes in an -affected manner, he touched a few simple cords, and then a marvellous -transformation came over the room. In a sweet, powerful voice, with an -exquisite simplicity combined with irresistible emotion, he sang “There -were Ninety-and-Nine.” The man was transfigured. A deathly hush came over -the room, and I felt my eyes fill with tears; his physical repulsiveness -slipped from him, and left a sincere impulsive Christian, whose simple -music spoke straight to the heart. - -Then the preacher himself—a heavy-looking, commonplace man, with a sturdy -figure and no grace of look or gesture—stepped forward. I have no -recollection how he began, but he had not spoken half-a-dozen sentences -before I felt as though he and I were alone in the world. The details of -that speech have gone from me. After a scathing and indignant invective -on sin, he turned to draw a picture of the hollow, drifting life, with -feeble, mundane ambitions—utterly selfish, giving no service, making -no sacrifice, tasting the moment, gliding feebly down the stream of -time to the roaring cataract of death. Every word he said burnt into my -soul. He seemed to me to probe the secrets of my innermost heart; to -be analysing, as it were, before the Judge of the world, the arid and -pitiful constituents of my most secret thought. I did not think I could -have heard him out ... his words fell on me like the stabs of a knife. -Then he made a sudden pause, and in a peroration of incredible dignity -and pathos he drew us to the feet of the crucified Saviour, showed us the -bleeding hand and the dimmed eye, and the infinite heart behind. “Just -_accept_ Him,” he cried; “in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, you -may be His—nestling in His arms—with the burden of sin and selfishness -resting at His feet.” - -[Sidenote: WOUNDED DEEP] - -Even as he spoke, pierced as I was to the heart by contrition and -anguish, I knew that this was not for me.... He invited all who would be -Christ’s to wait and plead with him. Many men—even, I was surprised to -see, a careless, cynical companion of my own—crowded to the platform, but -I went out into the night, like one dizzied with a sudden blow. I was -joined, I remember, by a tutor of my college, who praised the eloquence -of the address, and was surprised to find me so little responsive; but my -only idea was to escape and be alone: I felt like a wounded creature, who -must crawl into solitude. I went to my room, and after long and agonising -prayers for light, an intolerable weariness fell on me, and I slept. - -I awoke at some dim hour of the night in the clutch of insupportable -fear; let me say at once that with the miserable weeks that followed -there was mingled much of physical and nervous suffering, far more, -indeed, than I then knew, or was permitted to know. I had been reading -hard, and throwing myself with unaccustomed energy into a hundred new -ideas and speculations. I had had a few weeks before a sudden attack of -sleeplessness, which should have warned me of overstrain. But now every -nervous misery known to man beset me—intolerable depression, spectral -remorse, nocturnal terrors. My work was neglected. I read the Bible -incessantly, and prayed for the hour together. Sometimes my depression -would leave me for a few hours, like a cat playing with a mouse, and leap -upon me like an evil spirit in the middle of some social gathering or -harmless distraction, striking the word from my lips and the smile from -my face. - -For some weeks this lasted, and I think I was nearly mad. Two strange -facts I will record. One day, beside myself with agitation, seeing no way -out—for my prayers seemed to batter, as it were, like waves against a -stony and obdurate cliff, and no hope or comfort ever slid into my soul—I -wrote two letters: one to an eminent Roman Catholic, in whose sermons I -had found some encouragement, and one to the elder friend I have above -spoken of. In two days I received the answers. That from the Romanist -hard, irritated, and bewildered—my only way was to submit myself to true -direction, and he did not see that I had any intention of doing this; -that it was obvious that I was being plagued for some sin which I had not -ventured to open to him. I burnt the letter with a hopeless shudder. The -other from my old friend, appointing a time to meet me, and saying that -he understood, and that my prayers would avail. - -I went soon after to see him, in a dark house in a London square. He -heard me with the utmost patience, bade me believe that I was not _alone_ -in my experience; that in many a life there was—there must be—some root -of bitterness that must flower before the true seed could be sown, and -adding many other manly and tender things. - -[Sidenote: LIBERTY] - -He gave me certain directions, and though I will confess that I could not -follow them for long—the soul must find her own path, I think, among the -crags—yet he led me into a calmer, quieter, more tranquil frame of mind; -he taught me that I must not expect to find the way all at once, that -long coldness and habitual self-deceit must be slowly purged away. But -I can never forget the infinite gratitude I owe him for the loving and -strenuous way in which he brought me out into a place of liberty with the -tenderness of a true father in God. - - - - -11 - - -Thus rudely awakened to the paramount necessity of embracing a faith, -bowing to a principle, obeying a gentle force which should sustain -and control the soul, I flung myself for a time with ardour into -theological reading, my end not erudition, but to drink at the source -of life. Is it arrogant to say that I passed through a painful period -of disillusionment? all round the pure well I found traces of strife -and bitterness. I cast no doubt on the sincerity and zeal of those who -had preceded me; but not content with drinking, and finding their eyes -enlightened, they had stamped the margin of the pool into the mire, and -the waters rose turbid and strife-stained to the lip. Some, like cattle -on a summer evening, seemed to stand and brood within the pool itself, -careless if they fouled the waters; others had built themselves booths -on the margin, and sold the precious draughts in vessels of their own, -enraged that any should desire the authentic stream. There was, it -seemed, but little room for the wayfarer; and the very standing ground -was encumbered with impotent folk. - -[Sidenote: DISCERNING THE FAITH] - -Not to strain a metaphor, I found that the commentators obscured rather -than assisted. What I desired was to realise the character, to divine the -inner thoughts of Jesus, to be fired by the impetuous eloquence of Paul, -to be strengthened by the ardent simplicity of John. These critics, men -of incredible diligence and patience, seemed to me to make a fence about -the law, and to wrap the form I wished to see in innumerable vestments -of curious design. Readers of the Protagoras of Plato will remember how -the great sophist spoke from the centre of a mass of rugs and coverlets, -among which, for his delectation, he lay, while the humming of his -voice filled the arches of the cloister with a heavy burden of sound. I -found myself in the same position as the disciples of Protagoras; the -voice that I longed to hear, spoke, but it had to penetrate through the -wrappings and veils which these men, in their zeal for service, had in -mistaken reverence flung about the lively oracle. - -A wise man said to me not long ago that the fault of teaching nowadays -was that knowledge was all coined into counters; and that the desire -of learners seemed to be not to possess themselves of the ore, not to -strengthen and toughen the mind by the pursuit, but to possess themselves -of as many of these tokens as possible, and to hand them on unchanged and -unchangeable to those who came to learn of themselves. - -This was my difficulty; the shelves teemed with books, the lecturers -cried aloud in every College court, like the jackdaws that cawed and -clanged about the venerable towers; and for a period I flew with notebook -and pen from lecture to lecture, entering admirable maxims, acute verbal -distinctions, ingenious parallels in my poor pages. At home I turned -through book after book, and imbued myself in the learning of the -schools, dreaming that, though the rind was tough, the precious morsels -lay succulent within. - -In this conceit of knowledge I was led to leave my College and to plunge -into practical life; what my work was shall presently be related, but -I will own that it was a relief. I had begun to feel that though I had -learnt the use of the tools, I was no nearer finding the precious metal -of which I was in search. - -The further development of my faith after this cannot be told in detail, -but it may be briefly sketched, after a life of some intellectual -activity, not without practical employment, which has now extended over -many years. - -[Sidenote: THE FATHER] - -I began, I think, very far from Christ. The only vital faith that I had -at first was an intense instinctive belief in the absolute power, the -infinite energies, of the Father; to me he was not only Almighty, as our -weak word phrases it, a Being who could, if he would, exert His power, -but παντοκρατῶρ—all-conquering, all-subduing. I was led, by a process of -mathematical certainty, to see that if the Father was anywhere, He was -everywhere; that if He made us and bade us be, He was responsible for the -smallest and most sordid details of our life and thought, as well as for -the noblest and highest. It cannot indeed be otherwise; every thought -and action springs from some cause, in many cases referable to events -which took place in lives outside of and anterior to our own. In any case -in which a man seems to enjoy the faculty of choice, his choice is in -reality determined by a number of previous causes; given all the data, -his action could be inevitably predicted. Thus I gradually realised that -sin in the moral world, and disease in the physical, are each of them -some manifestation of the Eternal Will. If He gives to me the joy of -life, the energy of action, did He not give it to the subtle fungus, to -the venomous bacteria which, once established in our bodies, are known by -the names of cancer and fever? Why all life should be this uneasy battle -I know not; but if we can predicate consciousness of any kind to these -strange rudiments, the living slime of the pit, is it irreverent to say -that faith may play a part in their work as well? When the health-giving -medicine pours along our veins, what does it mean but that everywhere it -leaves destruction behind it, and that the organisms of disease which -have, with delighted zest, been triumphing in their chosen dwelling and -rioting in the instinctive joy of life, sadly and mutely resign the -energy that animates them, or sink into sleep. It is all a balance, a -strife, a battle. Why such striving and fighting, such uneasy victory -and deep unrest should be the Father’s will for all His creatures, I -know not; but that it _is_ a condition, a law of His own mind, I can -reverently believe. When we sing the _Benedicite_, which I for one do -with all my heart, we must be conscious that it is only a selection, -after all, of phenomena that are impressive, delightful, or useful to -ourselves. Nothing that we call, God forgive us, noxious, finds a place -there. St. Francis, indeed, went further, and praised God for “our sister -the Death of the Body,” but in the larger _Benedicite_ of the universe, -which is heard by the ear of God, the fever and the pestilence, the cobra -and the graveyard worm utter their voices too; and who shall say that the -Father hears them not? - -[Sidenote: THE JOY OF THE WORLD] - -If one believes that happiness is inch by inch diminishing, that it is -all a losing fight, then it must be granted that we have no refuge but in -a Stoic hardening of the heart; but when we look at life and see the huge -preponderance of joy over pain—such tracts of healthy energy, sweet duty, -quiet movement—indeed when we see, as we often do, the touching spectacle -of hope and joy again and again triumphant over weakness and weariness; -when we see such unselfishness abroad, such ardent desire to lighten the -loads of others and to bear their burdens; then it is faithless indeed -if we allow ourselves to believe that the Father has any end in view but -the ultimate happiness of all the innumerable units, which He endows with -independent energies, and which, one by one, after their short taste of -this beautiful and exquisite world, resign their powers again, often so -gladly, into His hand. - -[Sidenote: OUR INSIGNIFICANCE] - -But the fault, if I may so phrase it, of this faith, is the vastness -of the conception to which it opens the mind. When I contemplate this -earth with its continents and islands, its mountains and plains, all -stored with histories of life and death, the bones of dead monsters, the -shattered hulks of time; the vast briny ocean with all the mysterious -life that stirs beneath the heaving crests; when I realise that even -this world, with all its infinite records of life, is but a speck in -the heavens, and that every one of the suns of space may be surrounded -with the same train of satellites, in which some tumultuous drama -of life may be, nay, must be enacting itself—that even on the fiery -orbs themselves some appalling Titan forms may be putting forth their -prodigious energies, suffering and dying—the mind of man reels before -the thought;—and yet all is in the mind of God. The consciousness of -the microscopic minuteness of my own life and energies, which yet are -all in all to me, becomes crushing and paralysing in the light of such -a thought. It seems impossible to believe, in the presence of such a -spectacle, that the single life can have any definite importance, and -the temptation comes to resign all effort, to swim on the stream, just -planning life to be as easy and as pleasant as possible, before one sinks -into the abyss. - - - - -12 - - -From such a paralysis of thought and life two beliefs have saved me. - -[Sidenote: THE MASTER] - -First, it may be confessed, came the belief in the Spirit of God, the -thought of inner holiness, not born from any contemplation of the world -around, which seems indeed to point to far different ideals. Yet as true -and truer than the bewildering example of nature is the inner voice -which speaks, after the wind and storm, in the silent solitudes of the -soul. That this voice exists and is heard can admit of no tangible -demonstration; each must speak for himself; but experience forbids me -to doubt that there is something which contradicts the seduction of -appetite, something which calls, as it were, a flush to the face of the -soul at the thought of triumphs of sense, a voice that without being -derisive or harsh, yet has a terrible and instantaneous severity; and -wields a mental scourge, the blows of which are no less fearful to -receive because they are accompanied with no physical disaster. To -recognise this voice as the very voice and word of the Father to sentient -souls, is the inevitable result of experience and thought. - -Then came the triumphant belief, weak at first, but taking slow shape, -that the attitude of the soul to its Maker can be something more than a -distant reverence, an overpowering awe, a humble worship; the belief, the -certainty that it can be, as it were, a personal link—that we can indeed -hold converse with God, speak with Him, call upon Him, put to use a human -phrase, our hand in His, only desiring to be led according to His will. - -Then came the further step; after some study of the systems of other -teachers of humanity, after a desire to find in the great redeemers of -mankind, in Buddha, Socrates, Mahomet, Confucius, Shakespeare, the secret -of self-conquest, of reconciliation, the knowledge slowly dawns upon the -mind that in Jesus of Galilee alone we are in the presence of something -which enlightens man not from within but from without. The other great -teachers of humanity seem to have looked upon the world and into their -own hearts, and deduced from thence, by flashes of indescribable genius, -some order out of the chaos, some wise and temperate scheme, but with -Jesus—though I long resisted the conviction—it is different. He comes, -not as a man speaking by observation and thought, but as a visitant from -some secret place, who knows the truth rather than guesses at it. I need -not say that his reporters, the Gospel writers, had but an imperfect -conception of His majesty. His ineffable greatness—it could not well be -otherwise; the mystery rather is that with such simple views of life, -such elementary conceptions of the scheme of things, they yet gave so -much of the stupendous truth, and revealed Jesus in his words and acts -as the Divine Man, who spoke to man not by spiritual influences but by -the very authentic utterance of God. Such teaching as the parables, such -scenes as the raising of Lazarus, or the midday talk by the wayside -well of Sychar, emerge from all art and history with a dignity that -lays no claim to the majesty that they win; and as the tragedy darkens -and thickens to its close, such scenes as the trial, recorded by St. -John, and the sacred death, bring home to the mind the fact that no mere -humanity could bear itself with such gentle and tranquil dignity, such -intense and yet such unselfish suffering as were manifested in the Son of -Man. - -[Sidenote: THE RETURN] - -And so, as the traveller goes out and wanders through the cities of -men, among stately palaces, among the glories of art, or climbs among -the aching solitudes of lonely mountains, or feasts his eyes upon green -isles floating in sapphire seas, and returns to find that the old -strait dwelling-place, the simple duties of life, the familiar friends, -homely though they be, are the true anchors of the spirit; so, after a -weary pilgrimage, the soul comes back, with glad relief, with wistful -tenderness, to the old beliefs of childhood, which, in its pride and -stubbornness, it cast aside, and rejected as weak and inadequate and -faded; finds after infinite trouble and weariness that it has but -learnt afresh what it knew; and that though the wanderer has ransacked -the world, digged and drunk strange waters, trafficked for foreign -merchandise, yet the Pearl of Price, the White Stone is hidden after all -in his own garden-ground, and inscribed with his own new name. - - - - -13 - - -I need not enter very closely into the period of my life which followed -the university. After a good deal of hesitation and uncertainty I decided -to enter for the Home Civil Service, and obtained a post in a subordinate -office. The work I found not wholly uninteresting, but it needs no -special record here. I acquired the knowledge of how to conduct business, -a certain practical power of foreseeing contingencies, a certain -acquaintance with legal procedure, and some knowledge of human nature in -its official aspect. - -Intellectually and morally this period of my life was rather stagnant. -I had been through a good deal of excitement, of mental and moral -malady, of general _bouleversement_. Nature exacted a certain amount -of quiescence, melancholy quiescence for the most part, because I felt -myself singularly without energy to carry out my hopes and schemes, and -at the same time it seemed that time was ebbing away purposelessly, and -that I was not driving, so to speak, any piles in the fluid and oozy -substratum of ideas on which my life seemed built. To revel in metaphors, -I was like a snake which has with a great strain bolted a quadruped, and -needs a long space of uneasy and difficult digestion. But at the time I -did not see this; I only thought I was losing time: I felt with Milton— - - “How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth, - Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.” - -But beset as I was by the sublime impatience of youth, I had not serenity -enough to follow out the thoughts which Milton works out in the rest of -the sonnet. - -[Sidenote: LITERARY WORK] - -At the same time, so far as literary work went, to which I felt greatly -drawn, I was not so impatient. I wrote a great deal for my private -amusement, and to practise facility of expression, but with little idea -of hurried publication. A story which I sent to a well-known editor was -courteously returned to me, with a letter in which he stated that he had -read my work carefully, and that he felt it a duty to tell me that it -was “sauce without meat.” This kind and wholesome advice made a great -difference to me; I determined that I would attempt to live a little -before I indulged in baseless generalisation, or lectured other people on -the art of life. I soon gained great facility in writing, and developed a -theory, which I have ever since had no reason to doubt, that performance -is simply a matter of the intensity of desire. If one only wants enough -to complete a definite piece of work, be it poem, essay, story, or some -far more definite and prosaic task, I have found that it gets itself -done in spite of the insistent pressure of other businesses and the -deadening monotony of heavy routine, simply because one goes back to it -with delight, schemes to clear time for it, waits for it round corners, -and loses no time in spurring and whipping the mind to work, which is -necessary in the case of less attractive tasks. The moment that there -comes a leisurely gap, the mind closes on the beloved work like a limpet; -when this happens day after day and week after week, the accumulations -become prodigious. - -I thus felt gradually more and more, that when the _magnum opus_ did -present itself to be done, I should probably be able to carry it through; -and meanwhile I had sufficient self-respect, although I suffered twinges -of thwarted ambition, not to force my crude theories, my scrambling -prose, or my faltering verse upon the world. - -[Sidenote: LONDON] - -Meanwhile I lived a lonely sort of life, with two or three close -intimates. I never really cared for London, but it is at the same time -idle to deny its fascination. In the first place it is full from day to -day of prodigious, astounding, unexpected beauties—sometimes beauty on -a noble scale, in the grand style, such as when the sunset shakes its -hair among ragged clouds, and the endless leagues of house-roofs and the -fronts of town palaces dwindle into a far-off steely horizon-line under -the huge and wild expanse of sky. Sometimes it is the smaller, but no -less alluring beauty of subtle atmospherical effects; and so conventional -is the human appreciation of beauty that the constant presence, in these -London pictures, of straight framing lines, contributed by house-front -and street-end, is an aid to the imagination. Again, there is the beauty -of contrasts; the vignettes afforded by the sudden blossoming of rustic -flowers and shrubs in unexpected places; the rustle of green leaves at -the end of a monotonous street. And then, apart from natural beauty, -there is the vast, absorbing, incredible pageant of humanity, full of -pathos, of wistfulness, and of sweetness. But of this I can say but -little; for it always moved me, and moves me yet, with a sort of horror. -I think it was always to me a spectacular interest; I never felt _one_ -with the human beings whom I watched, or even in the same boat, so to -speak, with them; the contemplation of the fact that I am one of so -many millions has been to me a humiliating rather than an inspiring -thought; it dashes the pleasures of individuality; it arraigns the soul -before a dark and inflexible bar. Passing daily through London, there -is little possibility in the case of an imaginative man for hopeful -expansion of the heart, little ground for anything but an acquiescent -acceptance. Under these conditions it is too rudely brought home to me -to be wholesome, how ineffective, undistinguished, typical, minute, -uninteresting any one human being is after all: and though the sight of -humanity in every form is attractive, bewildering, painfully interesting, -thrilling, and astounding—though one finds unexpected beauty and goodness -everywhere—yet I recognise that city life had a deadening effect on my -consciousness, and hindered rather than helped the development of thought -and life. - -[Sidenote: THE ARTIST] - -Still, in other ways this period was most valuable—it made me practical -instead of fanciful; alert instead of dreamy; it made me feel what I had -never known before, the necessity for grasping the _exact_ point of a -matter, and not losing oneself among side issues. It helped me out of the -entirely amateurish condition of mind into which I had been drifting—and, -moreover, it taught me one thing which I had never realised, a lesson -for which I am profoundly grateful, namely that literature and art play -a very small part in the lives of the majority of people; that most men -have no sort of an idea that they are serious matters, but look upon -them as more or less graceful amusements; that in such regions they have -no power of criticism, and no judgment; but that these are not nearly -such serious defects as the defect of vision which the artist and the -man of letters suffer from and encourage—the defect, I mean, of treating -artistic ideals as matters of pre-eminent national, even of moral -importance. They must be content to range themselves frankly with other -craftsmen; they may sustain themselves by thinking that they may help, a -very little, to ameliorate conditions, to elevate the tone of morality -and thought, to provide sources of recreation, to strengthen the sense -of beauty; but they must remember that they cannot hope to belong to -the primal and elemental things of life. Not till the primal needs are -satisfied does the work of the poet and artist begin—“After the banquet, -the minstrel.” - -The poet and the artist too often live, like the Lady of Shalott, -weaving a magic web of fair and rich colour, but dealing not with life -itself, and not even with life viewed _ipsis oculis_, but in the magic -mirror. The Lady of Shalott is doubly secluded from the world; she does -not mingle with it, she does not even see it; so the writer sometimes -does not even see the life which he describes, but draws his knowledge -secondhand, through books and bookish secluded talk. I do not think that -I under-rate the artistic vocation; but it is only one of many, and, -though different in kind, certainly not superior to the vocations of -those who do the practical work of the world. - -From this dangerous heresy I was saved just at the moment when it -was waiting to seize upon me, and at a time when a man’s convictions -are apt to settle themselves for life, by contact with the prosaic, -straightforward and commonplace world. - -At one time I saw a certain amount of society; my father’s old friends -were very kind to me, and I was thus introduced to what is a far more -interesting circle of society than the circle which would rank itself -highest, and which spends an amount of serious toil in the search of -amusement, with results which to an outsider appear to be unsatisfactory. -The circle to which I gained admittance was the official set—men who -had definite and interesting work in the world—barristers, government -officials, politicians and the like, men versed in affairs, and with a -hard and definite knowledge of what was really going on. Here I learnt -how different is the actual movement of politics from the reflection of -it which appears in the papers, which often definitely conceals the truth -from the public. - -[Sidenote: DIVERSIONS] - -My amusements at this period were of the mildest character; I spent -Sundays in the summer months at Golden End; Sundays in the winter as a -rule at my lodgings; and devoted the afternoons on which I was free, to -long aimless rambles in London, or even farther afield. I have an absurd -pleasure in observing the details of domestic architecture; and there is -a variety of entertainment to be derived, for a person with this low and -feeble taste, from the exploration of London, which would probably be -inconceivable to persons of a more conscientious artistic standard. - -[Sidenote: A RUDE SHOCK] - -At this period I had few intimates; and sociable as I had been at school -and college, I was now thrown far more on my own resources; I sometimes -think it was a wise and kindly preparation for what was coming; and I -certainly learnt the pleasures to be derived from reading and lonely -contemplation and solitary reflection, pleasures which have stood me -in good stead in later days. I used indeed to think that the enforced -spending of so many hours of the day with other human beings gave a -peculiar zest to these solitary hours. Whether this was wholesome or -natural I know not, but I certainly enjoyed it, and lived for several -years a life of interior speculation which was neither sluggish nor -morbid. I learnt my business thoroughly, and in all probability I should -have settled down quietly and comfortably to the life of a bachelor -official, rotating from chambers to office and from office to club, had -it not been that just at the moment when I was beginning to crystallise -into sluggish, comfortable habits, I was flung by a rude shock into a -very different kind of atmosphere. - - - - -14 - - -[Sidenote: THE DOCTOR] - -I must now relate, however briefly, the event which once for all -determined the conditions of my present life. For the last six months -of my professional work I had been feeling indefinitely though not -decidedly unwell. I found myself disinclined to exertion, bodily or -mental, easily elated, easily depressed, at times strangely somnolent, -at others irritably wakeful; at last some troublesome symptoms warned me -that I had better put myself in the hands of a doctor. I went to a local -practitioner whose account disquieted me; he advised me to apply to an -eminent specialist, which I accordingly did. - -[Sidenote: THE VERDICT] - -I am not likely to forget the incidents of that day. I went up to London, -and made my way to the specialist’s house. After a dreary period of -waiting, in a dark room looking out on a blank wall, the table abundantly -furnished with periodicals whose creased and battered aspect betokened -the nervous handling to which they had been subjected, I was at last -summoned to the presence of the great man himself. He presented an -appearance of imperturbable good-nature; his rosy cheeks, his little -snub nose, his neatly groomed appearance, his gold-rimmed spectacles, -wore an air of commonplace prosperity that was at once reassuring. He -asked me a number of questions, made a thorough examination, writing -down certain details in a huge volume, and finally threw himself back -in his chair with a deliberate air that somewhat disconcerted me. At -last my sentence came. I was undoubtedly suffering from the premonitory -symptoms of a serious, indeed dangerous complaint, and I must at once -submit myself to the condition of an invalid life. He drew out a table -diet, and told me to live a healthy, quiet life under the most restful -conditions attainable. He asked me about my circumstances, and I told -him with as much calmness as I could muster. He replied that I was very -fortunate, that I must at once give up professional work and be content -to _vegetate_. “Mind,” he said, “I don’t want you to be _bored_—that will -be as bad for you as to be overworked. But you must avoid all kinds of -worry and fatigue—all extremes. I should not advise you to travel at -present, if you _like_ a country life—in fact I should say, live the -life that attracts you, apart from any professional exertions; don’t do -anything you don’t like. Now, Mr. ——,” he continued, “I have told you -the worst—the very worst. I can’t say whether your constitution will -triumph over this complaint: to be candid, I do not think it will; but -there is no question of any immediate risk whatever. Indeed, if you were -dependent on your own exertions for a livelihood, I could promise you -some years of work—though that would render it almost impossible for you -ever to recover. As it is, you may consider that you have a chance of -entire recovery, and if you can follow my directions, and no unforeseen -complications intervene, I think you may look forward to a fairly long -life; but mind that any work you do must be of the nature of amusement. -Once and for all, _strain_ of any sort is out of the question, and if -you indulge in any excessive or exciting exertions, you will inevitably -shorten your life. There, I have told you a disagreeable truth—make the -best of it—remember that I see many people every week who have to bear -far more distressing communications. You had better come to see me -every three months, unless you have any marked symptoms, such as”—(there -followed medical details with which I need not trouble the reader)—“in -that case come to me at once; but I tell you plainly that I do not -anticipate them. You seem to have what I call the patient temperament—to -have a vocation, if I may say so,” (here he smiled benevolently) “for the -invalid life.” He rose as he spoke, shook hands kindly, and opened the -door. - - - - -15 - - -[Sidenote: NEW PERCEPTIONS] - -I will confess that at first this communication was a great shock to -me; I was for a time bewildered and plunged into a deep dejection. To -say farewell to the bustle and activity of life—to be laid aside on a -shelf, like a cracked vase, turning as far as possible my ornamental -front to the world, spoilt for homely service. To be relegated to -the failures; to be regarded and spoken of as an invalid—to live the -shadowed life, a creature of rules and hours, fretting over drugs and -beef tea—a degrading, a humiliating rôle. I admit that the first weeks -of my enforced retirement were bitter indeed. The perpetual fret of -small restrictions had at first the effect of making me feel physically -and mentally incapable. Only very gradually did the sad cloud lift. The -first thing that came to my help was a totally unexpected feeling. When -I had got used to the altered conditions of life, when I found that the -regulated existence had become to a large extent mechanical, when I had -learnt to decide instinctively what I could attempt and what I must leave -alone, I found my perceptions curiously heightened and intensified by the -shadowy background which enveloped me. Sounds and sights thrilled me in -an unaccustomed way—the very thought, hardly defined, but existing like -a quiet subconsciousness, that my tenure of life was certainly frail, -and might be brief, seemed to bring out into sharp relief the simple -and unnoticed sensations of ordinary life. The pure gush of morning air -through the opened casement, the delicious coolness of water on the -languid body, the liquid song of birds, the sprouting of green buds -upon the hedge, the sharp and aromatic scent of rosy larch tassels, the -monotonous babble of the stream beneath its high water plants, the pearly -laminæ of the morning cloudland, the glowing wrack of sunset with the -liquid bays of intenser green—all these stirred my spirit with an added -value of beauty, an enjoyment at once passionate and tranquil, as though -they held some whispered secret for the soul. - -The same quickening effect passed, I noticed, over intellectual -perceptions. Pictures in which there was some latent quality, some -hidden brooding, some mystery lying beneath and beyond superficial -effect, gave up their secrets to my eye. Music came home to me with an -intensity of pathos and passion which I had before never even suspected, -and even here the same subtle power of appreciation seemed to have been -granted me. It seemed that I was no longer taken in by technical art or -mechanical perfection. The hard rippling cascades which had formerly -attracted me, where a musician was merely working out, if I may use the -word, some subject with a mathematical precision, seemed to me hollow -and vain; all that was pompous and violent followed suit, and what I now -seemed to be able to discern was all that endeavoured, however faultily, -to express some ardour of the spirit, some indefinable delicacy of -feeling. - -Something of the same power seemed to be mine in dealing with literature. -All hard brilliance, all exaggerated display, all literary agility and -diplomacy that might have once deceived me, appeared to ring cracked and -thin; _mere_ style, style that concealed rather than expressed thought, -fell as it were in glassy tingling showers on my initiated spirit; -while, on the other hand, all that was truthfully felt, sincerely -conceived or intensely desired, drew me as with a magical compulsion. -It was then that I first perceived what the sympathy, the perception -born of suffering might be, when that suffering was not so intrusive, -so severe, as to throw the sick spirit back upon itself—then that I -learnt what detachment, what spectatorial power might be conferred by a -catastrophe not violent, but sure, by a presage of distant doom. I felt -like a man who has long stumbled among intricate lanes, his view obscured -by the deep-cut earth-walls of his prison, and by the sordid lower slopes -with their paltry details, when the road leads out upon the open moor, -and when at last he climbs freely and exultingly upon the broad grassy -shoulders of the hill. The true perspective—the map of life opened out -before me; I learnt that all art is only valuable when it is the sedulous -flowering of the sweet and gracious spirit, and that beyond all power of -human expression lies a province where the deepest thoughts, the highest -mysteries of the spirit sleep—only guessed at, wrestled with, hankered -after by the most skilled master of all the arts of mortal subtlety. - -Perhaps the very thing that made these fleeting impressions so perilously -sweet, was the sense of their evanescence. - - But oh, the very reason why - I love them, is because they die. - -[Sidenote: THE SHADOW] - -In this exalted mood, with this sense of heightened perception all -about me, I began for awhile to luxuriate. I imagined that I had learnt -a permanent lesson, gained a higher level of philosophy, escaped from -the grip of material things. Alas! it was but transitory. I had not -triumphed. What I did gain, what did stay with me, was a more deliberate -intention of enjoying simple things, a greater expectation of beauty -in homely life. This remained, but in a diminished degree. I suppose -that the mood was one of intense nervous tension, for by degrees it was -shadowed and blotted, until I fell into a profound depression. At best -what could I hope for?—a shadowed life, an inglorious gloom? The dull -waste years stretched before me—days, weeks, months of wearisome little -duties; dreary tending of the lamp of life; and what a life! life without -service, joy, brightness, or usefulness. I was to be stranded like a -hulk on an oozy shore, only thankful for every month that the sodden -timbers still held together. I saw that something larger and deeper was -required; I saw that religion and philosophy must unite to form some -definite theory of life, to build a foundation on which I could securely -rest. - - - - -16 - - -The service of others, in some form or another, must sustain me. -Philosophy pointed out that to narrow my circle every year, to turn the -microscope of thought closer and closer upon my frail self, would be to -sink month by month deeper into egotism and self-pity. Religion gave a -more generous impulse still. - -[Sidenote: BEGINNINGS] - -What is our duty with respect to philanthropy? It is obviously absurd -to think that every one is bound to tie themselves hand and foot to -some thoroughly uncongenial task. Fitness and vocation must come in. -Clergy, doctors, teachers are perhaps the most obvious professional -philanthropists; for either of the two latter professions I was -incapacitated. Some hovering thought of attempting to take orders, -and to become a kind of amateur, unprofessional curate, visited me; -but my religious views made that difficult, and the position of a man -who preaches what he does not wholly believe is inconsistent with -self-respect. Christianity as taught by the sects seemed to me to -have drifted hopelessly away from the detached simplicity inculcated -by Christ; to have become a mere part of the social system, fearfully -invaded and overlaid by centuries of unintelligent tradition. To work, -for instance, even with Mr. Woodward, at his orders, on his system, would -have been an impossibility both for him and for myself. I had, besides, a -strong feeling that work, to be of use, must be done, not in a spirit of -complacent self-satisfaction, but at least with some energy of enjoyment, -some conviction. It seemed moreover clear that, for a time at all events, -my place and position in the world was settled: I must live a quiet home -life, and endeavour, at all events, to restore some measure of effective -health. How could I serve my neighbours best? They were mostly quiet -country people—a few squires and clergy, a few farmers, and many farm -labourers. Should I accept a country life as my sphere, or was I bound to -try and find some other outlet for whatever effectiveness I possessed? -I came deliberately to the conclusion that I was not only not bound to -go elsewhere, but that it was the most sensible, wisest, and Christian -solution to stay where I was and make some experiments. - -[Sidenote: MY SCHEMES] - -The next practical difficulty was _how_ I could help. English people -have a strong sense of independence. They would neither understand nor -value a fussy, dragooning philanthropist, who bustled about among them, -finding fault with their domestic arrangements, lecturing, dictating. -I determined that I would try to give them the help they wanted; not -the help I thought they ought to want. That I would go among them with -no idea of _improving_, but of doing, if possible, neighbourly and -unobtrusive kindnesses, and that under no circumstances would I diminish -their sense of independence by weak generosity. - -About this time, my mother at luncheon happened to mention that the widow -of a small farmer, who was living in a cottage not fifty yards from our -gate, was in trouble about her eldest boy, who was disobedient, idle, -and unsatisfactory. He had been employed by more than one neighbour in -garden work, but had lost two places by laziness and impertinence. Here -was a _point d’appui_. In the afternoon I strolled across; nervous and -shy, I confess, to a ridiculous degree. I knew the woman by sight, and -little more. I felt thoroughly unfitted for my rôle, and feared that -patronage would be resented. However, I went and found Mrs. Dewhurst -at home. I was received with real geniality and something of delicate -sympathy—the news of my illness had got about. I determined I would ask -no leading questions, but bit by bit her anxieties were revealed: the -boy was a trouble to her. “What did he want?” She didn’t know; but he -was discontented and naughty, had got into bad company. I asked if it -would be any good my seeing the boy, and found that it would evidently -be a relief. I asked her to send the boy to me that evening, and went -away with a real and friendly handshake, and an invitation to come again. -In the evening Master Dewhurst turned up—a shy, uninteresting, rather -insolent boy, strong and well-built, and with a world of energy in his -black eyes. I asked him what he wanted to do, and after a little talk -it all came out: he was sick of the place; he did not want garden work. -“What would he do? What _did_ he like?” I found that he wanted to see -something of the world. Would he go to sea? The boy brightened up at -once, and then said he didn’t want to leave his mother. Our interview -closed, and this necessitated my paying a further call on the mother, -who was most sensible, and evidently felt that what the boy wanted was a -thorough change. - -To make a long story short, it cost me a few letters and a very little -money, defined as a loan; the boy went off to a training ship, and -after a few weeks found that he had the very life he wanted; indeed, -he is now a promising young sailor, who never fails to write to me at -intervals, and who comes to see me whenever he comes home. The mother is -a firm friend. Now that I am at my ease with her, I am astonished at the -shrewdness and sense of her talk. - -It would be tedious to recount, as I could, fifty similar adventures; my -enterprises include a village band, a cricket club, a co-operative store; -but the personal work, such as it is, has broadened every year: I am an -informal adviser to thirty or forty families, and the correspondence -entailed, to say nothing of my visits, gives me much pleasant occupation. -The circle now insensibly widens; I do not pretend that there are not -times of weariness, and even disagreeable experiences connected with it. -I am a poor hand in a sick-room, I confess it with shame; my mother, -who is not particularly interested in her neighbours, is ten times as -effective. - -[Sidenote: THE REWARD] - -But what I feel most strongly about the whole, is the intense interest -which has grown up about it. The trust which these simple folk repose -in me is the factor which rescues me from the indolent impulse to leave -matters alone; even if I desired to do so, I could not for very shame -disappoint them. Moreover, I cannot pretend that it takes up very much -time. The institutions run themselves for the most part. I don’t overdo -my visits; indeed, I seldom go to call on my friends unless there is -something specific to be done. But I am always at home for them between -seven and eight. My downstairs smoking-room, once an office, has a -door which opens on the drive, so that it is not necessary for these -Nicodemite visitors to come through the house. Sometimes for days -together I have no one; sometimes I have three or four callers in the -evening. I don’t talk religion as a rule, unless I am asked; but we -discuss politics and local matters with avidity. I have persistently -refused to take any office, and I fear that our neighbours think me -a very lazy kind of dilettante, who happens to be interested in the -small-talk of rustics. I will not be a Guardian, as I have little turn -for business; and when it was suggested to me that I might be a J. P., -I threw cold water on the scheme. Any official position would alter my -relation to my friends, and I should often be put in a difficulty; but by -being absolutely unattached, I find that confidential dealings are made -easy. - -I fear that this will sound a very shabby, unromantic, and gelatinous -form of philanthropy, and I am quite unable to defend it on utilitarian -principles. I can only say that it is deeply absorbing; that it pays, so -to speak, a large interest on a small investment of trouble, and that it -has given me a sense of perspective in human things which I never had -before. The difficulty in writing about it is to abstain from platitudes; -I can only say that it has revealed to me how much more emotion and -experience go to make up a platitude than I ever suspected before in my -ambitious days. - - - - -17 - - -Ennui is, after all, the one foe that we all fear; and in arranging our -life, the most serious preoccupation is how to escape it. The obvious -reply is, of course, “plenty of cheerful society.” But is not general -society to a man with a taste for seclusion the most irritating, -wearing, _ennuyeux_ method of filling the time? It is not the actual -presence of people that is distressing, though that in some moods is -unbearable, but it is the consciousness of duties towards them, whether -as host or guest, that sits, like the Old Man of the Sea, upon one’s -shoulders. A considerable degree of seclusion can be attained by a -solitary-minded man at a large hotel. The only time of the day when you -are compelled to be gregarious is the table d’hôte dinner; and then, -even if you desire to talk, it is often made impossible by the presence -of foreigners among whom one is sandwiched. But take a visit at a large -English country-house; a mixed party with possibly little in common; the -protracted meals, the vacuous sessions, the interminable promenades. Men -are better off than women in this respect, as at most periods of the year -they are swept off in the early forenoon to some vigorous employment, -and are not expected to return till tea-time. But take such a period in -August, a month in which many busy men are compelled to pay visits if -they pay them at all. Think of the desultory cricket matches, the futile -gabble of garden parties. - -Of course the desire of solitude, or rather, the nervous aversion to -company, may become so intense as to fall under the head of monomania; -doctors give it an ugly name, I know not exactly what it is, like the -agoraphobia, which is one of the subsections of a certain form of -madness. Agoraphobia is the nervous horror of crowds, which causes -persons afflicted by it to swoon away at the prospect of having to pass -through a square or street crowded with people. - -But the dislike of visitors is a distinct, but quite as specific form -of nervous mania. One lady of whom I have heard was in the habit of -darting to the window and involving herself in the window-curtain the -moment she heard a ring at the bell; another, more secretive still, -crept under the sofa. Not so very long ago I went over a great house in -the North; my host took me to a suite of upper rooms with a charming -view. “These,” he said, “were inhabited by my old aunt Susan till her -death some months ago; she was somewhat eccentric in her habits”—here he -thrust his foot under a roomy settee which stood in the window, and to -my intense surprise a bell rang loudly underneath—“Ah,” he said, rather -shamefacedly, “they haven’t taken it off.” I begged for an explanation, -and he said that the old lady had formed an inveterate habit of creeping -under the settee the moment she heard a knock at the door; to cure her of -it, they hung a bell on a spring beneath it, so that she gave warning of -her whereabouts. - -[Sidenote: SOLITUDE] - -Society is good for most of us; but solitude is equally good, as a tonic -medicine, granted that sociability is accepted as a factor in our life. -A certain deliberate solitude, like the fast days in the Roman Church, -is useful, even if only by way of contrast, and that we may return with -fresh zest to ordinary intercourse. - -People who are used to sociable life find the smallest gap, the -smallest touch of solitude oppressive and _ennuyeux_; and it may be -taken for granted that the avoidance of ennui, in whatever form that -whimsical complaint makes itself felt, is one of the most instinctive -prepossessions of the human race; but it does not follow that solitude -should not be resolutely practised; and any sociable person who has -strength of mind to devote, say, one day of the week to absolute and -unbroken loneliness would find not only that such times would come -to have a positive value of their own, but that they would enhance -infinitely the pleasures of social life. - -It is a curious thing how fast the instinct for solitude grows. A friend -of mine, a clergyman, a man of an inveterately sociable disposition, was -compelled by the exigencies of his position to take charge of a lonely -sea-coast parish, the incumbent of which had fallen desperately ill. -The parish was not very populous, and extremely scattered; the nearest -houses, inhabited by educated people were respectively four and five -miles away—my friend was poor, an indifferent walker, and had no vehicle -at his command. - -He went off, he told me, with extreme and acute depression. He found -a small rectory-house with three old silent servants. He established -himself there with his books, and began in a very heavy-hearted way to -discharge the duties of the position; he spent his mornings in quiet -reading or strolling—the place lay at the top of high cliffs and included -many wild and magnificent prospects. The afternoon he spent in trudging -over the parish, making himself acquainted with the farmers and other -inhabitants of the region. In the evening he read and wrote again. He -had not been there a week before he became conscious that the life had a -charm. He had written in the first few days of his depression to several -old friends imploring them to have mercy on his loneliness. Circumstances -delayed their arrival, and at last when he had been there some six weeks, -a letter announcing the arrival of an old friend and his wife for a -week’s visit gave him, he confessed, far more annoyance than pleasure. -He entertained them, however, but felt distinctly relieved when they -departed. At the end of the six months I saw him, and he told me that -solitude was a dangerous Circe, seductive, delicious, but one that should -be resolutely and deliberately shunned, an opiate of which one could not -estimate the fascination. And I am not speaking of a torpid or indolent -man, but a man of force, intellect, and cultivation, of a restless mind -and vivid interests. - - [_The passages that follow were either extracted by the author - himself from his own diaries, or are taken from a notebook - containing fragments of an autobiographical character. When the - date is ascertainable it is given at the head of the piece._—J. T.] - - - - -18 - - -Now I will draw, carefully, faithfully, and lovingly, the portraits -of some of my friends; they are not ever likely to set eyes on the -delineation: and if by some chance they do, they will forgive me, I think. - -I have chosen three or four of the most typical of my not very numerous -neighbours, though there are many similar portraits scattered up and down -my diaries. - -It happened this morning that a small piece of parish business turned up -which necessitated my communicating with Sir James, our chief landowner. -Staunton is his name, and his rank is baronet. He comes from a typically -English stock. As early as the fourteenth century the Stauntons seem to -have held land in the parish; they were yeomen, no doubt, owning a few -hundred acres of freehold. In the sixteenth century one of them drifted -to London, made a fortune, and, dying childless, left his money to the -head of the house, who bought more land, built a larger house, became -esquire, and eventually knight; his brass is in the church. They were -unimaginative folk, and whenever the country was divided, they generally -contrived to find themselves upon the prosaic and successful side. - -[Sidenote: THE BISHOP] - -Early in the eighteenth century there were two brothers: the younger, a -clergyman, by some happy accident became connected with the Court, made -a fortunate marriage, and held a deanery first, and then a bishopric. -Here he amassed a considerable fortune. His portrait, which hangs at -the Park, represents a man with a face of the shape and colour of a -ripe plum, with hardly more distinction of feature, shrouded in a full -wig. Behind him, under a velvet curtain, stands his cathedral, in a -stormy sky. The bishop’s monument is one of the chief disfigurements, -or the chief ornaments of our church, according as your taste is -severe or catholic. It represents the deceased prelate in a reclining -attitude, with a somewhat rueful expression, as of a man fallen from a -considerable height. Over him bends a solicitous angel in the attitude -of one inquiring what is amiss. One of the prelate’s delicate hands is -outstretched from a gigantic lawn sleeve, like a haggis, which requires -an iron support to sustain it; the other elbow is propped upon some -marble volumes of controversial divinity. In an alcove behind is a tumid -mitre, quite putting into the shade a meagre celestial crown with marble -rays, which is pushed unceremoniously into the top of the recess. - -[Sidenote: THE BARONETS] - -The bishop succeeded his elder brother in the estate, and added largely -to the property. The bishop’s only son sat for a neighbouring borough, -and was created a baronet for his services, which were of the most -straightforward kind. At this point, by one of the strange freaks -of which even county families are sometimes guilty, a curious gleam -of romance flashed across the dull record. The baronet’s eldest son -developed dim literary tastes, drifted to London, became a hanger-on of -the Johnsonian circle—his name occurs in footnotes to literary memoirs -of the period; married a lady of questionable reputation, and published -two volumes of “Letters to a Young Lady of Quality,” which combine, to a -quite singular degree, magnificence of diction with tenuity of thought. -This Jack Staunton was a spendthrift, and would have made strange havoc -of the estate, but his father fortunately outlived him; and by the offer -of a small pension to Mrs. Jack, who was left hopelessly destitute, -contrived to get the little grandson and heir into his own hands. The -little boy developed into the kind of person that no one would desire as -a descendant, but that all would envy as an ancestor. He was a miser pure -and simple. In his day the tenants were ground down, rents were raised, -plantations were made, land was acquired in all directions; but the house -became ruinous, and the miserable owner, in a suit of coarse cloth like a -second-rate farmer, sneaked about his lands with a shy and secret smile, -avoiding speech with tenants and neighbours alike, and eating small and -penurious meals in the dusty dining-room in company with an aged and -drunken bailiff, the discovery of whose constant attempts to defraud his -master of a few shillings were the delight and triumph of the baronet’s -life. He died a bachelor; at his death a cousin, a grandson of the first -baronet, succeeded, and found that whatever else he had done, the miser -had left immense accumulations of money behind him. This gentleman was in -the army, and fought at Waterloo, after which he imitated the example -of his class, and became an unflinching Tory politician. The fourth -baronet was a singularly inconspicuous person whom I can just remember, -whose principal diversion was his kennel. I have often seen him when, -as a child, I used to lunch there with my mother, stand throughout the -meal in absolute silence, sipping a glass of sherry on the hearthrug, and -slowly munching a large biscuit, and, before we withdrew, producing from -his pocket the envelopes which had contained the correspondence of the -morning, and filling them with bones, pieces of fat, fag-ends of joints, -to bestow upon the dogs in the course of the afternoon. This habit I -considered, as a child, to be distinctly agreeable, and I should have -been deeply disappointed if Sir John had ever failed to do it. - -[Sidenote: SIR JAMES] - -The present Sir James is now a man of forty. He was at Eton and Trinity, -and for a short time in the Guards. He married the daughter of a -neighbouring baronet, and at the age of thirty, when his father died, -settled down to the congenial occupation of a country gentleman. He is, -in spite of the fact that he had a large landed estate, a very wealthy -man. I imagine he has at least £20,000 a year. He has a London house, -to which Lady Staunton goes for the season, but Sir James, who makes a -point of accompanying her, soon finds that business necessitates his at -once returning to the country; and I am not sure that the summer months, -which he spends absolutely alone, are not the most agreeable part of the -year for him. He has three stolid and healthy children—two boys and a -girl. He takes no interest whatever in politics, religion, literature, or -art. He takes in the _Standard_ and the _Field_. He hunts a little, and -shoots a little, but does not care about either. He spends his morning -and afternoon in pottering about the estate. In the evening he writes a -few letters, dines well, reads the paper and goes to bed. He does not -care about dining out; indeed the prospect of a dinner-party or a dance -clouds the pleasure of the day. He goes to church once on Sunday; he is -an active magistrate; he has, at long intervals, two or three friends of -like tastes to stay with him, who accompany him, much to his dislike, -in his perambulations, and stand about whistling, or staring at stacks -and cattle, while he talks to the bailiff. But he is a kindly, cheery, -generous man, with a good head for business, and an idea of his position. -He is absolutely honourable and straightforward, and faces an unpleasant -duty, when he has made up his mind to it, with entire tranquillity. No -mental speculation has ever come in his way; at school he was a sound, -healthy boy, good at games, who did his work punctually, and was of -blameless character. He made no particular friends; sat through school -after school, under various sorts of masters, never inattentive, and -never interested. He had a preference for dull and sober teachers, men -with whom, as he said, “you knew where you were;” a stimulating teacher -bewildered him,—“always talking about poetry and rot.” At Cambridge it -was the same. He rowed in his College boat; he passed the prescribed -examinations; he led a clean healthy decorous life; and no idea, small -or great, no sense of beauty, no wonder at the scheme of things, ever -entered his head. If by chance he ever found himself in the company of an -enthusiastic undergraduate, whose mind and heart were full of burning, -incomplete, fantastic thoughts, James listened politely to what he had -to say, hazarded no statements, and said, in quiet after-comment, -“Gad, how that chap does jaw!” No one ever thought him stupid; he knew -what was going on; he was sociable, kind, not the least egotistical, -and far too much of a gentleman to exhibit the least complacency in his -position or wealth—only he knew exactly what he liked, and had none -of the pathetic admiration for talent that is sometimes found in the -unintellectual. When he went into the Guards it was just the same. He was -popular and respected, friendly with his men, perfectly punctual, capable -and respectable. He had no taste for wine or gambling, or disreputable -courses. He admired nobody and nothing, and no one ever obtained the -slightest influence over him. At home he was perfectly happy, kind to his -sisters, ready to do anything he was asked, and to join in anything that -was going on. When he succeeded to the estate, he went quietly to work to -find a wife, and married a pretty, contented girl, with the same notions -as himself. He never said an unkind thing to her, or to any of his -family, and expressed no extravagant affection for any one. He is trustee -for all his relations, and always finds time to look after their affairs. -He is always ready to subscribe to any good object, and had contrived -never to squabble with an angular ritualistic clergyman, who thinks him a -devoted son of the Church. He has declined several invitations to stand -for Parliament, and has no desire to be elevated to the Peerage. He will -probably live to a green old age, and leave an immense fortune. I do not -fancy that he is much given to meditate about his latter end; but if he -ever lets his mind range over the life beyond the grave, he probably -anticipates vaguely that, under somewhat airy conditions, he will -continue to enjoy the consideration of his fellow-beings, and deserve -their respect. - - - - -19 - - -For nearly ten years after we came to Golden End, the parish was -administered by an elderly clergyman, who had already been over twenty -years in the place. He was little known outside the district at all; I -doubt if, between the occasion of his appointment to the living and his -death, his name ever appeared in the papers. The Bishop of the diocese -knew nothing of him; if the name was mentioned in clerical society, it -was dismissed again with some such comment as “Ah, poor Woodward! an able -man, I believe, but utterly unpractical;” and yet I have always held this -man to be on the whole one of the most remarkable people I have ever -known. - -[Sidenote: MR. WOODWARD] - -He was a tall thin man, with a slight stoop. He could not be called -handsome, but his face had a strange dignity and power; he had a pallid -complexion, at times indeed like parchment from its bloodlessness, and -dark hair which remained dark up to the very end. His eyebrows were -habitually drawn up, giving to his face a look of patient endurance; -his eyelids drooped over his eyes, which gave his expression a certain -appearance of cynicism, but when he opened them full, and turned them -upon you, they were dark, passionate, and with a peculiar brightness. His -lips were full and large, with beautiful curves, but slightly compressed -as a rule, which gave a sense of severity. He was clean shaven, and -always very carefully dressed, but in somewhat secular style, with high -collars, a frock-coat and waistcoat, a full white cambric tie, and—I -shudder to relate it in these days—he was seldom to be seen in black -trousers, but wore a shade of dark grey. If you had substituted a black -tie for a white one you would have had an ordinary English layman dressed -as though for town—for he always wore a tall hat. He often rode about the -parish, when he wore a dark grey riding-suit with gaiters. I do not think -he ever gave his clothes a thought, but he had the instincts of a fine -gentleman, and loved neatness and cleanliness. He had never married, but -his house was administered by an elderly sister—rather a grim, majestic -personage, with a sharp ironical tongue, and no great indulgence for -weakness. Miss Woodward considered herself an invalid, and only appeared -in fine weather, driving in a smart little open carriage. They were -people of considerable wealth, and the rectory, which was an important -house standing in a large glebe, had two gardeners and good stables, -and was furnished within, in a dignified way, with old solid furniture. -Mr. Woodward had a large library, and at the little dinner-parties that -he gave, where the food was of the simplest, the plate was ancient and -abundant—old silver candlesticks and salvers in profusion—and a row of -family pictures beamed on you from the walls. Mr. Woodward used to say, -if any one admired any particular piece of plate, “Yes, I believe it is -good; it was all collected by an old uncle of mine, who left it to me -with his blessing for my lifetime. Of course I don’t quite approve of -using it—I believe I ought not even to have two coats—but I can’t sell -it, and meantime it looks very nice and does no harm.” The living was -a wealthy one, but it was soon discovered that Mr. Woodward spent all -that he received on that head in the parish. He did not pauperise idle -parishioners, but he was always ready with a timely gift to tide an -honest man over a difficulty. He liked to start the boys in life, and -would give a girl a little marriage portion. He paid for a parish nurse, -but at the same time he insisted on almsgiving as a duty. “I don’t do -these things to save you the trouble of giving,” he would say, “but to -give you a lead; and if I find that the offertories go down, then my -subscriptions will go down too;” but he would sometimes say that he -feared he was making things difficult for his successor. “I can’t help -that; if he is a good man the people will understand.” - -[Sidenote: THE CHURCH] - -Mr. Woodward was a great politician and used to say that it was a -perpetual temptation to him to sit over the papers in the morning instead -of doing his work. But the result was that he always had something to -talk about, and his visits were enjoyed by the least spiritual of his -parishioners. He was of course eclectic in his politics, and combined a -good deal of radicalism with an intense love and veneration for the past. -He restored his church with infinite care and taste, and was for ever -beautifying it in small ways. He used to say that there were two kinds -of church-goers—the people who liked the social aspect of the service, -who preferred a blaze of light, hearty singing, and the presence of a -large number of people; but that were others who preferred it from the -quiet and devotional side, and who were only distracted from the main -object of the service by the presence of alert and critical persons. -Consequently he had a little transept divided from the body of the church -by a simple screen, and kept the lights low within it. The transept was -approached by a separate door, and he invited people who could not come -for the whole service to slip in for a little of it. At the same time -there was plenty of room in the church, and as the parish is not thickly -populated, so that you could be sure of finding a seat in any part of -the church that suited your mood. He never would have a surpliced choir; -and in the morning service, nothing was sung except the canticles and -hymns; but there was a fine organ built at his expense, and he offered a -sufficiently large salary to secure an organist of considerable taste and -skill. He greatly believed in music, and part of the organist’s duty was -to give a little recital once a week, which was generally well attended. -He himself was always present at the choir practices, and the result of -the whole was that the congregation sang well, with a tone and a feeling -that I have never heard in places where the indigenous materials for -choral music were so scanty. - -Mr. Woodward talked a good deal on religious subjects, but with an ease -and a naturalness which saved his hearers from any feeling of awkwardness -or affectation. I have never heard any one who seemed to live so -naturally in the seen and the unseen together, and his transitions from -mundane to religious talk were made with such simplicity that his hearers -felt no embarrassment or pain. After all, the ethical side of life is -what we are all interested in—moreover, Mr. Woodward had a decidedly -magnetic gift—that gift which, if it had been accompanied with more fire -and volubility, would have made him an orator. As it was, the circle to -whom he talked felt insensibly interested in what he spoke of, and at -the same time there was such a transparent simplicity about the man that -no one could have called him affected. His talk it would be impossible -to recall; it depended upon all sorts of subtle and delicate effects -of personality. Indeed, I remember once after an evening spent in his -company, during which he had talked with an extraordinary pathos and -emotion, I wrote down what I could remember of it. I look at it now and -wonder what the spell was; it seems so ordinary, so simple, so, may I -say, platitudinal. - -Yet I may mention two or three of his chance sayings. I found him one -day in his study deeply engrossed in a book which I saw was the Life of -Darwin. He leapt to his feet to greet me, and after the usual courtesies -said, “What a wonderful book this is—it is from end to end nothing but -a cry for the Nicene Creed! The man walks along, doing his duty so -splendidly and nobly, with such single-heartedness and simplicity, and -just misses the way all the time; the gospel he wanted is just the other -side of the wall. But he must know now, I think. Whenever I go to the -Abbey, I always go straight to his grave, and kneel down close beside it, -and pray that his eyes may be opened. Very foolish and wrong, I dare say, -but I can’t help it!” - -Another day he found me working at a little pedigree of my father’s -simple ancestors. I had hunted their names up in an old register, and -there was quite a line of simple persons to record. He looked over my -shoulder at the sheet while I told him what it was. “Dear old folk!” he -said, “I hope you say a prayer now and then for some of them; they belong -to you and you to them, but I dare say they were sad Socinians, many of -them (laughing). Well, that’s all over now. I wonder what they do with -themselves over there?” - -[Sidenote: THE PEACOCK] - -Mr. Woodward was of course adored by the people of the village. In his -trim garden lived a couple of pea-fowl—gruff and selfish birds, but very -beautiful to look at. Mr. Woodward had a singular delight in watching -the old peacock trail his glories in the sun. They roosted in a tree -that overhung the road. There came to stay in the next village a sailor, -a ne’er-do-weel, who used to hang about with a gun. One evening Mr. -Woodward heard a shot fired in the lane, went out of his study, and found -that the sailor had shot the peacock, who was lying on his back in the -road, feebly poking out his claws, while the aggressor was pulling the -feathers from his tail. Mr. Woodward was extraordinarily moved. The man -caught in the act looked confused and bewildered. “Why did you shoot my -poor old bird?” said Mr. Woodward. The sailor in apology said he thought -it was a pheasant. Mr. Woodward, on the verge of tears, carried the -helpless fowl into the garden, but finding it was already dead, interred -it with his own hands, told his sister at dinner what had happened, and -said no more. - -But the story spread, and four stalwart young parishioners of Mr. -Woodward’s vowed vengeance, caught the luckless sailor in a lane, -broke his gun, and put him in the village pond, from which he emerged -a lamentable sight, cursing and spluttering; the process was sternly -repeated, and not until he handed over all his available cash for the -purpose of replacing the bird did his judges desist. Another peacock was -bought and presented to Mr. Woodward, the offender being obliged to make -the presentation himself with an abject apology, being frankly told that -the slightest deviation from the programme would mean another lustral -washing. - -The above story testifies to the sort of position which Mr. Woodward held -in his parish; and what is the most remarkable part of it, indicates -the esteem with which he was regarded by the most difficult members of -a congregation to conciliate—the young men. But then Mr. Woodward was -at ease with the young men. He had talked to them as boys, with a grave -politeness which many people hold to be unnecessary in the case of the -young. He had encouraged them to come to him in all sorts of little -troubles. The men who had resented the loss of Mr. Woodward’s peacock -knew him as an intimate and honoured family friend; he had tided one -over a small money difficulty, and smoothed the path of an ambition -for another. He had claimed no sacerdotal rights over the liberties of -his people, but such allegiance as he had won was the allegiance that -always waits upon sympathy and goodwill; and further, he was shrewd -and practical in small concerns, and had the great gift of foreseeing -contingencies. He never forgot the clerical character, but he made it -unobtrusive, kept it waiting round the corner, and it was always there -when it was wanted. - -[Sidenote: THE PROFESSOR] - -I was present once at an interesting conversation between Mr. Woodward -and a distinguished university professor who by some accident was staying -with myself. The professor had expressed himself as much interested -in the conditions of rural life and was lamenting to me the dissidence -which he thought was growing up between the clergy and their flocks. I -told him about Mr. Woodward and took him to tea. The professor with a -courteous frankness attacked Mr. Woodward on the same point. He said -that he believed that the raising of theological and clerical standards -had had the effect of turning the clergy into a class, enthusiastic, no -doubt, but interested in a small circle of things to which they attached -extreme importance, though they were mostly traditional or antiquarian. -He said that they were losing their hold on English life, and inclined -not so much to uphold a scrupulous standard of conduct, as to enforce a -preoccupation in doctrinal and liturgical questions, interesting enough, -but of no practical importance. Mr. Woodward did not contradict him; the -professor, warming to his work, said that the ordinary village sermon -was of a futile kind, and possessed no shrewdness or definiteness as a -rule. Mr. Woodward asked him to expand the idea—what ought the clergy -to preach about? “Well,” said the professor, “they ought to touch on -politics—not party politics, of course, but social measures, historical -developments and so forth. I was present,” he went on, “some years ago -when, in a country town, the Bishop of the diocese preached a sermon at -the parish church, the week after the French had been defeated at Sedan, -and the Bishop made not the slightest allusion to the event, though -it was the dominant idea in the minds of the sensible members of the -congregation; the clergy ought not only to preach politics—they ought to -talk politics—they ought to show that they have the same interests as -their people.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Woodward, leaning forward, “I agree with much that -you say, Professor—very much; but you look at things in a different -perspective. We don’t think much about politics here in the country—home -politics a little, but foreign politics not at all. When we hear of -rumours of war we are not particularly troubled;” (with a smile) “and -when I have to try and encourage an old bedridden woman who is very much -bewildered with this world, and has no imagination left to deal with -the next—and who is sadly afraid of her long journey in the dark—when I -have to try and argue with a naughty boy who has got some poor girl into -trouble, and doesn’t feel in his heart that he has done a selfish or a -brutal thing, am I to talk to them about the battle of Sedan, or even -about the reform of the House of Lords?” - -The professor smiled grimly, but perhaps a little foolishly, and did not -take up the challenge. But Mr. Woodward said to me a few days afterwards: -“I was very much interested in your friend the professor—a most amiable, -and, I should think, unselfish person. How good of him to interest -himself in the parish clergy! But you know, my dear boy, the intellectual -atmosphere is a difficult one to live in—a man needs some very human -trial of his own to keep him humble and sane. I expect the professor -wants a long illness!” (smiling) “No, I dare say he is very good in his -own place, and does good work for Christ, but he is a man clothed in soft -raiment in these wilds, and you and I must do all we can to prevent him -from rewriting the Lord’s Prayer. I am afraid he thinks there is a sad -absence of the intellectual element in it. It must be very distressing to -him to think how often it is used; and yet there is not an allusion to -politics in it—not even to comprehensive measures of social reform.” - -[Sidenote: MR. WOODWARD’S SERMONS] - -Mr. Woodward’s sermons were always a pleasure to me. He told me once that -he had a great dislike to using conventional religious language; and -thus, though he was in belief something of a High Churchman, he was so -careful to avoid catch-words or party formulas that few people suspected -how high the doctrine was. I took an elderly evangelical aunt to church -once, when Mr. Woodward preached a sermon on baptismal regeneration of -rather an advanced type. I shuddered to think of the denunciations which -I anticipated after church; indeed, I should not have been surprised if -my aunt had gathered up her books—she was a masculine personage—and swept -out of the building. Both on the contrary, she listened intently, rather -moist-eyed, I thought, to the discourse, and afterwards spoke to me with -extreme emphasis of it as a real _gospel_ sermon. Mr. Woodward wrote his -sermons, but often I think departed from the text. He discoursed with a -simple tranquillity of manner that made each hearer feel as if he was -alone with him. His allusions to local events were thrilling in their -directness and pathos; and in passing, I may say that he was the only -man I ever heard who made the giving out of notices, both in manner and -matter, into a fine art. On Christmas Day he used to speak about the -events of the year; one winter there was a bad epidemic of diphtheria in -the village, and several children died. The shepherd on one of the farms, -a somewhat gruff and unsociable character, lost two little children on -Christmas Eve. Mr. Woodward, unknown to me at the time, had spent the -evening with the unhappy man, who was almost beside himself with grief. - -[Sidenote: THE CHRISTMAS SERMON] - -In the sermon he began quite simply, describing the scene of the first -Christmas Eve in a few picturesque words. Then he quoted Christina -Rossetti’s Christmas Carol— - - “In the bleak mid-winter - Wintry winds made moan,” - -dwelling on the exquisite words in a way which brought the tears to my -eyes. When he came to the lines describing the gifts made to Christ— - - “If I were a shepherd - I would bring a lamb,” - -he stopped dead for some seconds. I feel sure that he had not thought of -the application before. Then he looked down the church and said— - -“I spent a long time yesterday in the house of one who follows the -calling of a shepherd among us.... He has given _two_ lambs to Christ.” - -There was an uncontrollable throb of emotion in the large congregation, -and I confess that the tears filled my eyes. Mr. Woodward went on— - -“Yes, it has pleased God to lead him through deep waters; but I do -not think that he will altogether withhold from him something of his -Christmas joy. He knows that they are safe with Christ—safe with Christ, -and waiting for him there—and that will be more and more of a joy, and -less and less of a sorrow as the years go on, till God restores him the -dear children He has taken from him now. We must not forget him in our -prayers.” - -Then after a pause he resumed. There was no rhetoric or oratory about it; -but I have never in my life heard anything so absolutely affecting and -moving—any word which seemed to go so straight from heart to heart; it -was the genius of humanity. - -A few months after this Mr. Woodward died, as he always wished to die, -quite suddenly, in his chair. He had often said to me that he did hope he -wouldn’t die in bed, with bed-clothes tucked under his chin, and medicine -bottles by him; he said he was sure he would not make an edifying end -under the circumstances. His heart had long been weak; and he was found -sitting with his head on his breast as though asleep, smiling to himself. -In one hand his pen was still clasped. I have never seen such heartfelt -grief as was shown at his funeral. His sister did not survive him a -month. The week after her death I walked up to the rectory, and found -the house being dismantled. Mr. Woodward’s books were being packed into -deal cases; the study was already a dusty, awkward room. It was strange -to think of the sudden break-up of that centre of beautiful life and -high example. All over and done! Yet not all; there are many grateful -hearts who do not forget Mr. Woodward; and what he would have thought -and what he would have said are still the natural guide for conduct in -a dozen simple households. If death must come, it was so that he would -have wished it; and Mr. Woodward could be called happy in life and death -perhaps more than any other man I have known. - - - - -20 - - -[Sidenote: MR. CUTHBERT] - -Who was to be Mr. Woodward’s successor? For some weeks we had lived -in a state of agitated expectancy. One morning, soon after breakfast, -a card was brought to me—The Rev. Cyril Cuthbert. I went down to the -drawing-room and found my mother talking to a young clergyman, who rose -at my entrance, and informed me that he had been offered the living, and -that he had ventured to call and consult me, adding that he had been -told I was all-powerful in the parish. I was distinctly prepossessed by -his appearance, and perhaps by his appreciation, however exaggerated, -of my influence; he was a small man with thin features, but bronzed -and active; his hair was parted in the middle and lay in wiry waves on -each side. He had small, almost feminine, hands and feet, and rather a -delicate walk. He was entirely self-possessed, very genial in talk, with -a pleasant laugh; at the same time he gave me an impression of strength. -He was dressed in very old and shabby clothes, of decidedly clerical -cut, but his hat and coat were almost green from exposure to weather. -Yet he was obviously a gentleman. I gathered that he was the son of a -country squire, that he had been at a public school and Oxford, and that -he had been for some years a curate in a large manufacturing town. As we -talked my impressions became more definite; the muscles of the jaw were -strongly developed, and I began to fancy that the genial manner concealed -a considerable amount of self-will. He had the eye which I have been -led to associate with the fanatic, of a certain cold blue, shallow and -impenetrable, which does not let you far into the soul, but meets you -with a bright and unshrinking gaze. - -At his request I accompanied him to church and vicarage. At the latter, -he said to me frankly that he was a poor man, and that he would not be -able to keep it up in the same style—“Indeed,” he said with a smile, “I -don’t think it would be right to do so.” I said that I didn’t think it -very material, but that as a matter of fact I thought that the perfection -of Mr. Woodward’s arrangements had had a humanising influence in the -place. At the church he was pleased at the neatness and general air of -use that the building had; but he looked with disfavour at the simple -arrangements of the chancel. I noticed that he bowed and murmured a few -words of prayer when he entered the building. When we had examined the -church he said to me, “To speak frankly, Mr. ——,—I don’t know what your -views are,—but what is the church tone of this place like?” I said that -I hardly knew how to describe it—the church certainly played a large -part in the lives of the parishioners; but that I supposed that Mr. -Woodward would perhaps be called old-fashioned. “Yes, indeed,” sighed Mr. -Cuthbert, looking wearily round and shrugging his shoulders. “The altar -indeed is distinctly dishonouring to the Blessed Sacrament—no attempt at -Catholic practice or tradition. There is not, I see, even a second altar -in the church; but, please God, if He sends me here we will change all -that.” - -Before we left the church he fell on his knees and prayed with absolute -self-absorption. - -When we got outside he said to me: “May I tell you something? I have just -returned from a visit to a friend of mine, a priest at A——; he has got -everything—simply everything; he is a noble fellow—if I could but hope to -imitate him.” - -A—— was, I knew, a great railway depôt, and thinking that Mr. Cuthbert -did not fully understand how very rural a parish we were, I said, “I am -afraid there is not very much scope here for great activity. We have a -reading-room and a club, but it has never been a great success—the people -won’t turn out in the evenings.” - -“Reading-rooms and clubs,” said Mr. Cuthbert in high disdain; “I did not -mean that kind of thing at all—I was thinking of things much nearer the -heart of the people. Herries has incense and lights, the eucharistic -vestments, he reserves the sacrament—you may see a dozen people kneeling -before the tabernacle whenever you enter the church—he has often said to -me that he doesn’t know how he could keep hope alive in his heart in the -midst of such vice and sin, if it were not for the thought of the Blessed -Presence, in the midst of it, in the quiet church. He has a sisterhood in -his parish too under a very strict rule. They never leave the convent, -and spend whole days in intercession. The sacrament has been reserved -there for fifteen years. Then confession is urged plainly upon all, and -it is a sight to make one thrill with joy to see the great rough navvies -bending before Herries as he sits in his embroidered stole, they telling -him the secrets of their hearts, and he bringing them nearer to the joy -of their Lord. Some of the workmen in the parish are the most frequent -at confession. Oh! he is a noble fellow; he tells me he has no time for -visiting—positively no time at all. His whole day is spent in deepening -the devotional life—the hours are recited in the church—he gives up ten -hours every week to the direction of penitents, and he must spend, I -should say, two hours a day at his _priedieu_. He says he could not have -strength for his work if he did not. His sermons are beautiful; he speaks -from the heart without preparation. He says he has learnt to trust the -Spirit, and just says what is given him to say. - -“Then he is devoted to his choristers, and they to him; it is a privilege -to see him surrounded by them in their little cassocks while he leads -them in a simple meditation. And he is a man of a deeply tender spirit—I -have seen him, dining with his curates, burst into tears at the mere -mention of the name of the dear Mother of Christ. I ought not to trouble -you with all this—I am too enthusiastic! But the sight of him has put -it into my heart more than anything else I have ever known to try and -build up a really Catholic centre, which might do something to leaven the -heavy Protestantism which is the curse of England. One more thing which -especially struck me; it moved me to tears to hear one of his great rough -fellows—a shunter, I believe, who is often overthrown by the demon of -strong drink—talk so simply and faithfully of the Holy Mass: what rich -associations that word has! Nothing but eternity will ever reveal the -terrible loss which the disuse of that splendid word has inflicted on our -unhappy England.” - -I was too much bewildered by this statement to make any adequate reply, -but said to console him that I thought the parish was wonderfully -good, and prepared to look upon the clergyman as a friend. “Yes,” said -Mr. Cuthbert, “that is all very well for a beginning, but it must -be something more than that. They must revere him as steward of the -mysteries of God—they must be ready to open their inmost heart to him; -they must come to recognise that it is through him, as a consecrated -priest of Christ, that the highest spiritual blessings can reach them: -that he alone can confer upon them the absolution which can set them free -from the guilt of sin.” - -I felt that I ought not to let Mr. Cuthbert think that I was altogether -of the same mind with him in these matters and so I said: “Well, you must -remember that all this is unfamiliar here; Mr. Woodward did not approve -of confession—he held that habitual confession was weakening to the moral -nature, and encouraged the most hysterical kind of egotism—though no -one was more ready to listen to any one’s troubles and to give the most -loving advice in real difficulties. But as to the point about absolution, -I think he felt, and I should agree with him, that God only can forgive -sin, and that the clergy are merely the human interpreters of that -forgiveness; it is so much more easy to apprehend a great moral principle -like the forgiveness of sin from another human being than to arrive at it -in the silence of one’s own troubled heart.” - -Mr. Cuthbert smiled, not very pleasantly, and said, “I had hoped you -would have shared my views more warmly—it is a disappointment! seriously, -the power to bind and loose conferred on the Apostles by Christ -Himself—does that mean nothing?” - -“Yes, indeed,” I said, “the clergy are the accredited ministers in the -matter, of course, and they have a sacred charge, but as to powers -conferred upon the Apostles, it seems that other powers were conferred on -His followers which they no longer possess—they were to drink poison with -impunity, handle venomous snakes, and even to heal the sick.” - -“Purely local and temporary provisions,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “which we -have no doubt forfeited—if indeed we have forfeited them—by want of -faith. The other was a gift for time and eternity.” - -“I don’t remember,” I said, “that any such distinction was laid down in -the Gospel—but in any case you would not maintain, would you, that they -possessed the power _proprio motu_? To push it to extremes, that if a man -was absolved by a priest, God’s forgiveness was bound to follow, even if -the priest were deceived as to the reality of the penitence which claimed -forgiveness.” - -Mr. Cuthbert frowned and said, “To me it is not a question of theorising. -It is a purely practical matter. I look upon it in this way—if a man is -absolved by a priest, he is sure he is forgiven; if he is not, he cannot -be sure of forgiveness.” - -“I should hold,” I said, “that it was purely a matter of inner penitence. -But I did not mean to entangle you in a theological argument—and I hope -we are at one on essential matters.” - -As we walked back I pointed out to him some of my favourite views—the -long back of the distant downs; the dark forest tract that closed the -northern horizon—but he looked with courteous indifference: his heart was -full of Catholic tradition. - -We heard a few days after that he had accepted the living, and we asked -him to come and stay with us while he was getting into the vicarage, -which he was furnishing with austere severity. Mr. Woodward’s pleasant -dark study became a somewhat grim library, with books in deal shelves, -carpeted with matting and with a large deal table to work at. Mr. -Cuthbert dwelt much on the thought of sitting there in a cassock with a -tippet, but I do not think he had any of the instincts of a student—it -was rather the _mise-en-scène_ that pleased him. A bedroom became an -oratory, with a large ivory crucifix. The dining-room he called his -refectory, and he had a scheme at one time of having two young men to do -the housework and cooking, which fortunately fell through, though they -were to have had cassocks with cord-girdles, and to have been called -lay brothers. On the other hand he was a very pleasant visitor, as long -as theological discussions were avoided. He was bright, gay, outwardly -sympathetic, full of a certain kind of humour, and with all the ways of -a fine gentleman. The more I disagreed with him the more I liked him -personally. - -One evening after dinner, as we sat smoking—he was a great smoker—we had -a rather serious discussion. I said to him that I really should like to -understand what his theory of church work was. - -[Sidenote: CATHOLIC TRADITION] - -“It is all summed up in two phrases,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “Catholic -practice—Catholic tradition. I hold that the Reformation inflicted -a grievous blow upon this country. To break with Rome was almost -inevitable, I admit, because of the corruption of doctrine that was -beginning; but we need not have thrown over all manner of high and holy -ways and traditions, solemn accessories of worship, tender assistances -to devotion, any more than the Puritans were bound to break statues and -damage stained glass windows.” - -“Quite so,” I said; “but where does this Catholic tradition come from?” - -“From the Primitive Church,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “As far back as we can -trace the history of church practice we find these, or many of these, -exquisite ceremonies, which I for one think it a solemn duty to try and -restore.” - -“But after all,” I said, “they are of human origin, are they not? You -would not say that they have a divine sanction?” - -“Well,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “their sanction is practically divine. We read -that in the last days spent by our Lord in His glorified nature on the -earth, He ‘spake to them of the things concerning the Kingdom of God.’ -I myself think it is only reasonable to suppose that He was laying down -the precise ceremonial that He wished should attend the worship of His -Kingdom. I do not think that extravagant.” - -“But,” I said, “was not the whole tenor of His teaching against such -ceremonial precision? Did He not for His Sacraments choose the simplest -and humblest actions of daily life—eating and drinking? Was He not always -finding fault with the Pharisees for forgetting spiritual truth in their -zeal for tradition and practice?” - -“Yes,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “for _forgetting_ the weightier matters of the -law; but He approved of their ceremonial. He said: ‘These ought ye to -have done, and not to have left the other undone.’” - -“I believe myself,” I said, “that He felt they should have obeyed their -conscience in the matter; but surely the whole of the teaching of the -Gospel is to loose human beings from tyranny of detail, and to teach them -to live a simple life on great principles?” - -“I cannot agree,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “The instinct for reverence, for the -reverent and seemly expression of spiritual feeling, for the symbolic -representation of spiritual feeling, for the symbolic representation of -divine truths is a depreciated one, but a true one; and this instinct He -graciously defined, fortified, and consecrated; and I believe that the -Church was following the true guidance of the Spirit in the matter, when -it slowly built up the grand and massive fabric of Catholic practice and -tradition.” - -“But,” I said, “who are the Church? There are a great many people who -feel the exact opposite of what you maintain—and true Christians too.” - -“They are grievously mistaken,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “and suffer an -irreparable loss.” - -“But who is to decide?” I said, a little nettled. - -“A General Œcumenical Council would be competent to do so,” said Mr. -Cuthbert. - -“Do you mean of the Anglican Communion?” I said. - -“Oh dear, no,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “The Anglican Communion indeed! No; -such a Council must have representatives of all Churches who have -received and maintain the Divine succession.” - -“But,” said I, “you must know that the thing is impossible. Who could -summon such a Council, and who would attend it?” - -“That is not my business,” said Mr. Cuthbert; “I do not want any such -Council. I am sure of my position; it is only you and others who wish -to sacrifice the most exquisite part of Christian life who need such a -solution. I am content with what I know; and humbly and faithfully I -shall attempt as far as I can to follow the dictates of my conscience in -the matter to endeavor to bring it home to the consciences of my flock.” - -I felt I could not carry the argument further without loss of temper; but -it was surprising to me how I continued to like, and even to respect, the -man. - -He has not, it must be confessed, obtained any great hold on the parish. -Mr. Woodward’s quiet, delicate, fatherly work has gone; but Mr. Cuthbert -has a few women who attend confession, and he is content. He has adorned -the church according to his views, and the congregation think it rather -pretty. They do not dislike his sermons, though they do not understand -them; and as for his vestments, they regard them with a mild and somewhat -bewildered interest. They like to see Mr. Cuthbert, he is so pleasant -and good-humoured. He is assiduous in his visiting, and very assiduous -in holding daily services, which are entirely unattended. He has no -priestly influence; and I fear it would pain him deeply if he knew that -his social influence is considerable. Personally, I find him a pleasant -neighbour and highly congenial companion. We have many agreeable talks; -and when I am in that irritable tense mood which is apt to develop in -solitude, and which can only be cleared by an ebullition of spleen, -I walk up to the vicarage and have a theological argument. It does -neither myself nor Mr. Cuthbert any harm, and we are better friends than -ever—indeed, he calls me quite the most agreeable Erastian he knows. - - - - -21 - - -[Sidenote: THE RECLUSE] - -Let me try to sketch the most Arcadian scholar I have ever seen or -dreamed of; they are common enough in books; the gentleman of high -family, with lustrous eyes and thin veined hands, who sits among musty -folios—Heaven knows what he is supposed to be studying, or why they need -be musty—who is in some very nebulous way believed to watch the movements -of the heavens, who takes no notice of his prattling golden-haired -daughter, except to print an absent kiss upon her brow—if there are such -persons they are hard to encounter. - -There is a little market-town a mile or two away, nestled among steep -valleys; the cows that graze on the steep fields that surround it look -down into the chimney-pots and back gardens. One of the converging -valleys is rich in woods, and has a pleasant trout-stream, that flows -among elders, bickers along by woodland corners, and runs brimming -through rich water meadows, full of meadowsweet and willow-herb—the -place in summer has a hot honied smell. You need not follow the road, -but you may take an aimless footpath, which meanders from stile to stile -in a leisurely way. After a mile or so a little stream bubbles in on the -left; and close beside it an old deep farm-road, full of boulders and -mud in winter, half road, half water-course, plunges down from the wood. -All the hedges are full of gnarled roots fringed with luxuriant ferns. -On a cloudy summer day it is like a hothouse here, and the flowers know -it and revel in the warm growing air. Higher and higher the road goes; -then it passes a farm-house, once an ancient manor: the walls green with -lichen and moss, and a curious ancient cognizance, a bear with a ragged -staff clasped in his paws, over the doorway. The farm is embowered in -huge sprawling laurels and has a little garden, with box hedges and -sharp savoury smells of herbs and sweet-william, and a row of humming -hives. Push open the byre gate and go further yet; we are near the crest -of the hill now: just below the top grows a thick wood of larches, set -close together. You would not know there was a house in here. There is -a little rustic gate at the corner of the plantation, and a path, just a -track, rarely trodden, soft with a carpet of innumerable larch-needles. - -Presently you come in sight of a small yellow stone house; not a -venerable house, nor a beautiful one—if anything, a little pretentious, -and looking as if the heart of the plantation had been cut out to build -it as indeed it was; round-topped windows, high parapets, no roof -visible, and only one rather makeshift chimney; the whole air of it -rather sinister, and at the same time shamefaced—a little as though it -set out to be castellated and had suddenly shrunk and collapsed, and been -hastily finished. A gravel walk very full of weeds runs immediately round -the house; there is no garden, but a small enclosure for cabbages grown -very rank. In most of the windows hang dirty-looking blinds half pulled -down; a general air of sordid neglect broods over the place. Here in this -house had lived for many years—and, for all I know, lives there still—a -retired gentleman, a public school and University man, who had taken high -honours at the latter; not rich, but with a competence. What had caused -his seclusion from the world I do not know, and I am not particular to -inquire; whether a false step and the forced abandonment of a career, a -disappointment of some kind, a hypochondriacal whim, or a settled and -deliberate resolution. I know not, but always hoped the last. - -From some slight indications I have thought that, for some reason or -other, in youth, my recluse had cause to think that his life would not -be a long one—his selection of a site was apparently fortuitous. He -preferred a mild climate, and, it seems, took a fancy to the very remote -and sequestered character of the valley; he bought a few acres of land, -planted them with larches, and in the centre erected the unsightly house -which I have described. - -Inside the place was rather more attractive than you would have expected. -There was a pinched little entry, rather bare, and a steep staircase -leading to the upper regions; in front of you a door leading to some -offices; on the left a door that opened into a large room to which all -the rest of the house had been sacrificed. It had three windows, much -overshadowed by the larches, which indeed at one corner actually touched -the house and swept the windows as they swayed in the breeze. The room -was barely furnished, with a carpet faded beyond recognition, and high -presses, mostly containing books. An oak table stood near one of the -windows, where our hermit took his meals; another table, covered with -books, was set near the fireplace; at the far end a door led into an ugly -slit of a room lighted by a skylight, where he slept. But I gathered -that for days together he did not go to bed, but dozed in his chair. On -the walls hung two or three portraits, black with age. One of an officer -in a military uniform of the last century with a huge, adumbrating -cocked-hat; a divine in bands and wig; and a pinched-looking lady in blue -silk with two boys. His only servant was an elderly strong-looking woman -of about fifty, with a look of intense mental suffering on her face, -and weary eyes which she seldom lifted from the floor. I never heard -her utter more than three consecutive words. She was afflicted I heard, -not from herself, with a power of seeing apparitions, not, curiously, -in the house, but in the wood all round; she told Mr. Woodward that -“the dead used to look in at the window at noon and beckon her out.” In -consequence of this she had not set foot outside the doors for twenty -years, except once, when her master had been attacked by sudden illness. -The only outside servant he had was a surly man who lived in a cottage -a quarter of a mile away on the high-road, who marketed for them, drew -water, and met the carrier’s cart which brought their necessaries. - -The man himself was a student of history: he never wrote, except a few -marginal notes in his books. He was totally ignorant of what was going -on, took in no papers, and asked no questions as to current events. He -received no letters, and the only parcels that came to him were boxes -of books from a London library—memoirs, historical treatises, and -biographies of the last century. I take it he had a minute knowledge -of the social and political life of England up to the beginning of the -present century; he received no one but Mr. Woodward who saw him two or -three times a year, and it was with Mr. Woodward that I went, making the -excuse (which was actually the case) that some literary work that I was -doing was suspended for want of books. - -We were shown in; he did not rise to receive us, but greeted us with -extreme cordiality, and an old-fashioned kind of courtesy, absolutely -without embarrassment. He was a tall, thin man, with a fair complexion, -and straggling hair and beard. He seemed to be in excellent health; and I -learnt that in the matter of food and drink he was singularly abstemious, -which accounted for his clear complexion and brilliant eye. He smoked in -moderation a very fragrant tobacco of which he gave me a small quantity, -but refused to say where he obtained it. There was an air of infinite -contentment about him. He seemed to me to hope for nothing and expect -nothing from life; to live in the moment and for the moment. If ever I -saw serene happiness written on a face in legible characters, it was -there. He talked a little on theological points, with an air of gentle -good-humour, to Mr. Woodward, somewhat as you might talk to a child, with -amiable interest in the unexpected cleverness of its replies; he gave me -the information I requested clearly and concisely but with no apparent -zest, and seemed to have no wish to dwell on the subject or to part with -his store of knowledge. - -His one form of exercise was long vague walks; in the winter he rarely -left the house except on moonlight nights; but in the summer he was -accustomed to start as soon as it was light, and to ramble, never on the -roads, but by unfrequented field-paths, for miles and miles, generally -returning before the ordinary world was astir. On hot days he would sit -by the stream in a very remote nook beneath a high bank where the water -ran swiftly down a narrow channel, and swung into a deep black pool; -here, I was told, he would stay for hours with his eyes fixed on the -water, lost in some mysterious reverie. I take it he was a poet without -power of expression, and his heart was as clean as a child’s. - -[Sidenote: MODERN LIFE] - -It is the fashion now to talk with much affected weariness of the hurry -and bustle of modern life. No doubt such things are to be found if you go -in search of them; and to have your life attended by a great quantity of -either is generally held to be a sign of success. But the truth is, that -this is what ordinary people like. The ordinary man has no precise idea -what to do with his time. He needs to have it filled up by a good many -conflicting and petty duties, and if it is filled he has a feeling that -he is useful. But many of these duties are only necessary because of the -existence of each other; it is a vicious circle. “What are those fields -for?” said a squire who had lately succeeded to an estate, as he walked -round with the bailiff. “To grow oats, sir.” “And what do you do with the -oats?” “Feed the horses, sir.” “And what do you want the horses for?” “To -plough the fields, sir.” That is what much of the bustle of modern life -consists of. - -Solitude and silence are a great strain; but if you enjoy them they are -at least harmless, which is more than can be said of many activities. -Such is not perhaps the temper in which continents are explored, battles -won, empires extended, fortunes made. But whatever concrete gain we make -for ourselves must be taken from others; and we ought to be very certain -indeed of the meaning of this life, and the nature of the world to which -we all migrate, before we immerse ourselves in self-contrived businesses. -To be natural, to find our true life, to be independent of luxuries, not -to be at the mercy of prejudices and false ideals—that is the secret of -life: who can say that it is a secret that we most of us make our own? -My recluse, I think, was nearer the Kingdom of Heaven, where places are -not laid according to the table of precedence, than many men who have -had biographies and statues, and who will be, I fear, sadly adrift in the -world of silence into which they may be flung. - - - - -22 - - - _Nov. 6, 1890._ - -To-day the gale had blown itself out; all yesterday it blustered round -corners, shook casements, thundered in the chimneys, and roared in the -pines. Now it is bright and fresh, and the steady wind is routing one by -one the few clouds that hang in the sky. I came in yesterday at dusk, -and the whole heaven was full of great ragged, lowering storm-wreaths, -weeping wildly and sadly; now the rain is over, though in the morning a -sudden dash of great drops mingled with hail made the windows patter; but -the sun shone out very low and white from the clouds, even while the hail -leapt on the window-sill. - -I took the field-path that wanders aimlessly away below the house; the -water lay in the grass, and the sodden leaves had a bitter smell. The -copses were very bare, and the stream ran hoarse and turbid. The way -wound by fallows and hedges—now threading a steep copse, now along the -silent water-meadows, now through an open forest space, with faggots -tied and piled, or by a cattle byre. Here and there I turned into a -country lane, till at last the village of Spyfield lay before me, with -the ancient church of dark sandstone and the little street of handsome -Georgian houses, very neat and prim—a place, you would think, where every -one went to bed at ten, and where no murmurs of wars ever penetrated. - -Just beyond the village, my friend, Mr. Campden, the great artist, has -built himself a palace. It is somewhat rococo, no doubt, with its marble -terrace and its gilded cupolas. But it gleams in the dark hanging wood -with an exotic beauty of its own, as if a Genie had uprooted it from a -Tuscan slope, and planted it swiftly, in an unfamiliar world, in an hour -of breathless labour between the twilight and the dawn. Still, fantastic -as it is, it is an agreeable contrast to the brick-built mansions, with -their slated turrets, that have lately, alas, begun to alight in our -woodlands. - -[Sidenote: MR. CAMPDEN] - -Mr. Campden is a real prince, a Lorenzo the Magnificent; not only is he -the painter of pictures which command a high price, though to me they -are little more than harmonious wallpaper; but he binds books, makes -furniture, weaves tapestry, and even bakes tiles and pottery; and the -slender minaret that rises from a plain, windowless building on the -right, is nothing but a concealed chimney. Moreover, he inherited through -a relative’s death an immense fortune, so that he is a millionaire as -well. To-day I followed the little steep lane that skirts his domain, -and halted for a moment at a great grille of ironwork, which gives the -passer-by a romantic and generous glimpse of a pleached alley, terminated -by a mysterious leaden statue. I peeped in cautiously, and saw the -great man in a blue suit, with a fur cloak thrown round his shoulders, -a slouched hat set back from his forehead, and a loose red tie gleaming -from his low-cut collar. I was near enough to see his wavy white hair -and beard, his keen eyes, his thin hands, as he paced delicately about, -breathing the air, and looking critically at the exquisite house beyond -him. I am sure of a welcome from Mr. Campden—indeed, he has a princely -welcome for all the world—but to-day I felt a certain simple schoolboy -shyness, which ill accords with Mr. Campden’s Venetian manner. It is -delightful after long rusticity to be with him, but it is like taking -a part in some solemn and affected dance; to Mr. Campden I am the -student-recluse, and to be gracefully bantered accordingly, and asked -a series of questions on matters with which I am wholly unacquainted, -but which are all part of the setting with which his pictorial mind has -dowered me. On my first visit to him I spoke of the field-names of the -neighbourhood, and so Mr. Campden speaks to me of Domesday Book, which I -have never seen. I happened to express—in sheer wantonness—an interest -in strange birds, and I have ever since to Mr. Campden been a man who, -in the intervals of reading Domesday Book, stands in all weathers on -hilltops, or by reedy stream-ends, watching for eagles and swans, like a -Roman augur—indeed Augur is the name he gives me—our dear Augur—when I am -introduced to his great friends. - -Mr. Campden has an infinite contempt for the gentlemen of the -neighbourhood, whom he treats with splendid courtesy, and the kind of -patronising amusement with which one listens to the prattle of a rustic -child. It is a matter of unceasing merriment to me to see him with a -young squire of the neighbourhood, an intelligent young fellow who has -travelled a good deal, and is a considerable reader. He has a certain -superficial shyness, and consequently has never been able to secure -enough of the talk for himself to show Mr. Campden what he is thinking -of; and Mr. Campden at once boards him with questions about the price -of eggs and the rotation of crops, calling him, “Will Honeycomb” from -the _Spectator_; and when plied with nervous questions as to Perugino or -Carlo Dolce, saying grandiloquently, “My dear young man, I know nothing -whatever about it; I leave that to the critics. I am a republican in art, -a red indeed, ha, ha! And you and I must not concern ourselves with such -things. Here we are in the country, and we must talk of _bullocks_. Tell -me now, in Lorton market last week, what price did a Tegg fetch?” - -Mr. Campden is extraordinarily ignorant of all country matters, and -has a small stock of ancient provincial words, not indigenous to the -neighbourhood, but gathered from local histories, that he produces with -complacent pride. Indeed, I do not know that I ever saw a more ludicrous -scene than Mr. Campden talking agriculture to a distinguished scientific -man, whom a neighbouring squire had brought over to tea with him, and -whom he took for a landowner. To hear Mr. Campden explaining a subject -with which he was not acquainted to a courteous scientist, who did not -even know to what he was alluding, was a sight to make angels laugh. - -But to-day I let Mr. Campden pace like a peacock up and down his -pleasaunces, with his greyhound following him, and threaded the -water-meadows homewards. I gave myself up to the luxurious influences -of solitude and cool airs, and walked slowly, indifferent where I went, -by sandstone pits, by brimming streams, through dripping coverts, till -the day declined. What did I think of? I hardly dare confess. There are -two or three ludicrous, pitiful ambitions that lurk in the corners of my -mind, which, when I am alone and aimless, I take out and hold, as a child -holds a doll, while fancy invests them with radiant hues. These and no -other were my mental pabulum. I know they cannot be realised—indeed, I -do not desire them—but these odd and dusty fancies remain with me from -far-off boyish days; and many a time have I thus paraded them in all -their silliness. - -[Sidenote: HOME] - -But the hedgerow grasses grew indistinguishably grey; the cattle splashed -home along the road; the sharp smell of wood smoke from cottage fires, -piled for the long evenings, stole down the woodways; pheasants muttered -and crowed in the coverts, and sprang clanging to their roosts. The -murmur of the stream became louder and more insistent; and as I turned -the corner of the wood, it was with a glow of pleasure that I saw the -sober gables of Golden End, and the hall window, like a red solemn eye, -gaze cheerily upon the misty valley. - - - - -23 - - - _July 7, 1891._ - -[Sidenote: IN THE WOODS] - -I cannot tell why it is, but to be alone among woods, especially towards -evening, is often attended with a vague unrest, an unsubstantial awe, -which, though of the nature of pleasure, is perilously near the confines -of horror. On certain days, when the nerves are very alert and the woods -unusually still, I have known the sense become almost insupportable. -There is a certain feeling of being haunted, followed, watched, almost -dogged, which is bewildering and unmanning. Foolish as it may appear, I -have found the carrying of a gun almost a relief on such occasions. But -what heightens the sense in a strange degree is the presence of still -water. A stream is lively—it encourages and consoles; but the sight of -a long dark lake, with the woods coming down to the water’s edge, is a -sight so solemn as to be positively oppressive. Each kind of natural -scenery has its own awe—the _genius loci_, so to speak. On a grassy down -there is the terror of the huge open-eyed gaze of the sky. In craggy -mountains there is something wild and beastlike frowning from the rocks. -Among ice and snow there is something mercilessly pure and averse to -life; but neither of these is so intense or definite as the horror of -still woods and silent waters. The feeling is admirably expressed by Mr. -George Macdonald in _Phantastes_, a magical book. It is that sensation -of haunting presences hiding behind trees, watching us timidly from the -fern, peeping from dark copses, resting among fantastic and weather-worn -rocks, that finds expression in the stories of Dryads and fairies, which -seem so deeply implanted in the mind of man. Who, on coming out through -dark woods into some green sequestered lawn, set deep in the fringing -forest, has not had the sensation of an interrupted revel, as festivity -suddenly abandoned by wild, ethereal natures, who have shrunk in silent -alarm back into the sheltering shades? If only one had been more wary, -and stolen a moment earlier upon the unsuspecting company! - -But there is a darker and cloudier sensation, the _admonitus locorum_, -which I have experienced upon fields of battle, and places where -some huge tragedy of human suffering and excitement has been wrought. -I have felt it upon the rustic ploughland of Jena, and on the grassy -slopes of Flodden; it has crept over me under the mouldering walls and -frowning gateways of old guarded towns; and not only there, where it may -be nothing but the reflex of shadowy imaginations, but on wind-swept -moors and tranquil valleys, I have felt, by some secret intuition, some -overpowering tremor of spirit, that here some desperate strife has been -waged, some primeval conflict enacted. There is a spot in the valley of -Llanthony, a grassy tumulus among steep green hills, where the sense came -over me with an uncontrollable throb of insight, that here some desperate -stand was made, some barbarous Themopylæ lost or won. - -[Sidenote: A DARK SECRET] - -There is a place near Golden End where I encountered a singular -experience. I own that I never pass it now without some obsession -of feeling; indeed, I will confess that when I am alone I take a -considerable circuit to avoid the place. An ancient footway, trodden deep -in a sandy covert, winds up through a copse, and comes out into a quiet -place far from the high-road, in the heart of the wood. Here stands a -mouldering barn, and there are two or three shrubs, an escalonia and a -cypress, that testify to some remote human occupation. There is a stretch -of green sward, varied with bracken, and on the left a deep excavation, -where sand has been dug: in winter, a pool; in summer, a marshy place -full of stiff, lush water-plants. In this place, time after time as I -passed it, there seemed to be a strange silence. No bird seemed to sing -here, no woodland beast to frisk here; a secret shame or horror rested -on the spot. It was with no sense of surprise, but rather of resolved -doubt, that I found, one bright morning, two labouring men bent over -some object that lay upon the ground. When they saw me, they seemed at -first to hesitate, and then asked me to come and look. It was a spectacle -of singular horror: they had drawn from the marshy edge of the pool -the tiny skeleton of a child, wrapped in some oozy and ragged cloths; -the slime dripping from the eyeless cavities of the little skull, and -the weeds trailing over the unsightly cerements. It had caught the eye -of one of them as they were passing. “The place has always had an evil -name,” said one of them with a strange solemnity. There had been a house -there, I gathered, inhabited by a mysterious evil family, a place of -dark sin and hideous tradition. The stock had dwindled down to a wild -solitary woman, who extracted a bare sustenance out of a tiny farm, and -who alternated long periods of torpid gloom with disgusting orgies of -drunkenness. Thirty years ago she had died, and the farm had remained -so long unlet that it was at last pulled down, and the land planted -with wood. Subsequent investigations revealed nothing; and the body had -lain there, it was thought, for fully that time, preserved from decay -by an iron-bound box in which it had been enclosed, and of which some -traces still remained in reddish smears of rust and clotted nails. That -picture—the sunlit morning, the troubled faces of the men, the silent -spectatorial woods—has dwelt with me ineffaceably. - -[Sidenote: OBSESSION] - -Again, I have been constantly visited by the same inexplicable sensation -in a certain room at Golden End. The room in question is a great bare -chamber at the top of the house: the walls are plastered, and covered in -all directions by solid warped beams; through the closed and dusty window -the sunlight filters sordidly into the room. I do not know why it has -never been furnished, but I gathered that my father took an unexplained -dislike to the room from the first. The odd feature of it is, that in -the wall at one end is a small door, as of a cupboard, some feet from -the ground, which opens, not as you would expect into a cupboard, but -into a loft, where you can see the tiles, the brickwork of the clustered -chimney-stacks, and the plastered lathwork of the floor, in and below -the joists of the timber. This strange opening can never have been a -window, because the shutter is of the same date as the house; still less -a door, for it is hardly possible to squeeze through it; but as the loft -into which it looks is an accretion of later date than the room itself, -it seems to me that the garret may have been once a granary up to which -sacks were swung from the ground by a pulley; and this is made more -possible by the existence of some iron staples on the outer side of it, -that appear to have once controlled some simple mechanism. - -[Sidenote: THE EVIL ROOM] - -The room is now a mere receptacle for lumber, but it is strange that all -who enter it, even the newest inmate of the house, take an unaccountable -dislike to the place. I have myself struggled against the feeling; I -once indeed shut myself up there on a sunny afternoon, and endeavoured -to shame myself by pure reason out of the disagreeable, almost physical -sensation that at once came over me, but all in vain; there was something -about the bare room, with its dusty and worm-eaten floor, the hot -stagnant air, the floating motes in the stained sunlight, and above -all the sinister little door, that gave me a discomfort that it seems -impossible to express in speech. My own room must have been the scene -of many a serious human event. Sick men must have lain there; hopeless -prayers must have echoed there; children must have been born there, and -souls must have quitted their shattered tenement beneath its ancient -panels. But these have after all been normal experiences; in the other -room, I make no doubt, some altogether abnormal event must have happened, -something of which the ethereal aroma, as of some evil, penetrating acid, -must have bitten deep into wall and floor, and soaked the very beam of -the roof with anxious and disturbed oppression. In feverish fancy I see -strange things enact themselves; I see at the dead of night pale heads -crane from the window, oppressive silence hold the room, as some dim -and ugly burden jerks and dangles from the descending rope, while the -rude gear creaks and rustles, and the vane upon the cupola sings its -melancholy rusty song in the glimmering darkness. It is strange that the -mind should be so tangibly impressed and yet should have no power given -it to solve the sad enigma. - - - - -24 - - - _Sep. 10, 1891._ - -[Sidenote: THE COUNTRY] - -Very few consecutive days pass at Golden End without my contriving to get -what I most enjoy in the form of exercise—a long, slow, solitary ride; -severer activities are denied me. I have a strong, big-boned, amiable -horse—strength is the one desideratum in a horse, in country where, to -reach a point that appears to be a quarter of a mile away, it is often -necessary to descend by a steep lane to a point two or three hundred -feet below and to ascend a corresponding acclivity on the other side. -Sometimes my ride has a definite object. I have to see a neighbouring -farmer on business, or there is shopping to be done at Spyfield, or -a distant call has to be paid—but it is best when there is no such -scheme—and the result is that after a few years there is hardly a lane -within a radius of five miles that I have not carefully explored and -hardly a hamlet within ten miles that I have not visited. - -The by-lanes are the most attractive feature. You turn out of the -high-road down a steep sandy track, with high banks overhung by hazel -and spindlewood and oak-copse; the ground falls rapidly. Through gaps at -the side you can see the high, sloping forest glades opposite, or look -along lonely green rides which lead straight into the heart of silent -woods. There has been as a rule no parsimonious policy of enclosure, -and the result is that there are often wide grassy spaces beside the -road, thick-set with furze or forest undergrowth, with here and there -a tiny pool, or a little dingle where sandstone has been dug. Down at -the base of the hill you find a stream running deep below a rustic -white-railed bridge, through sandy cuttings, all richly embowered with -alders, and murmuring pleasantly through tall water-plants. Here and -there is a weather-tiled cottage, with a boarded gable and a huge brick -chimney-stack, flanked by a monstrous yew. Suddenly the road strikes -into a piece of common, a true English forest, with a few huge beeches, -and thick covert of ferns and saplings; still higher and you are on open -ground, with the fragrant air blowing off the heather; a clump of pines -marks the summit, and in an instant the rolling plain lies before you, -rich in wood, rising in billowy ranges, with the smoke going up from a -hundred hamlets, and the shadowy downs closing the horizon. Then you can -ride a mile or two on soft white sand-paths winding in and out among the -heather, while the sun goes slowly down among purple islands of cloud, -with gilded promontories and fiords of rosy light, and the landscape -grows more and more indistinct and romantic, suffused in a golden haze. -At last it is time to turn homewards, and you wind down into a leafy -dingle, where the air lies in cool strata across the sun-warmed path, -and fragrant wood-smells, from the heart of winding ways and marshy -streamlets, pour out of the green dusk. The whole day you have hardly -seen a human being—an old labourer has looked out with a slow bovine -stare from some field-corner, a group of cottage children have hailed you -over a fence, or a carter walking beside a clinking team has given you a -muttered greeting—the only sounds have been the voices of birds breaking -from the thicket, the rustle of leaves, the murmuring of unseen streams, -and the padding of your horse’s hoofs in the sandy lane. - -[Sidenote: THE PEACEFUL MIND] - -And what does the mind do in these tranquil hours? I hardly know. -The thought runs in a little leisurely stream, glancing from point to -point; the observation is, I notice, prematurely acute, and, though -the intellectual faculties are in abeyance, drinks in impressions with -greedy delight: the feathery, blue-green foliage of the ash-suckers, the -grotesque, geometrical forms in the lonely sandstone quarry, the curving -water-meadows with their tousled grasses, the stone-leek on the roof of -mellowed barns, the flash of white chalk-quarries carved out of distant -downs, the climbing, clustering roofs of the hamlet on the neighbouring -ridge. - -Some would say that the mind in such hours grows dull, narrow, rustical, -and slow—“in the lonely vale of streams,” as Ossian sang, “abides the -narrow soul.” I hardly know, but I think it is the opposite: it is true -that one does not learn in such silent hours the deft trick of speech, -the easy flow of humorous thoughts, the tinkling interchange of the -mind; but there creeps over the spirit something of the coolness of -the pasture, the tranquillity of green copses, and the contentment of -the lazy stream. I think that, undiluted, such days might foster the -elementary brutishness of the spirit, and that just as rhododendrons -degenerate, if untended, to the primal magenta type, so one might revert -by slow degrees to the animal which lies not far below the civilised -surface. But there is no danger in my own life that I should have too -much of such reverie; indeed, I have to scheme a little for it; and it -is to me a bath of peace, a plunge into the quiet waters of nature, a -refreshing return to the untroubled and gentle spirit of the earth. - -The only thing to fear in such rides as these, is if some ugly or sordid -thought, some muddy difficulty, some tangled dilemma is stuck like a -burr on the mind; then indeed such hours are of little use, if they -be not positively harmful. The mind (at least my mind) has a way of -arranging matters in solitude so as to be as little hopeful, as little -kindly as possible; the fretted spirit brews its venom, practises for -odious repartees, plans devilish questions, and rehearses the mean drama -over and over. At such hours I feel indeed like Sinbad, with the lithe -legs and skinny arms of the Old Man of the Sea twined round his neck. -But the mood changes—an interesting letter, a sunshiny day, a pleasant -visitor—any of these raises the spirit out of the mire, and restores -me to myself; and I resume my accustomed tranquillity all the more -sedulously for having had a dip in the tonic tide of depression. - - - - -25 - - - _June 6, 1892._ - -I have often thought what a lightening of the load of life it would be -if we could arrive at greater simplicity and directness in our social -dealings with others. Of course the first difficulty to triumph over is -the physical difficulty of simple shyness, which so often paralyses men -and women in the presence of a stranger. But how instantly and perfectly -a natural person evokes naturalness in others. This naturalness is hardly -to be achieved without a certain healthy egotism. It by no means produces -naturalness in others to begin operations by questioning people about -themselves. But if one person begins to talk easily and frankly about -his own interests, others insensibly follow suit by a kind of simple -imitativeness. And if the inspirer of this naturalness is not a profound -egotist, if he is really interested in other people, if he can waive his -own claims to attention, the difficulty is overcome. - -[Sidenote: THE CONVEYANCER] - -The other day I was bicycling, and on turning out of Spyfield, where I -had been doing some business, I observed another bicyclist a little ahead -of me. He was a tall thin man, with a loose white hat, and he rode with -a certain fantastic childish zest which attracted my attention. If there -was a little upward slope in the road, he tacked extravagantly from side -to side, and seemed to be encouraging himself by murmured exhortations. -He had a word for every one he passed. I rode for about half a mile -behind him, and he at last dismounted at the foot of a steep slope that -leads up to a place called Gallows Hill. He stopped half-way up the -hill to study a map, and as I passed him wheeling my bicycle, he called -cheerily to me to ask how far it was to a neighbouring village. I told -him to the best of my ability, whereupon he said, “Oh no, I am sure you -are wrong; it must be twice that distance!” I was for an instant somewhat -nettled, feeling that if he knew the distance, his question had a certain -wantonness. So I said, “Well, I have lived here for twenty years and know -all the roads very well.” The stranger touched his hat and said, “I am -sure I apologise with all my heart; I ought not to have spoken as I did.” - -Examining him at my leisure I saw him to be a tall, lean man, with rather -exaggerated features. He had a big, thin head, a long, pointed nose, a -mobile and smiling mouth, large dark eyes, and full side-whiskers. I took -him at once for a professional man of some kind, solicitor, schoolmaster, -or even a clergyman, though his attire was not clerical. “Here,” he said, -“just take the end of this map and let us consult together.” I did as -I was desired, and he pointed out the way he meant to take. “Now,” he -said, “there is a train there in an hour, and I want to arrive there -_easily_—mind you, not _hot_; that is so uncomfortable.” I told him that -if he knew the road, which was a complicated one, he could probably just -do it in the time; but I added that I was myself going to pass a station -on the line, where he might catch the same train nearer town. He looked -at me with a certain slyness. “Are you certain of that?” he cried; “I -have all the trains at my fingers’ ends.” I assured him it was so, while -he consulted a time-table. “Right!” he said, “you are right, but _all_ -the trains do not stop there; it is not a deduction that you can draw -from the fact of _one_ stopping at the _other_ station.” We walked up -to the top of the hill together, and I proposed that we should ride in -company. He accepted with alacrity. “Nothing I should like better!” As -we got on to our bicycles his foot slipped. “You will notice,” he said, -“that these are new boots—of a good pattern—but somewhat smooth on the -sole; in fact they slip.” I replied that it was a good thing to scratch -new boots on the sole, so as to roughen them before riding. “A capital -idea!” he said delightedly; “I shall do it the moment I return, with a -pair of nail-scissors, _closed_, mind you, to prevent my straining either -blade.” We then rode off, and after a few yards he said, “Now, this is -not my usual pace—rather faster than I can go with comfort.” I begged him -to take his own pace, and he then began to talk of the country. “Pent up -in my chambers,” he said—“I am a conveyancer, you must know—I long for a -green lane and a row of elms. I have lived for years in town, in a most -convenient street, I must tell you, but I sicken for the country; and now -that I am in easier circumstances—I have lived a _hard_ life, mind you—I -am going to make the great change, and live in the country. Now, what is -your opinion of the relative merits of town and country as a place of -residence?” I told him that the only disadvantage of the country to my -mind was the difficulty of servants. “Right again!” he said, as if I had -answered a riddle. “But I have overcome that; I have been educating a -pair of good maids for years—they are paragons, and they will go anywhere -with me; indeed, they prefer the country themselves.” - -In such light talk we beguiled the way; too soon we came to where our -roads divided; I pointed out to him the turn he was to take. “Well,” he -said cheerily, “all pleasant things come to an end. I confess that I -have enjoyed your company, and am grateful for your kind communications; -perhaps we may have another encounter, and if not, we will be glad to -have met, and think sometimes of this pleasant hour!” He put his foot -upon the step of his bicycle cautiously, then mounted gleefully, and -saying “Good-bye, good-bye!” he waved his hand, and in a moment was out -of sight. - -The thought of this brave and merry spirit planning schemes of life, -making the most of simple pleasures, has always dwelt with me. The -gods, as we know from Homer, assumed the forms of men, and were at the -pains to relate long and wholly unreliable stories to account for their -presence at particular times and places; and I have sometimes wondered -whether in the lean conveyancer, with his childlike zest for experience, -his brisk enjoyment of the smallest details of daily life, I did not -entertain some genial, masquerading angel unawares. - - - - -26 - - - _June 8, 1893._ - -Is it not the experience of every one that at rare intervals, by some -happy accident, life presents one with a sudden and delicious thrill of -beauty? I have often tried to analyse the constituent elements of these -moments, but the essence is subtle and defies detection. They cannot -be calculated upon, or produced by any amount of volition or previous -preparation. One thing about these tiny ecstasies I have noticed—they -do not come as a rule when one is tranquil, healthy, serene—they rather -come as a compensation for weariness and discontent; and yet they are the -purest gold of life, and a good deal of sand is well worth washing for a -pellet or two of the real metal. - -To-day I was more than usually impatient; over me all the week had hung -the shadow of some trying, difficult business—the sort of business which, -whatever you do, will be done to nobody’s satisfaction. After a vain -attempt to wrestle with it, I gave it up, and went out on a bicycle; -the wind blew gently and steadily this soft June day; all the blue sky -was filled with large white clouds, blackening to rain. I made for the -one piece of flat ground in our neighbourhood. It is tranquillising, I -have often found, to the dweller in a hilly land, to cool and sober the -eye occasionally with the pure breadths of a level plain. The grass was -thick and heavy-headed in the fields, but of mere wantonness I turned -down a lane which I know has no ending,—a mere relief-road for carts to -have access to a farm,—and soon came to the end of it in a small grassy -circle, with a cottage or two, where a footpath strikes off across the -fields. - -[Sidenote: HERETOFORE UNVISITED] - -Why did I never come here before, I thought. Through a gap in the -hedge I saw a large broad pasture, fringed in the far distance with -full-foliaged, rotund elms in thick leaf; a row of willows on the horizon -marked the track of a stream. In the pasture in front of me was a broad -oblong pool of water with water-lilies; down one side ran a row of huge -horse-chestnuts, and the end was rich in elders full of flat white cakes -of blossom. In the field grazed an old horse; while a pigeon sailed -lazily down from the trees and ran to the pool to drink. That was all -there was to see. But it brought me with a deep and inexplicable thrill -close to the heart of the old, kindly, patient Earth, the mother and the -mistress and the servant of all—she who allows us to tear and rend her -for our own paltry ends, and then sets, how sweetly and tranquilly, to -work, with what a sense of inexhaustible leisure, to paint and mellow -and adorn the rude and bleeding gaps. We tear up a copse, and she fills -the ugly scars in the spring with a crop of fresh flowers—of flowers, -perhaps, which are not seen in the neighbourhood, but whose seeds have -lain vital and moist in the ground, but too deep to know the impulse -born of the spring sun. Yet now they burst their armoured mail, and send -a thin, white, worm-like arm to the top, which, as soon as it passes -into the light, drinks from the rays the green flush that it chooses to -hide its nakedness. We dig a pool in the crumbling marl. At the time the -wound seems irreparable; the ugly, slobbered banks grin at us like death; -the ground is full of footprints and slime, broken roots and bedabbled -leaves,—and next year it is all a paradise of green and luscious -water-plants, with a hundred quiet lives being lived there, of snail and -worm and beetle, as though the place had never been disturbed. We build -a raw red house with an insupportably geometrical outline, the hue of -the vicious fire still in the bricks; pass fifty years, and the bricks -are mellow and soft, plastered with orange rosettes or grey filaments of -lichen; the ugly window frames are blistered and warped; the roof has -taken a soft and yielding outline—all is in peace and harmony with the -green world in which it sits. - -[Sidenote: THE REPAIRER OF THE BREACH] - -I never saw this more beautifully illustrated than once, when a great -house in Whitehall was destroyed, and heaped up in a hideous rockery of -bricks. All through the winter these raw ruins, partly concealed by a -rough hoarding, tainted the view; but as soon as spring returned, from -every inch of grit rose a forest of green stalks of willow-herb, each in -summer to be crowned with a spire of fantastic crimson flowers, and to -pass a little later into those graceful, ghostly husks that shiver in -the wind. Centuries must have passed since willow-herb had grown on that -spot. Had they laid dormant, these hopeful seeds, or had they been wafted -along dusty streets and high in air over sun-scorched spaces? Nature at -all events had seen her chance, and done her work patiently and wisely -as ever. - -But to return to my lane-end. How strange and deep are the impressions -of a deep and inviolate peace that some quiet corner like this gives to -the restless spirit! It can never be so with the scenes that have grown -familiar, where we have carried about with us the burden of private -cares—the symptoms of the disease of life. In any house where we have -lived, every corner, however peaceful and beautiful in itself, is bound -to be gradually soaked, as it were, in the miseries of life, to conceal -its beauties under the accretion of sordid associations. - -This room we connect with some sad misunderstanding. There we gave way to -some petty passion of resentment, of jealousy, of irritation, or vainly -tried to pacify some similar outbreak from one we loved. This is the -torture of imagination; to feel the beauty of sight and sound, we must be -sensitive; and if we are sensitive, we carry about the shadow with us—the -capacity for self-torment, the struggle of the ideal with the passing -mood. - -[Sidenote: SAD ASSOCIATIONS] - -I have sometimes climbed to the top of a hill and looked into some -unknown and placid valley, with field and wood and rivulet and the homes -of men. I have seen the figures of men and oxen move sedately about -those quiet fields. Often, too, gliding at evening in a train through a -pastoral country when the setting sun bathes all things in genial light -and contented shade, I have felt the same thought. “How peaceful, how -simple life would be, nay, must be, here.” Only very gradually, as life -goes on, does it dawn upon the soul that the trouble lies deeper, and -that though surrounded by the most unimagined peace, the same fret, the -same beating of restless wings, the same delays attend. That dreamt-of -peace can hardly be attained. The most we can do is to enjoy it to the -utmost when it is with us; and when it takes its flight, and leaves us -dumb, discontented, peevish, to quench the sordid thought in resolute -_silence_, to curb the grating mood, to battle mutely with the cowering -fear; and so to escape investing the house and the garden that we love -with the poisonous and bitter associations that strike the beauty out of -the fairest scene. - - - - -27 - - - _September 20, 1894._ - -I had to-day a strange little instance of the patient, immutable habit of -nature. Some years ago there was a particular walk of which I was fond; -it led through pastures, by shady wood-ends, and came out eventually on a -bridge that spanned the line. Here I often went to see a certain express -pass; there was something thrilling in the silent cutting, the beckoning, -ghostly arm of the high signal, the faint far-off murmur, and then the -roar of the great train forging past. It was a breath from the world. - -[Sidenote: THE RED SPIDER] - -On the parapet of the bridge, grey with close-grained lichen, there -lived a numerous colony of little crimson spiders. What they did I -never could discern; they wandered aimlessly about hither and thither, -in a sort of feeble, blind haste; if they ever encountered each other -on their rambles, they stopped, twiddled horns, and fled in a sudden -horror; they never seemed to eat or sleep, and even continued their -endless peregrinations in the middle of heavy showers, which flicked them -quivering to death. - -I used to amuse myself with thinking how one had but to alter the scale, -so to speak, and what appalling, intolerable monsters these would become. -Think of it! huge crimson shapeless masses, with strong wiry legs, and -waving mandibles, tramping silently over the grey veldt, and perhaps -preying on minute luckless insects, which would flee before them in vain. - -One day I walked on ahead, leaving a companion to follow. He did follow, -and joined me on the bridge—bringing heavy tidings which had just arrived -after I left home. - -The place grew to me so inseparably connected with the horror of the news -that I instinctively abandoned it; but to-day, finding myself close to -the place—nearly ten years had passed without my visiting it—I turned -aside, musing on the old sadness, with something in my heart of the soft -regret that a sorrow wears when seen through the haze of years. - -There was the place, just the same; I bent to see a passing train and (I -had forgotten all about them) there were my red spiders still pursuing -their aimless perambulations. But who can tell the dynasties, the -genealogies that had bridged the interval? - -The red spider has no great use in the world, as far as I know. But he -has every right to be there, and to enjoy the sun falling so warm on the -stone. I wonder what he thinks about it all? For me, he has become the -type of the patient, pretty fancies of nature, so persistently pursued, -so void of moral, so deliciously fantastic and useless—but after all, -what am I to talk of usefulness? - -Spider and man, man and spider—and to the pitying, tender mind of God, -the brisk spider on his ledge, and the dull, wistful, middle-aged man who -loiters looking about him, wondering and waiting, are much the same. He -has a careful thought of each, I know:— - - To both alike the darkness and the day, - The sunshine and the flowers, - We draw sad comfort, thinking we obey - A deeper will than ours. - - - - -28 - - - _August 4, 1895._ - -[Sidenote: THE DAWN] - -Just another picture lingers with me, for no very defined reason. It was -an August night; I had gone to rest with the wind sighing and buffeting -against my windows, but when I awoke with a start, deep in the night, -roused, it seemed, as by footsteps in the air and a sudden hollow -calling of airy voices, it was utterly still outside. I drew aside my -heavy tapestry curtain, and lo! it was the dawn. A faint upward gush of -lemon-coloured light edged the eastern hills. The air as I threw the -casement wide was unutterably sweet and cool. In the faint light, over -the roof of the great barn, I saw what I had seen a hundred times before, -a quiet wood-end, upon which the climbing hedges converge. But now it -seemed to lie there in a pure and silent dream, sleeping a light sleep, -waiting contentedly for the dawn and smiling softly to itself. Over the -fields lay little wreaths of mist, and beyond the wood, hills of faintest -blue, the hills of dreamland, where it seems as if no harsh wind could -blow or cold rain fall. I felt as though I stood to watch the stainless -slumber of one I loved, and was permitted by some happy and holy chance -to see for once the unuttered peace that earth enjoys in her lonely and -unwatched hours. Too often, alas! one carries into the fairest scenes a -turmoil of spirit, a clouded mind that breaks and mars the spell. But -here it was not so; I gazed upon the hushed eyes of the earth, and heard -her sleeping breath; and, as the height of blessing, I seemed myself -to have left for a moment the past behind, to have no overshadowing -from the future, but to live only in the inviolate moment, clear-eyed -and clean-hearted, to see the earth in her holiest and most secluded -sanctuary, unsuspicious and untroubled, bathed in the light and careless -slumber of eternal youth, in that delicious oblivion that fences day from -weary day. - -In the jaded morning light the glory was faded, and the little wood wore -its usual workaday look, the face it bears before the world; but I, I -had seen it in its golden dreams; I knew its secret, and it could not -deceive me; it had yielded to me unawares its sublimest confidence, and -however it might masquerade as a commonplace wood, a covert for game, a -commercial item in an estate-book, known by some homely name, I had seen -it once undisguised, and knew it as one of the porches of heaven. - - - - -29 - - - _April 4, 1896._ - -It seems a futile task to say anything about the spring; yet poets and -romancers make no apologies for treating of love, which is an old and -familiar phenomenon enough. And I declare that the wonder of spring, -so far from growing familiar, strikes upon the mind with a bewildering -strangeness, a rapturous surprise, which is greater every year. Every -spring I say to myself that I never realised before what a miraculous, -what an astounding thing is the sudden conspiracy of trees and flowers, -hatched so insensibly, and carried out so punctually, to leap into life -and loveliness together. The velvety softness of the grass, the mist -of green that hangs about the copse, the swift weaving of the climbing -tapestry that screens the hedgerow-banks, the jewellery of flowers that -sparkle out of all sequestered places; they are adorable. But this early -day of spring is close and heavy, with a slow rain dropping reluctantly -out of the sky, a day when an insidious melancholy lies in wait for -human beings, a sense of inadequacy, a meek rebellion against all -activity, bodily or mental. I walk slowly and sedately along the sandy -roads fast oozing into mire. There is a sense of expectancy in the air; -tree and flower are dispirited too, oppressed with heaviness, and yet -gratefully conscious, as I am not, of the divine storage of that pure and -subtle element that is taking place for their benefit. “Praise God,” said -Saint Francis, “for our sister the water, for she is very serviceable to -us and humble and clean.” Yes, we give thanks! but, alas! to sit still -and be pumped into, as Carlyle said of Coleridge’s conversation, can -never be an enlivening process. - -Yet would that the soul could gratefully recognise her own rainy days; -could droop, like Nature, with patient acquiescence, with wise passivity, -till the wells of strength and freshness are stored! - -[Sidenote: SUBTLE SUPERIORITIES] - -The particular form of melancholy which I find besets me on these sad -reflective mornings, is to compare my vague ambitions with my concrete -performances. I will not say that in my dreamful youth I cherished the -idea of swaying the world. I never expected to play a brave part on -the public stage. Political and military life—the two careers which -ripple communities to the verge, never came within the range of my -possibilities. But I think that I was conscious—as most intelligent young -creatures undoubtedly are—of a subtle superiority to other people. An -ingenious preacher once said that we cannot easily delude ourselves into -the belief that we are richer, taller, more handsome, or even wiser, -better, abler, and more capable than other people, but we can and do -very easily nourish a secret belief that we are more _interesting_ than -others. Such an illusion has a marvellous vitality; it has a delicate -power of resisting the rude lessons to the contrary which contact with -the world would teach us; and I should hardly like to confess how ill I -have learned my lesson. I realise, of course, that I have done little to -establish this superiority in the eyes of others; but I find it hard to -disabuse myself of the vague belief that if only I had the art of more -popular and definite expression, if only the world had a little more -leisure to look in sequestered nooks for delicate flowers of thought and -temperament, then it might be realized how exquisite a nature is here -neglected. - -[Sidenote: THE HARD TRUTH] - -In saying this I am admitting the reader to the inmost _penetralia_ of -thought. I frankly confess that in my robust and equable moments I do -recognise the broken edge of my life, and what a very poor thing I have -made of it—but, for all that, it is my honest belief that we most of us -have in our hearts that inmost shrine of egotism, where the fire burns -clear and fragrant before an idealised image of self; and I go further, -and say that I believe this to be a wholesome and valuable thing, because -it is of the essence of self-respect, and gives us a feeble impulse -in the direction of virtue and faith. If a man ever came to realise -exactly his place in the world, as others realise it, how feeble, how -uninteresting, how ludicrously unnecessary he is, and with what a -speedy unconcern others would accommodate themselves to his immediate -disappearance, he would sink into an abyss of gloom out of which nothing -would lift him. It is one of the divine uses of love, that it glorifies -life by restoring and raising one’s self-esteem. - -In the dejected reveries of such languorous spring days as these, no such -robust egotism as I have above represented comes to my aid. I see myself -stealing along, a shy, tarnished thing, a blot among the fresh hopes and -tender dreams that smile on every bank. The pitiful fabric of my life -is mercilessly unveiled; here I loiter, a lonely, shabby man, bruised -by contact with the word, dilatory, dumb, timid, registering tea-table -triumphs, local complacencies, provincial superiorities—spending -sheltered days in such comfortable dreams as are born of warm fires, -ample meals, soft easy-chairs, and congratulating myself on poetical -potentialities, without any awkward necessities of translating my dreams -into corrective action—or else discharging homely duties with an almost -sacerdotal solemnity, and dignifying with the title of religious quietism -what is done by hundreds of people instinctively and simply and without -pretentiousness. If I raved against my limitations, deemed my cage a -prison, beat myself sick against the bars, I might then claim to be a -fiery and ardent soul; but I cannot honestly do this; and I must comfort -myself with the thought that possibly the ill-health, which necessitates -my retirement, compensates for the disabilities it inflicts on me, by -removing the stimulus which would make my prison insupportable. - -In this agreeable frame of mind I drew near home and stood awhile on -the deserted bowling-green with its elder-thickets, its little grassy -terraces, its air of regretful wildness, so often worn by a place that -has been tamed by civilisation and has not quite reverted to its native -savagery. A thrush sang with incredible clearness, repeating a luscious -phrase often enough to establish its precision of form, and yet not often -enough to satiate—a triumph of instinctive art. - -These thrushes are great favourites of mine; I often sit, on a dewy -morning, to watch them hunting. They hop lightly along, till they espy a -worm lying in blissful luxury out of his hole; two long hops, and they -are upon him; he, using all his retractile might, clings to his home, but -the thrush sets his feet firm in the broad stride of the Greek warrior, -gives a mighty tug—you can see the viscous elastic thread strain—and -the worm is stretched writhing on the grass. What are the dim dreams of -the poor reptile, I wonder; does he regret his cool burrow, “and youth -and strength and this delightful world?”—no, I think it is a stoical -resignation. For a moment the thrush takes no notice of him, but surveys -the horizon with a caution which the excitement of the chase has for -an instant imprudently diverted. Then the meal begins, with horrid -leisureliness. - -But it is strange to note the perpetual instinctive consciousness -of danger which besets birds thus in the open; they must live in a -tension of nervous watchfulness which would depress a human being into -melancholia. There is no absorbed gobbling; between every mouthful the -little head with its beady eyes swings right and left to see that all is -clear; and he is for ever changing his position and seldom fronts the -same way for two seconds together. - -Do we realise what it must be to live, as even these sheltered birds do -in a quiet garden, with the fear of attack and death hanging over them -from morning to night? - -[Sidenote: THE BONDAGE OF A BIRD] - -Another fact that these thrushes have taught me is the extreme narrowness -of their self-chosen world. They are born and live within the compass -of a few yards. We are apt to envy a bird the power of changing his -horizon, of soaring above the world, and choosing for his home the -one spot he desires. Think what our life would be if, without luggage, -without encumbrances, we could rise in the air and, winging our way out -to the horizon, choose some sequestered valley, and there, without house, -without rates and taxes, abide, with water babbling in its channel and -food abundant. Yet it is far otherwise. One of my thrushes has a white -feather in his wing; he was hatched out in a big syringa which stands -above the bowling-green; and though I have observed the birds all about -my few acres carefully enough I have never seen this particular thrush -anywhere but on the lawn. He never seems even to cross the wall into -the garden; he has a favourite bush to roost in, and another where he -sometimes sings: at times he beats along the privet hedge, or in the -broad border, but he generally hops about the lawn, and I do not think he -has ever ventured beyond it. He works hard for his living too; he is up -at dawn, and till early afternoon he is generally engaged in foraging. He -will die, I suppose, in the garden, though how his body is disposed of is -a mystery to me. - -[Sidenote: THE SOUL OF A THRUSH] - -He takes the limitations of his life just as he finds them; he never -seems to think he would like to be otherwise; but he works diligently -for his living, he sings a grateful song, he sleeps well, he does not -compare himself with other birds or wish his lot was different—he has no -regrets, no hopes, and few cares. Still less has he any philanthropic -designs of raising the tone of his brother thrushes, or directing a -mission among the quarrelsome sparrows. Sometimes he fights a round or -two, and when the spring comes, stirred by delicious longings, he will -build a nest, devote the food he would like to devour to his beady-eyed, -yellow-lipped young, and die as he has lived. There is a good deal to be -said for this brave and honest life, and especially for the bright and -wholesome music which he makes within the thickets. I do not know that it -can be improved upon. - - - - -30 - - - _Aug. 19, 1898._ - -[Sidenote: GOD’S ACRE] - -There is a simple form of expedition of which I am very fond; that is the -leisurely visiting of some rustic church in the neighbourhood. They are -often very beautifully placed—sometimes they stand high on the ridges -and bear a bold testimony to the faith; sometimes they lie nestled in -trees, hidden in valleys, as if to show it is possible to be holy and -beautiful, though unseen. Sometimes they are the central ornament of a -village street; there generally seems some simple and tender reason for -their position; but the more populous their neighbourhood, the more they -have suffered from the zeal of the restorer. What I love best of all is a -church that stands a little apart, sheltered in wood, dreaming by itself, -and guarding its tranquil and grateful secret—“_secretum meum mihi_,” it -seems to say. - -I like to loiter in the churchyard ground to step over the hillocks, to -read the artless epitaphs on slanting tombs; it is not a morbid taste, -for if there is one feeling more than another that such a visit removes -and tranquillises, it is the fear of death. Death here appears in its -most peaceful light; it seems so necessary, so common, so quiet and -inevitable an end, like a haven after a troubled sea. Here all the sad -and unhappy incidents of mortality are forgotten, and death appears only -in the light of a tender and dreamful sleep. - -Better still is the grateful coolness of the church itself; here one can -trace in the epitaphs the fortunes of a family—one can see the graves -of old squires who have walked over their own fields, talked with their -neighbours, shot, hunted, eaten, drunk, have loved and been loved, and -have yielded their place in the fulness of days to those that have come -after them. Very moving, too, are the evidences of the sincere grief, -which underlies the pompous phraseology of the marble monument with -its urns and cherubs. I love to read the long list of homely virtues -attributed by the living to the dead in the depth of sorrow, and to -believe them true. Then there are records of untimely deaths,—the young -wife, the soldier in his prime, the boy or girl who have died unstained -by life, and about whom clings the passionate remembrance of the happy -days that are no more. Such records as those do not preach the lesson -of vanity and decay, but the lesson of pure and grateful resignation, -the faith that the God who made the world so beautiful, and filled it so -full of happiness, has surprises in store for His children, in a world -undreamed of. - -[Sidenote: THE MONUMENT] - -One monument in a church not far from Golden End always brings tears to -my eyes; there is a chapel in the aisle, the mausoleum of an ancient -family, where mouldering banners and pennons hang in the gloom; in the -centre of the chapel is an altar-tomb, on which lies the figure of a -young boy, thirteen years old, the inscription says. He reclines on one -arm, he has a delicately carved linen shirt that leaves the slender neck -free, and he is wrapped in a loose gown; he looks upward toward the east, -his long hair falling over his shoulders, his thin and shapely hand -upon his knee. On each side of the tomb, kneeling on marble cushions on -the ledge, are his father and mother, an earl and countess. The mother, -in the stately costume of a bygone court, with hair carefully draped, -watches the face of the child with a look in which love seems to have -cast out grief. The earl in armour, a strongly-built, soldier-like -figure, looks across the boy’s knee at his wife’s face, but in his -expression—I know not if it be art—there seems to be a look of rebellious -sorrow, of thwarted pride. All his wealth and state could not keep his -darling with him, and he does not seem to understand. There have they -knelt, the little group, for over two centuries, waiting and watching, -and one is glad to think that they know now whatever there is to know. -Outside the golden afternoon slants across the headstones, and the birds -twitter in the ivy, while a full stream winds below through the meadows -that once were theirs. - -Such a contemplation does not withdraw one from life or tend to give a -false view of its energies; it does not forbid one to act, to love, to -live; it only gilds with a solemn radiance the cloud that overshadows us -all, the darkness of the inevitable end. Face to face with the _lacrimæ -rerum_ in so simple and tender a form, the heavy words _Memento Mori_ -fall upon the heart not as a sad and harsh interruption of wordly dreams -and fancies, but as a deep pedal note upon a sweet organ, giving -strength and fulness and balance to the dying away of the last grave and -gentle chord. - - - - -31 - - -If any one whose eye may fall upon these pages be absolutely equable -of temperament, serene, contented, the same one day as another, as Dr. -Johnson said of Reynolds, let him not read this chapter—he will think it -a mere cry in the dark, better smothered in the bed-clothes, an unmanly -piece of morbid pathology, a secret and sordid disease better undivulged, -on which all persons of proper pride should hold their peace. - -Well, it is not for him that I write; there are books and books, and -even chapters and chapters, just as there are people and people. I -myself avoid books dealing with health and disease. I used when younger -to be unable to resist the temptation of a medical book; but now I am -wiser, and if I sometimes yield to the temptation, it is with a backward -glancing eye and a cautious step. And I will say that I generally put -back the book with a snap, in a moment, as though a snake had stung me. -But there will be no pathology here—nothing but a patient effort to look -a failing in the face, and to suggest a remedy. - -[Sidenote: FEARS] - -I speak to the initiated, to those who have gone down into the dark -cave, and seen the fire burn low in the shrine, and watched aghast -the formless, mouldering things—hideous implements are they, or mere -weapons?—that hang upon the walls. - -Do you know what it is to dwell, perhaps for days together, under the -shadow of a fear? Perhaps a definite fear—a fear of poverty, or a fear -of obloquy, or a fear of harshness, or a fear of pain, or a fear of -disease—or, worse than all, a boding, misshapen, sullen dread which has -no definite cause, and is therefore the harder to resist. - -[Sidenote: DREAMS] - -These moods, I say it with gratitude for myself and for the encouragement -of others, tend to diminish in acuteness and in frequency as I grow -older. They are now, as ever, preluded by dreams of a singular kind, -dreams of rapid and confused action, dreams of a romantic and exaggerated -pictorial character—huge mountain ranges, lofty and venerable buildings, -landscapes of incredible beauty, gardens of unimaginable luxuriance, -which pass with incredible rapidity before the mind. I will indicate -two of these in detail. I was in a vessel like a yacht, armed with a -massive steel prow like a ram, which moved in some aerial fashion over -a landscape, skimming it seemed to me but a few feet above the ground. -A tall man of benignant aspect stood upon the bridge, and directed the -operations of the unseen navigator. We ascended a heathery valley, and -presently encountered snow-drifts, upon which the vessel seemed to settle -down to her full speed; at last we entered a prodigious snowfield, with -vast ridged snow-waves extending in every direction for miles; the vessel -ran not over but through these waves, sending up huge spouts of snow -which fell in cool showers upon my head and hands, while the tinkle of -dry ice fragments made a perpetual low music. At last we stopped and I -descended on to the plateau. Far ahead, through rolling clouds, I saw the -black snow-crowned heights of a mountain, loftier than any seen by human -eye, and for leagues round me lay the interminable waste of snow. I was -aroused from my absorption by a voice behind me; the vessel started again -on her course with a leap like a porpoise, and though I screamed aloud -to stop her, I saw her, in a few seconds, many yards ahead, describing -great curves as she ran, with the snow spouting over her like a fountain. - -The second was a very different scene. I was in the vine-clad alleys -of some Italian garden; against the still blue air a single stone pine -defined itself; I walked along a path, and turning a corner an exquisite -conventual building of immense size, built of a light brown stone, -revealed itself. From all the alleys round emerged troops of monastic -figures in soft white gowns, and a mellow chime of exceeding sweetness -floated from the building. I saw that I too was robed like the rest; but -the gliding figures outstripped me; and arriving last at a great iron -portal I found it closed, and the strains of a great organ came drowsily -from within. - -Then into the dream falls a sudden sense of despair like an ashen -cloud; a feeling of incredible agony, intensified by the beauty of the -surrounding scene, that agony which feverishly questions as to why so -dark a stroke should fall when the mind seems at peace with itself -and lost in dreamy wonder at the loveliness all about it. Then the -vision closes, and for a time the mind battles with dark waves of -anguish, emerging at last, like a diver from a dim sea, into the waking -consciousness. The sickly daylight filters through the window curtains -and the familiar room swims into sight. The first thought is one of -unutterable relief, which is struck instantly out of the mind by the -pounce of the troubled mood; and then follows a ghastly hour, when every -possibility of horror and woe intangible presses in upon the battling -mind. At such moments a definite difficulty, a practical problem would -be welcome—but there is none; the misery is too deep for thought, and -even, when after long wrestling, the knowledge comes that it is all a -subjective condition, and that there is no adequate cause in life or -circumstances for this unmanning terror—even then it can only be silently -endured, like the racking of some fierce physical pain. - -[Sidenote: WOE] - -The day that succeeds to such a waking mood is almost the worst part -of the experience. Shaken and dizzied by the inrush of woe, the mind -straggles wearily through hour after hour; the familiar duties are -intolerable; food has no savour; action and thought no interest; and if -for an hour the tired head is diverted by some passing event, or if, -oppressed with utter exhaustion, it sinks into an unrefreshing slumber, -repose but gives the strength to suffer—the accursed mood leaps again, as -from an unseen lair, upon the unnerved consciousness, and tears like some -strange beast the helpless and palpitating soul. - -When first, at Cambridge, I had the woeful experiences above recorded, -I was so unused to endurance, so bewildered by suffering, that I think -for awhile I was almost beside myself. I recollect going down with some -friends, in a brief lull of misery, to watch a football match, when the -horror seized me in the middle of a cheerful talk with such vehemence, -that I could only rush off with a muttered word, and return to my rooms, -in which I immured myself to spend an hour in an agony of prayer. Again -I recollect sitting with some of the friends of my own age after hall; -we were smoking and talking peacefully enough—for some days my torment -had been suspended—when all at once, out of the secret darkness the -terror leapt upon me, and after in vain resisting it for a few moments, -I hurried away, having just enough self-respect to glance at my watch -and mutter something about a forgotten engagement. But worst of all was -a walk taken with my closest friend on a murky November day. We started -in good spirits, when in a moment the accursed foe was upon me; I hardly -spoke except for fitful questions. Our way led us to a level crossing, -beside a belt of woodland, where a huge luggage train was jolting and -bumping backwards and forewards. We hung upon the gate; and then, and -then only, came upon me in a flash an almost irresistible temptation to -lay my head beneath the ponderous wheels, and end it all; I could only -pray in silence, and hurry from the spot in speechless agitation. What -wonder if I heard on the following day that my friend complained that I -was altering for the worse—that I had become so sullen and morose that it -was no use talking to me. - -Gradually, very gradually, the aching frost of the soul broke up and -thawed; little trifling encouraging incidents—a small success or two, -an article accepted by a magazine, a friendship, an athletic victory, -raised me step by step out of the gloom. One benefit, even at the time, -it brought me—an acute sensitiveness to beauty both of sight and sound. -I used to steal at even-song into the dark nave of King’s Chapel, and -the sight of the screen, the flood of subdued light overflowing from the -choir, the carven angels with their gilded trumpets, penetrated into the -soul with an exquisite sweetness; and still more the music—whether the -low prelude with the whispering pedals, the severe monotone breaking -into freshets of harmony, the swing and richness of the chants, or the -elaborate beauty of some familiar magnificat or anthem—all fell like -showers upon the arid sense. The music at King’s had one characteristic -that I have never heard elsewhere; the properties of the building are -such that the echo lingers without blurring the successive chords—not -“loth to die,” I used to think, as Wordsworth says, but sinking as it -were from consciousness to dream, and from dream to death. - -[Sidenote: THE BROTHERHOOD OF SORROW] - -One further gain—the greater—was that my suffering did not, I think, -withdraw me wholly into myself and fence me from the world; rather it -gave me a sense of the brotherhood of grief. I was one with all the -agonies that lie silent in the shadow of life; and though my suffering -had no tangible cause, yet I was initiated into the fellowship of those -who _bear_. I _understood_;—weak, faithless, and faulty as I was, I was -no longer in the complacent isolation of the strong, the successful, the -selfish, and even in my darkest hour I had strength to thank God for -that. - - - - -32 - - - _Oct. 21, 1898._ - -I have been reading some of my old diaries to-day; and I am tempted to -try and disentangle, as far as I can, the _motif_ that seems to me to -underlie my simple life. - -One question above all others has constantly recurred to my mind; and the -answer to it is the sum of my slender philosophy. - -The question then is this: is a simple, useful, dignified, happy life -possible to most of us without the stimulus of affairs, of power, of -fame? I answer unhesitatingly that such a life is possible. The tendency -of the age is to measure success by publicity, not to think highly of -any person or any work unless it receives “recognition,” to think it -essential to happiness _monstrari digito_, to be in the swim, to be a -personage. - -I admit at once the temptation; to such successful persons comes the -consciousness of influence, the feeling of power, the anxious civilities -of the undistinguished, the radiance of self-respect, the atmosphere -of flattering, subtle deference, the seduction of which not even the -most independent and noble characters can escape. Indeed, many an -influential man of simple character and unpretending virtue, who rates -such conveniences of life at their true value, and does not pursue them -as an end, would be disagreeably conscious of the lack of these _petits -soins_ if he adopted an unpopular cause or for any reason forfeited the -influence which begets them. - -A friend of mine came to see me the other day fresh from a visit to a -great house. His host was a man of high cabinet rank, the inheritor of -an ample fortune and a historic name, who has been held by his nearest -friends to cling to political life longer than prudence would warrant. -My friend told me that he had been left alone one evening with his host, -who had, half humorously, half seriously, indulged in a lengthy tirade -against the pressure of social duties and unproductive drudgery that his -high position involved. “If they would only let me alone!” he said; “I -think it very hard that in the evening of my days I cannot order my life -to suit my tastes. I have served the public long enough.... I would -read—how I would read—and when I was bored I would sleep in my chair.” - -[Sidenote: SUCCESS] - -“And yet,” my friend said, commenting on these unguarded statements, “I -believe he is the only person of his intimate circle who does not know -that he would be hopelessly bored—that the things he decries are the very -breath of life to him. There is absolutely no reason why he should not at -once and forever realise his fancied ideal—and if his wife and children -do not urge him to do so, it is only because they know that he would be -absolutely miserable.” And this is true of many lives. - -If the “recognition,” of which I have spoken above, were only accorded -to the really eminent, it would be a somewhat different matter; but -nine-tenths of the persons who receive it are nothing more than phantoms, -who have set themselves to pursue the glory, without the services that -ought to earn it. A great many people have a strong taste for power -without work, for dignity without responsibility; and it is quite -possible to attain consideration if you set yourself resolutely to pursue -it. - -The temptation comes in a yet more subtle form to men of a really -high-minded type, whose chief preoccupation is earnest work and the -secluded pursuit of some high ideal. Such people, though they do not -wish to fetter themselves with the empty social duties that assail the -eminent, yet are tempted to wish to have the refusal of them, and to be -secretly dissatisfied if they do not receive this testimonial to the -value of their work. The temptation is not so vulgar as it seems. Every -one who is ambitious wishes to be effective. A man does not write books -or paint pictures or make speeches simply to amuse himself, to fill his -time; and they are few who can genuinely write, as the late Mark Pattison -wrote of a period of his life, that his ideal was at one time “defiled -and polluted by literary ambition.” - -Nevertheless, if there is to be any real attempt to win the inner peace -of the spirit, such ambition must be not sternly but serenely resisted. -Not until a man can pass by the rewards of fame _oculis irretortis_—“nor -cast one longing, lingering look behind”—is the victory won. - -[Sidenote: PURE AMBITION] - -It may be urged, in my case, that the obscurity for which I crave was -never likely to be denied me. True; but at the same time ambition in its -pettiest and most childish forms has been and is a real temptation to -me: the ambition to dominate and dazzle my immediate circle, to stimulate -curiosity about myself, to be considered, if not a successful man, at -least a man who might have succeeded if he had cared to try—all the -temptations which are depicted in so masterly and merciless a way by that -acute psychologist Mr. Henry James in the character of Gilbert Osmond in -the _Portrait of a Lady_—to all of these I plead guilty. Had I not been -gifted with sufficient sensitiveness to see how singularly offensive and -pitiful such pretences are in the case of others, I doubt if I should not -have succumbed—if indeed I have not somewhat succumbed—to them. - -Indeed, to some morbid natures such pretences are vital—nay, self-respect -would be impossible without them. I know a lady who, like Mrs. -Wittiterly, is really kept alive by the excitement of being an invalid. -If she had not been so ill she would have died years ago. I know a worthy -gentleman who lives in London and spends his time in hurrying from house -to house lamenting how little time he can get to do what he really -enjoys—to read or think. Another has come to my mind who lives in a -charming house in the country, and by dint of inviting a few second-rate -literary and artistic people to his house and entertaining them royally, -believes himself to be at the very centre of literary and artistic life, -and essential to its continuance. These are harmless lives, not unhappy, -not useless; based, it is true, upon a false conception of the relative -importance of their own existence, but then is there one of us—the most -hard-working, influential, useful person in the world—who does not -exaggerate his own importance? Does any one realise how little essential -he is, or how easily his post is filled—indeed, how many people there are -who believe that they could do the same thing better if they only had the -chance. - -A life to be happy must be compounded in due degree of activity and -pleasure, using the word in its best sense. There must be sufficient -activity to take off the perilous and acrid humours of the mind which, -left to themselves, poison the sources of life, and enough pleasure to -make the prospect of life palatable. - -The first necessity is to get rid, as life goes on, of all conventional -pleasures. By the age of forty a man should know what he enjoys, and -not continue doing things intended to be pleasurable, either because he -deludes himself into thinking that he enjoys them, or because he likes -others to think that he enjoys them. I know now that I do not care for -casual country-house visiting, for dancing, for garden parties, for -cricket matches, and many another form of social distraction, but that -the pleasures that remain and grow are the pleasures derived from books, -from the sights and sounds of nature, from sympathetic conversation, -from music, and from active physical exercise in the open air. It is -my belief that a man is happiest who is so far employed that he has to -scheme to secure a certain share of such pleasures. My own life unhappily -is so ordered that it is the other way—that I have to scheme to secure -sufficient activities to make such pleasure wholesome. But I am stern -with myself. At times when I find the zest of simple home pleasures -deserting me, I have sufficient self-control deliberately to spend a week -in London, which I detest, or to pay a duty-visit where I am so acutely -and sharply bored by a dull society—_castigatio mea matutina est_—that I -return with delicious enthusiasm to my own trivial round. - -[Sidenote: OUR OWN IMPORTANCE] - -I do not flatter myself that I hold any very important place in the -world’s economy. But I believe that I have humbly contributed somewhat to -the happiness of others, and I find that the reward for thwarted, wasted -ambitions has come in the shape of a daily increasing joy in quiet things -and tender simplicities. I need not reiterate the fact that I draw from -Nature, ever more and more, the most unfailing and the purest joy; and -if I have forfeited some of the deepest and most thrilling emotions of -the human heart, it is but what thousands are compelled to do; and it is -something to find that the heart can be sweet and tranquil without them. -The only worth of these pages must rest in the fact that the life which -I have tried to depict is made up of elements which are within the reach -of all or nearly all human beings. And though I cannot claim to have -invented a religious system, or to have originated any new or startling -theory of existence, yet I have proved by experiment that a life beset -by many disadvantages, and deprived of most of the stimulus that to some -would seem essential, need not drift into being discontented or evil or -cold or hard. - - - - -33 - - - _Oct. 22, 1898._ - -That is, so to speak, the outside of my life, the front that is turned -to the world. May I for a brief moment open the doors that lead to the -secret rooms of the spirit? - -The greater part of mankind trouble themselves little enough about the -eternal questions: what we are, and what we shall be hereafter. Life to -the strong, energetic, the full-blooded gives innumerable opportunities -of forgetting. It is easy to swim with the stream, to take no thought of -the hills which feed the quiet source of it, or the sea to which it runs; -for such as these it is enough to live. But all whose minds are restless, -whose imagination is constructive, who have to face some dreary and -aching present, and would so gladly take refuge in the future and nestle -in the arms of faith, if they could but find her—for these the obstinate -question must come. Like the wind of heaven it rises. We may shut it -out, trim the lamp, pile the fire, and lose ourselves in pleasant and -complacent activities; but in the intervals of our work, when we drop -the book or lay down the pen, the gust rises shrill and sharp round the -eaves, the gale buffets in the chimney, and we cannot drown the echo in -our hearts. - -This is the question:— - -Is our life a mere fortuitous and evanescent thing? Is consciousness a -mere symptom of matter under certain conditions? Do we begin and end? Are -the intense emotions and attachments, the joys and sorrows of life, the -agonies of loss, the hungering love with which we surround the faces, -the voices, the forms of those we love, the chords which vibrate in us -at the thought of vanished days, and places we have loved—the old house, -the family groups assembled, the light upon the quiet fields at evening, -the red sunset behind the elms—all those purest, sweetest, most poignant -memories—are these all unsubstantial phenomena like the rainbow or the -dawn, subjective, transitory, moving as the wayfarer moves? - -Who can tell us? - -Some would cast themselves upon the Gospel—but to me it seems that Jesus -spoke of these things rarely, dimly, in parables—and that though He -takes for granted the continuity of existence, He deliberately withheld -the knowledge of the conditions under which it continues. He spoke, it is -true, in the story of Dives and Lazarus, of a future state, of the bosom -of Abraham where the spirit rested like a tired child upon his father’s -knee—of the great gulf that could not be crossed except by the voices -and gestures of the spirits—but will any one maintain that He was not -using the forms of current allegory, and that He intended this parable -as an eschatological solution? Again He spoke of the final judgment in a -pastoral image. - -[Sidenote: IDENTITY] - -Enough, some faithful souls may say, upon which to rest the hope of the -preservation of human identity. Alas! I must confess with a sigh, it is -not enough for me. I see the mass of His teaching directed to life, and -the issues of the moment; I seem to see Him turn His back again and again -on the future, and wave His followers away. Is it conceivable that if He -could have said, in words unmistakable and precise, “You have before you, -when the weary body closes its eyes on the world, an existence in which -perception is as strong or stronger, identity as clearly defined, memory -as real, though as swift as when you lived—and this too unaccompanied -by any of the languors or failures or traitorous inheritance of the -poor corporal frame,”—is it conceivable, I say, that if He could have -said this, He would have held His peace, and spoken only through dark -hints, dim allegories, shadowy imaginings. Could a message of peace more -strong, more vital, more tremendous have been given to the world? To have -satisfied the riddles of the sages, the dream of philosophers, the hopes -of the ardent—to have allayed the fears of the timid the heaviness of the -despairing; to have dried the mourner’s tears—all in a moment. And He did -not! - -What then _can_ we believe? I can answer but for myself. - -I believe with my whole heart and soul in the indestructibility of life -and spirit. Even _matter_ to my mind seems indestructible—and matter is, -I hold, less real than the motions and activities of the spirit. - -It has sometimes seemed to me that matter may afford us the missing -analogy: when the body dies, it sinks softly and resistlessly into the -earth, and is carried on the wings of the wind, in the silent speeding -fountains, to rise again in ceaseless interchange of form. - -[Sidenote: INDIVIDUALITY] - -Could it be so with life and spirit? As the fountain casts the jet -high into the air over the glimmering basin, and the drops separate -themselves for a prismatic instant—when their separate identity seems -unquestioned—and then rejoin the parent wave, could not life and spirit -slip back as it were into some vast reservoir of life, perhaps to linger -there awhile, to lose by peaceful self-surrender, happy intermingling, -by cool and tranquil fusion the dust, the stain, the ghastly taint of -suffering and sin? I know not, but I think it may be so. - -But if I could affirm the other—that the spirit passes onwards through -realms undreamed of, in gentle unstained communion, not only with those -whom one has loved, but with all whom one ever would have loved, lost in -sweet wonder at the infinite tenderness and graciousness of God—would it -not in one single instant give me the peace I cannot find, and make life -into a radiant antechamber leading to a vision of rapturous delight? - - - - -34 - - - _Sep. 18, 1900._ - -How can I write what has befallen me? the double disaster that has cut -like a knife into my life. Was one, I asked myself, the result of the -other, sent to me to show that I ought to have been content with what I -had, that I ought not to have stretched out my hand to the fruit that -hung too high above me. I am too feeble in mind and body to do more -than briefly record the incidents that have struck me down. I feel like -a shipwrecked sailor who, flung on an unhospitable shore, had with -infinite labour and desperate toil dragged a few necessaries out of the -floating fragments of the wreck, and piled them carefully and patiently -on a ledge out of the reach of the tide, only to find after a night of -sudden storm the little store scattered and himself swimming faintly in -a raging sea—that sea which the evening before had sunk into so sweet, -so caressing a repose, and now like a grey monster aroused to sudden -fury, howls and beats for leagues against the stony promontories and the -barren beaches. - -[Sidenote: NEW FRIENDS] - -I had been in very tranquil spirits and strong health all the summer; -my maladies had ceased to trouble me, and for weeks they were out of my -thoughts. I had found a quiet zest in the little duties that make up my -simple life. I had made, too, a new friend. A pleasant cottage about -half a mile from Golden End had been taken by the widow of a clergyman -with small but sufficient means, who settled there with her daughter, -the latter being about twenty-four. I went somewhat reluctantly with -my mother to call upon them and offer neighbourly assistance. I found -myself at once in the presence of two refined, cultivated, congenial -people. Mrs. Waring, I saw, was not only a well-read woman, interested in -books and art, but she had seen something of society, and had a shrewd -and humorous view of men and things. Miss Waring was like her mother; -but I soon found that to her mother’s kindly and brisk intellect she -added a peculiar and noble insight—that critical power, if I may call -it so, which sees what is beautiful and true in life, and strips it of -adventitious and superficial disguises in the same way that one with a -high appreciation of literature moves instinctively to what is gracious -and lofty, and is never misled by talent or unobservant of genius. The -society of these two became to me in a few weeks a real and precious -possession. I began to see how limited and self-centred my life had begun -to be. They did not, so to speak, provide me with new sensations and new -material so much as put the whole of life in a new light. I found in the -mother a wise and practical counsellor, with a singular grasp of detail, -with whom I could discuss any new book I had read or any article that had -struck me; but with Miss Waring it was different. I can only say that her -wise and simple heart cast a new light upon the most familiar thoughts. -I found myself understood, helped, lifted, in a way that both humiliated -and inspired me. Moreover, I was privileged to be admitted into near -relations with one who seemed to show, without the least consciousness of -it, the best and highest possibilities that lie in human nature. I cannot -guess or define the secret. I only know that it dawned upon me gradually -that here was a human spirit fed like a spring from the purest rains -that fall on some purple mountain-head. - -[Sidenote: THE MOMENT] - -By what soft and unsuspected degrees my feeling of congenial friendship -grew into a deeper devotion I cannot now trace. It must now in my -miserable loneliness be enough to say that so it was. Only a few days -ago—and yet the day seems already to belong to a remote past, and to be -separated from these last dark hours by a great gulf, misty, not to be -passed,—I realised that a new power had come into my life—the heavenly -power that makes all things new. I had gone down to the cottage in a -hot, breathless sunlight afternoon. I had long passed the formality -of ringing to announce my entrance. There was no one in the little -drawing-room, which was cool and dark, with shuttered windows. I went -out upon the lawn. Miss Waring was sitting in a chair under a beech tree -reading, and at the sight of me she rose, laid down her book, and came -smiling across the grass. There is a subtle, viewless message of the -spirit which flashes between kindred souls, in front of and beyond the -power of look or speech, and at the same moment that I understood I felt -she understood too. I could not then at once put into words my hopes; -but it hardly seemed necessary. We sat together, we spoke a little, but -were mostly silent in some secret interchange of spirit. That afternoon -my heart climbed, as it were, a great height, and saw from a Pisgah top -the familiar land at its feet, all lit with a holy radiance, and then -turning, saw, in golden gleams and purple haze, the margins of an unknown -sea stretching out beyond the sunset to the very limits of the world. - - - - -35 - - - _Sep. 19, 1900._ - -That night, in a kind of rapturous peace, I faced the new hope. Even -then, in that august hour, I reflected whether I could, with my broken -life and faded dreams, link a spirit so fair to mine. I can truthfully -say that I was full to the brim of the intensest gratitude, the tenderest -service; but I thought was it just, was it right, with little or nothing -to offer, to seek to make so large a claim upon so beautiful a soul? I -did not doubt that I could win it, and that love would be lavished in -fullest measure to me. But I strove with all my might to see whether such -a hope was not on my part a piece of supreme and shameful selfishness. I -probed the very depths of my being, and decided that I might dare; that -God had given me this precious, this adorable gift, and that I might -consecrate my life and heart to love and be worthy of it if I could. - -So I sank to sleep, and woke to the shock of a rapture such as I did -not believe this world could hold. It was a still warm day of late -summer, but a diviner radiance lay over garden, field, and wood for me. -I determined I would not speak to my mother till after I had received my -answer. - -After breakfast I went out to the garden—the flowers seemed to smile and -nod their heads at me, leaning with a kind of tender brilliance to greet -me; in a thick bush I heard the flute-notes of my favourite thrush—the -brisk chirruping of the sparrows came from the ivied gable. - -What was it?... what was the strange, rending, numbing shock that ran so -suddenly through me, making me in a moment doubtful, as it seemed, even -of my own identity—again it came—again. I raised my eyes, it seemed as -if I had never seen the garden, the house, the trees before. Then came a -pang of such grim horror that I felt as though stabbed with a sword. I -seemed, if that is possible, almost to smell and taste pain. I staggered -a few steps back to the garden entrance—I remember crying out faintly, -and my voice seemed strange to me—there was a face at the door—and then a -blackness closed round me and I knew no more. - - - - -36 - - - _Sep. 20, 1900._ - -I woke at last, swimming upwards, like a diver out of a deep sea, from -some dark abyss of weakness. I opened my eyes—I saw that I was in a -downstairs room, where it seemed that a bed must have been improvised; -but at first I was too weak even to inquire with myself what had -happened. My mother sate by me, with a look on her face that I had never -seen; but I could not care. I seemed to have passed a ford, and to see -life from the other side; to have shut a door upon it, and to be looking -at it from the dark window. I neither cared nor hoped nor felt. I only -wished to lie undisturbed—not to be spoken to or noticed, only to lie. - -I revived a little, and the faint flow of life brought back with it, as -upon a creeping tide, a regret that I had opened my eyes upon the world -again—that was my first thought. I had been so near the dark passage—the -one terrible thing that lies in front of all living things—why had I not -been permitted to cross it once and for all; why was I recalled to hope, -to suffering, to fear? Then, as I grew stronger, came a fuller regret for -the good, peaceful days. I had asked, I thought, so little of life, and -that little had been denied. Then as I grew stronger still, there came -the thought of the great treasure that had been within my grasp, and my -spirit faintly cried out against the fierce injustice of the doom. But I -soon fell into a kind of dimness of thought, from which even now I can -hardly extricate myself—a numbness of heart, an indifference to all but -the fact that from moment to moment I am free from pain. - - - - -37 - - - _Sep. 21, 1900._ - -I am climbing, climbing, hour by hour, slowly and cautiously, out of the -darkness, as a man climbs up some dizzy crag, never turning his head—yet -not back to life! I shall not achieve that. - -How strange it would seem to others that I can care to write thus—it -seems strange even to myself. If ever, in life, I looked on to these -twilight hours, with the end coming slowly nearer, I thought I should -lie in a kind of stupor of mind and body, indifferent to everything. I -am indifferent, with the indifference of one in whom desire seems to be -dead; but my mind is, or seems, almost preternaturally clear; and the -old habit, of trying to analyse, to describe, anything that I see or -realise distinctly is too strong for me. I have asked for pencil and -paper; they demur, but yield; and so I write a little, which relieves the -occasional physical restlessness I feel; it induces a power of tranquil -reverie, and the hours pass, I hardly know how. The light changes; the -morning freshness becomes the grave and solid afternoon, and so dies -into twilight; till out of the dark alleys steals the gentle evening, -dark-eyed and with the evening star tangled in her hair, full of shy -sweet virginal thoughts and mysteries ... and then the night, and the day -again. - -Do I grieve, do I repine, do I fear? No, I can truthfully say, I do -not. I hardly seem to feel. Almost the only feeling left me is the old -childlike trustfulness in mother and nurse. I do not seem to need to tell -them anything. One or other sits near me. I feel my mother’s eyes dwell -upon me, till I look up and smile; but between our very minds there runs, -as it were, an airy bridge, on which the swift thoughts, the messengers -of love, speed to and fro. I seem, in the loss of all the superstructure -and fabric of life, to have nothing left to tie me to the world, but -this sense of unity with my mother—that inseparable, elemental tie that -nothing can break. And she, I know, feels this too; and it gives her, -though she could not describe it, a strange elation in the midst of her -sorrow, the joy that a man is born into the world, and that I am hers. - -[Sidenote: A MOTHER’S HEART] - -With the beloved nurse it is the same in a sense; but here it is not -the deep inextricable bond of blood, but the bond of perfect love. I -lose myself in wonder in thinking of it; that one who is hired—that -is the strange basis of the relationship—for a simple task, should -become absolutely identified with love, with those whom she serves. I -do not believe that Susan has a single thought or desire in the world -that is not centred on my mother or myself. The tie between us is -simply indissoluble. And I feel that if we wandered, we three spirits, -disconsolate and separate, through the trackless solitudes of heaven, she -would _somehow_ find her way to my side. - -I have noticed that since my illness began she has slipped into the -use of little nursery phrases which I have not heard for years; I -have become “Master Henry” again, and am told to “look slippy” about -taking my medicine. This would have moved me in other days with a -sense of pathos; it is not so now, though the knowledge that these two -beloved, sweet-minded, loving women suffer, is the one shadow over my -tranquillity. If I could only explain to them that my sadness for their -sorrow is drowned in my wonder at the strangeness that any one should -ever sorrow at all for anything! - - - - -38 - - - _Sep. 22, 1900._ - -To-day I am calmer, and the hours have been passing in a long reverie; -I have been thinking quietly over the past years. Sometimes, as I lay -with eyes closed, the old life came so near me that it almost seemed as -if men and women and children, some of them dead and gone, had sate by -me and spoken to me; little scenes and groups out of early years that I -thought I had forgotten suddenly shaped themselves. It is as if my will -had abdicated its sway, and the mind, like one who is to remove from a -house in which he had long dwelt, is turning over old stores, finding old -relics long laid aside in cupboards and lumber-rooms, and seeing them -without sorrow, only lingering with a kind of tender remoteness over the -sweet and fragrant associations of the days that are dead. - -I have never doubted that I am to die, and to-day it seems as though I -cared little when the parting comes; death does not seem to me now like -a sharp close to life, the yawning of a dark pit; but, as in an allegory, -I seem to see a little dim figure, leaving a valley full of sunlight and -life, and going upwards into misty and shapeless hills. I used to wonder -whether death was an end, an extinction—_now_ that seems impossible—my -life and thought seem so strong, so independent of the frail physical -accompaniments of the body; but even if it is an end, the thought does -not afflict me. I am in the Father’s hands. It is He that hath made us. - - - - -39 - - - _Sep. 24, 1900._ - -I have had an interview with her. I hardly know what we said—very -little—she understood, and it was very peaceful in her presence. I tried -to tell her not to be sorry; for indeed the one thing that seems to me -inconceivable is that any one should grieve. I lie like a boat upon a -quiet tide, drifting out to sea—the sea to which we must all drift. I am -thankful for my life and all its sweetness; the shadows have gone, and it -seems to me now as though all the happiness came from God, and all the -shadow was of my own making. And the strangest thought of all is that the -darkest shadow has always been this very passing which now seems to me -the most natural thing in the world—indeed the only true thing. - -None the less am I thankful for this great and crowning gift of love—the -one thing that I had missed. I do not now even want to use it, to enjoy -it—it is there, and that is enough. In her presence it seemed to me that -Love stood side by side with Death, two shining sisters. But yesterday I -murmured over having been given, as it were, so sweet a cup to taste, and -then having the cup dashed from my lips. To-day I see that Love was the -crown of my poor life, and I thank God with all the strength of my spirit -for putting it into my hand as His last and best gift. - -And I thanked her too for deigning to love me; and even while I did so, -the thought broke to pieces, as it were, and escaped from the feeble -words in which I veiled it, like a moth bursting from a cocoon. For were -we not each other’s before the world was made? And the thought of myself -and herself fled from me, and we were one spirit, thinking the same -thoughts, sustained by the same strength. One more word I said, and bade -her believe that I said it with undimmed and unblunted mind, that she -must live, and cast abroad by handfuls the love she would have garnered -for me; that the sorrow that lay heavy on her heart must be fruitful, not -a devastating sorrow; and that however much alone she might seem, that I -should be there, like one who kneels without a closed door ... and so we -said farewell. - -[Sidenote: NEARLY HOME] - -I lie now in my own room—it is evening; through the open window I can see -the dark-stemmed trees, the pigeon-cotes, the shadowy shoulder of the -barn, the soft ridges beyond, the little wood-end that I saw once in the -early dawn and thought so beautiful. When I saw it before it seemed to me -like the gate of the unknown country; will my hovering spirit pass that -way? I have lived my little life—and my heart goes out to all of every -tribe and nation under the sun who are still in the body. I would tell -them with my last breath that there is comfort to the end—that there is -nothing worth fretting over or being heavy-hearted about it; that the -Father’s arm is strong, and that his Heart is very wide. - - -THE END. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The House of Quiet, by Arthur Christopher Benson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF QUIET *** - -***** This file should be named 60783-0.txt or 60783-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/7/8/60783/ - -Produced by Susan Skinner, Julie Barkley and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by Cornell University Digital Collections) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The House of Quiet - An Autobiography - -Author: Arthur Christopher Benson - -Release Date: November 26, 2019 [EBook #60783] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF QUIET *** - - - - -Produced by Susan Skinner, Julie Barkley and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by Cornell University Digital Collections) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage larger">THE HOUSE OF QUIET</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;"> -<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="450" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="caption"><i>The House of Quiet</i></p> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage larger">THE<br /> -<span class="red">HOUSE OF QUIET</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage">AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY</p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smcap">By<br /> -<span class="red">Arthur Christopher Benson</span></span></p> - -<div class="figcenter titlepage" style="width: 70px;"> -<img src="images/tp-deco.jpg" width="70" height="50" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">NEW YORK</span><br /> -<span class="red">E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY</span><br /> -<span class="smaller">1907</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller"><span class="smcap">Copyrighted by</span><br /> -E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY<br /> -1907</p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller">The Knickerbocker Press, New York</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> - -<h2>PREFACE</h2> -<p>I have been reading this morning a very -pathetic and characteristic document. It is -a paper that has lurked for years in an old collection -of archives, a preface, sketched by a -great writer, who is famous wherever the English -language is spoken or read, for the second -edition of a noble book. The book, on its first -appearance, was savagely and cruelly attacked; -and the writer of it, hurt and wounded by a -mass of hateful and malevolent criticisms, piled -together by an envious and narrow mind, tried, -with a miserable attempt at jaunty levity, to -write an answer to the vicious assailant. This -answer is deeply pathetic, because, behind the -desperate parade of cheerful <i lang="fr">insouciance</i>, one -seems to hear the life-blood falling, drop by -drop; the life-blood of a dauntless and pure -spirit, whose words had been so deftly twisted -and satanically misrepresented as to seem the -utterances of a sensual and cynical mind.</p> - -<p>In deference to wise and faithful advice, the -preface was withheld and suppressed; and one -is thankful for that; and the episode is further<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span> -a tender lesson for all who have faithfully tried -to express the deepest thoughts of their heart, -frankly and sincerely, never to make the least -attempt to answer, or apologise, or explain. -If one’s book, or poem, or picture survives, -that is the best of all answers. If it does not -survive, well, one has had one’s say, thought -one’s thought, done one’s best to enlighten, to -contribute, to console; and, like millions of -other human utterances, the sound is lost upon -the wind, the thought, like a rainbow radiance, -has shone and vanished upon the cloud.</p> - -<p>The book which is here presented has had its -share both of good and evil report; and it fell -so far short of even its own simple purpose, -that I should be the last to hold that it had -been blamed unduly. I have no sort of intention -of answering my critics; but I would wish -to make plain what the book itself perhaps -fails to make plain, namely, what my purpose -in writing it was. The book grew rather than -was made. It was, from the first, meant as a -message to the weak rather than as a challenge -to the strong. There is a theory of life, -wielded like a cudgel by the hands of the merry -and high-hearted, that the whole duty of man -is to dash into the throng, to eat and drink, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span> -love and wed, to laugh and fight. That is a -fine temper; it is the mood of the sailor-comrades -of Odysseus—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“That ever with a frolic welcome took</div> -<div class="verse">The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed</div> -<div class="verse">Free hearts, free foreheads.”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Such a mood, if it be not cruel, or tyrannous, -or brutal, or overbearing, is a generous and inspiriting -thing. Joined, as I have seen it -joined, with simplicity and unselfishness and -utter tenderness, it is the finest spirit in the -world—the spirit of the great and chivalrous -knight of old days. But when this mood -shows itself without the kindly and gracious -knightly attributes, it is a vile and ugly thing, -insolent, selfish, animal.</p> - -<p>The problem, then, which I tried to present -in my book, was this: I imagined a temperament -of a peaceful and gentle order, a temperament -without robustness and <i lang="fr">joie de vivre</i>, -but with a sense of duty, a desire to help, an -anxious wish not to shirk responsibility; and -then I tried to depict such a character as being -suddenly thrust into the shadow, set aside, as, -by their misfortune or their fault, a very large -number of persons are set aside, debarred from -ambition, pushed into a backwater of life,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span> -made, by some failure of vitality, into an invalid -(a word which conceals many of the saddest -tragedies of the world)—and I set myself -to reflect how a man, with such limitations, -might yet lead a life that was wholesome and -contented and helpful; and then, at the last, -I thought of him as confronted with a prospect -of one of the deepest and sweetest blessings of -life, the hope of a noble love; and then again, -the tyrannous weakness that had laid him low, -swept that too out of his grasp, and bade him -exchange death for life, darkness for the cheerful -day.</p> - -<p>Who does not know of home after home -where such things happen? of life after life, on -which calamities fall, so that the best that the -sufferer can do is <em>to gather up the fragments -that remain, that nothing be lost</em>? This book, -<cite>The House of Quiet</cite>, was written for all whose -life, by some stroke of God, seemed dashed -into fragments, and who might feel so listless, -so dismayed, that they could not summon up -courage even to try and save something from -the desolate wreck.</p> - -<p>To compare small things with great, it was -an attempt to depict, in modern unromantic -fashion, such a situation as that of <cite>Robinson<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span> -Crusoe</cite>, where a man is thrown suddenly upon -his own resources, shut off from sympathy and -hope. In that great fiction one sees the patience, -the courage, the inventiveness of the simple -hero grow under the author’s hand; but the -soul of my own poor hero had indeed suffered -shipwreck, though he fell among less stimulating -surroundings than the caverns and -freshets, the wildfowl and the savages, of that -green isle in the Caribbean Sea.</p> - -<p>In the <cite>Life</cite> of William Morris, a man whose -chosen motto was <i lang="fr">si je puis</i>, and who, whatever -else he was accused of, was never accused of a -want of virile strength, there is an interesting -and pathetic letter, which he wrote at the age -of fifty-one, when he was being thrust, against -his better judgment, into a prominent position -in the Socialist movement.</p> - -<p>“My habits are quiet and studious,” he said, -“and, if I am too much worried with ‘politics,’ -<i>i.e.</i>, intrigue, I shall be no use to the cause as -a writer. All this shows, you will say, a weak -man: that is true, but I must be taken as I am, -not as I am not.”</p> - -<p>This sentence sums up, very courageously -and faithfully, the difficulty in which many -people, who believe in ideas, and perceive more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span> -clearly than they are able to act, are placed by -honest diffidence and candid self-knowledge. -We would amend life, if we could; but the impossibility -lies, not in seeing what is beautiful -and just and right, but in making other people -desire it. It is conceivable, after all, that God -knows best, and has good reasons for delay—though -many men, and those not the least gallant, -act as though they knew better still. But -it matters very little whether we betray our -own weakness, by what we say or do. What -does matter is that we should have desired -something ahead of us, should have pointed it -out to others. We may not attain it; others -may not attain it; but we have shown that we -dare not acquiesce in our weakness, that we -will not allow ourselves to be silent about our -purer hopes, that we will not recline in a false -security, that we will not try to solve the problem -by overlooking its difficulties; but that we -will strive to hold fast, in a tender serenity, to -a belief in the strong and loving purpose of -God, however dark may be the shadow that -lies across the path, however sombre the mountain-barrier -that lies between us and the sunlit -plain.</p> - -<p class="right">A. C. B.</p> - -<p><i>April 12, 1907.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span></p> - -<h2>PREFATORY NOTE TO ORIGINAL EDITION</h2> - -<p><i>The writer of the following pages was a -distant cousin of my own, and to a certain extent -a friend. That is to say, I had stayed -several times with him, and he had more than -once visited me at my own home. I knew -that he was obliged, for reasons of health, to -live a very quiet and retired life; but he was -not a man who appeared to be an invalid. He -was keenly interested in books, in art, and -above all in people, though he had but few intimate -friends. He died in the autumn of -1900, and his mother, who was his only near -relation, died in the following year; it fell to -me to administer his estate, and among his -papers I found this book, prepared in all essential -respects for publication, though it is -clear that it would not have seen the light in -his lifetime. I submitted it to a friend of wide -literary experience; his opinion was that the -book had considerable interest, and illustrated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span> -a definite and peculiar point of view, besides -presenting a certain attraction of style. I accordingly -made arrangements for its publication; -adding a few passages from the diary -of the last days, which was composed subsequently -to the date at which the book was arranged.</i></p> - -<p><i>I need hardly say that the names are -throughout fictitious; and I will venture to express -a hope that identification will not be attempted, -because the book is one which depends -for its value, not on the material circumstances -of the writer, but upon the views -of life which he formed.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p> - -<h1>THE HOUSE OF QUIET</h1> - -<h2>INTRODUCTORY</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Christmas, Eve, 1898.</i></p> - -<p>I have been a good deal indoors lately, and I -have been amusing myself by looking through -old papers and diaries of my own. It seems to -me that, though the record is a very uneventful -one, there is yet a certain unity throughout—I -can hardly call it a conscious, definite -aim, or dignify it by the name of a philosophy. -But I have lived latterly with a purpose, and -on a plan that has gradually shaped itself and -become more coherent.</p> - -<p>It was formerly my ambition to write a -book, and it has gone the way of most ambitions. -I suppose I have not the literary temperament; -I have not got the instinct for <em>form</em> -on a large scale. In the books which I have -attempted to write, I have generally lost myself -among details and abandoned the task<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span> -in despair. I have never been capable of the -<em>fundamental brainwork</em>; the <em>fundamental conception</em> -which Rossetti said made all the difference -between a good piece of art and a bad -one. When I was young, my idea of writing -was to pile fine phrases together, and to think -that any topic which occurred to my mind was -pertinent to the matter in hand. Now that I -am older, I have learnt that form and conception -are not everything but nearly everything, -and that a definite idea austerely presented is -better than a heap of literary ornament.</p> - -<p>And now it seems to me that I have after -all, without intending it, written a book,—the -one book, that, it is said, every man has in his -power to write. I feel like the King of -France who said that he had “discovered” a -gallery in one of his palaces by the simple -process of pulling down partition walls. I -have discarded a large amount of writing, but -I have selected certain episodes, made extracts -from my diaries, and added a few passages; -and the result is the story of my life, told perhaps -in a desultory way, but with a certain coherence.</p> - -<p>Whether or no the book will ever see the -light I cannot tell; probably not. I do not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span> -suppose I shall have the courage to publish it -myself, and I do not know any one who is -likely to take the trouble of editing it when I -am gone. But there it is—the story of a simple -life. Perhaps it will go the way of waste -paper, kindle fires, flit in sodden dreariness -about ashpits, till it is trodden in the mire. -Perhaps it may repose in some dusty bookshelf, -and arouse the faint and tender curiosity -of some far-off inheritor of my worldly -goods, like the old diaries of my forefathers -which stand on my own bookshelf. But if it -came to be published I think that there are -some to whom it would appeal, as the thin-drawn -tremor of the violin stirs the note in -vase or glass that have stood voiceless and inanimate. -I have borne griefs, humiliations, -dark overshadowings of the spirit; there are -moments when I have peered, as it were, into -the dim-lit windows of hell; but I have had, -too, my fragrant hours, tranquil joys, imperishable -ecstasies. And as a pilgrim may tell -his tale of travel to homekeeping folks, so -I may allow myself the license to speak, and -tell what of good and evil the world has -brought me, and of my faint strivings after -that interior peace, which can be found, possessed, -and enjoyed.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span></p> - -<h2>1</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Dec. 7, 1897.</i></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">My Room</span></div> - -<p>I sit this evening, towards the end of the year, -in a deep arm-chair in a large, low panelled -room that serves me as bedroom and study together: -the windows are hung with faded tapestry -curtains; there is a great open tiled fireplace -before me, with logs red-crumbling, -bedded in grey ash, every now and then winking -out flame and lighting up the lean iron -dogs that support the fuel; odd Dutch tiles -pave and wall the cavernous hearth—this one -a quaint galleon in full sail on a viscous, -crested sea; that, a stout sleek bird standing -in complacent tranquillity; at the back of the -hearth, with the swift shadows flickering over -it, is a large iron panel showing a king in a -war chariot, with a flying cloak, issuing from -an arched portal, upon a bridge which spans -a furious stream, and shaking out the reins of -two stamping steeds; on the high chimney-board -is a row of Delft plates. The room is -furnished with no precision or propriety, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span> -furniture having drifted in fortuitously as it -was needed: here is a tapestried couch; there -an oak bookcase crammed with a strange assortment -of books; here a tall press; a picture -or two—a bishop embedded in lawn with a -cauliflower wig; a crayon sketch of a scholarly -head. There is no plan of decoration—all -fantastic miscellany. At the far end, under -an arch of oak, stands a bed, screened from the -room by a dark leather screen. Outside, all -is unutterably still, not with the stillness that -sometimes falls on a sleeping town, where the -hush seems invaded by imperceptible cries, but -with the deep tranquillity of the country-side -nestling down into itself. The trees are silent. -Listening intently, I can hear the trickle of -the mill-leat, and the murmur of the hazel-hidden -stream; but that slumbrous sound ministers, -as it were, the dreamful quality, like the -breathing of the sleeper—enough, and not -more than enough, to give the sense of sleeping -life, as opposed to the aching, icy stillness -of death.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span></p> - -<h2>2</h2> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Early Days</span></div> - -<p>I may speak shortly of my parentage and circumstances. -I was the only son of my father, -a man who held a high administrative position -under Government. He owed his advancement -not to family connections, for our family -though ancient was obscure. No doubt it may -be urged that all families are equally ancient, -but what I mean is that our family had for -many generations preserved a sedulous tradition -of gentle blood through poverty and simple -service. My ancestors had been mostly -clergymen, doctors, lawyers—at no time had -we risen to the dignity of a landed position -or accumulated wealth: but we had portraits, -miniatures, plate—in no profusion, but enough -to be able to feel that for a century or two -we had enjoyed a liberal education, and had -had opportunities for refinement if not leisure, -and aptitude for cultivating the arts of -life; it had not been a mere sordid struggle, -an inability to escape from the coarsening pressure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> -of gross anxieties, but something gracious, -self-contained, benevolent, active.</p> - -<p>My father changed this; his profession -brought him into contact with men of rank -and influence; he was fitted by nature to play -a high social part; he had an irresistible geniality, -and something of a courtly air. He -married late, the daughter of an impoverished -offshoot of a great English family, and I was -their only child.</p> - -<p>The London life is dim to me; I faintly recollect -being brought into the room in a velvet -suit to make my bow to some assembled circle -of guests. I remember hearing from the nursery -the din and hubbub of a dinner-party rising, -in faint gusts, as the door was opened and -shut—even of brilliant cascades of music -sparkling through the house when I awoke after -a first sleep, in what seemed to me some -dead hour of the night. But my father had -no wish to make me into a precocious monkey, -playing self-conscious tricks for the amusement -of visitors, and I lived for the most part -in the company of my mother—herself almost -a child—and my faithful nurse, a small, simple-minded -Yorkshire woman, who had been -my mother’s nurse before.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span></p> - -<p>When I was about six years old my father -died suddenly, and the first great shock of my -life was the sight of the handsome waxen face, -with the blurred and flinty look of the dulled -eyes, the leaden pallor of the thin hands crossed -on his breast; to this day I can see the blue -shadows of the ruffled shroud about his neck -and wrists.</p> - -<p>Our movements were simple enough. Only -that summer, owing to an accession of wealth, -my father and mother had determined on some -country home to which they might retire in -his months of freedom. My mother had never -cared for London; together they had found in -the heart of the country a house that attracted -both of them, and a long lease had been taken -within a week or two of my father’s death. -Our furniture was at once transferred thither, -and from that hour it has been my home.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p> - -<h2>3</h2> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Home Land</span></div> - -<p>The region in which I live is a land of ridge -and vale, as though it had been ploughed with -a gigantic plough. The high-roads lie as a -rule along the backs of the uplands, and the -villages stand on the windy heights. The lines -of railway which run along the valley tend to -create a new species of valley village, but the -old hamlets, with their grey-stone high-backed -churches, with slender shingled spires, stand -aloft, the pure air racing over them. The ancient -manors and granges are as a rule built -in the more sheltered and sequestered valleys, -approached from the high-road by winding -wood-lanes of exquisite beauty. The soil is -sandy, and a soft stone is quarried in many -places by the road-side, leaving quaint miniature -cliffs and bluffs of weathered yellow, -sometimes so evenly stratified as to look like -a rock-temple or a buried ruin with mouldering -buttresses; about these pits grow little -knots of hazels and ash-suckers, and the whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span> -is hung in summer with luxuriant creepers and -climbing plants, out of which the crumbling -rock-surfaces emerge. The roads go down -very steeply to the valleys, which are thick-set -with copse and woodland, and at the bottom -runs a full-fed stream, with cascades and pebbly -shingles, running dark under scarps of -sandstone, or hidden deep under thick coverts -of hazel, the water in the light a pure grey-green. -Some chalk is mingled with these -ridges, so that in rainy weather the hoof-prints -in the roads ooze as with milk. The view from -these uplands is of exquisite beauty, ridge after -ridge rolling its soft outlines, thinly -wooded. Far away are glimpses of high -heathery tracts black with pines, or a solitary -clump upon some naked down. But the views -in the valleys are even more beautiful. The -steep wood rises from the stream, or the grave -lines of some tilted fallow; in summer the -water-plants grow with rich luxuriance by the -rivulet, tall willow-herb and velvety loosestrife, -tufted meadowsweet, and luxuriant -comfrey. The homesteads are of singular -stateliness, with their great brick chimney-stacks, -the upper storeys weather-tiled and the -roof of flat tiles of sandstone; the whole mellowed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> -by orange and grey lichens till the -houses seem to have sprung from the very -soil.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span></p> - -<h2>4</h2> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Golden End</span></div> - -<p>My own home—bearing the tranquil name of -Golden End—is an ancient manor; out of a -sandy lane turns an avenue of great Scotch -firs, passing the house and inclining gradually -in its direction. The house is a strange medley; -one part of it is an Elizabethan building, -mullioned, of grey stone; one wing is -weather-tiled and of simple outline. The -front, added at some period of prosperity, is -Georgian, thickly set with large windows; over -all is a little tiled cupola where an alarm bell -hangs. There is a small square garden in -front surrounded by low walls; above the house -lies what was once a bowling-green, with a terraced -walk surrounding it. The kitchen garden -comes close up to the windows, and is protected -on the one side by a gigantic yew hedge, -like a green bastion, on the other by an ancient -stone wall, with a tiled roof; below the house -lie quaint farm-buildings, cartsheds, barns, -granaries, and stables; beyond them are pools,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> -fringed with self-sown ashes, and an orchard, -in the middle of which stands a brick dovecot -with sandstone tiles. The meadows fall from -the house to the stream; but the greater part of -the few acres which we hold is simple woodland, -where the copse grows thick and dark, -with here and there a stately forest tree. The -house seen, as I love best to see it, from the -avenue on a winter evening, rises a dark irregular -pile, crowned with the cupola and the massive -chimneys against a green and liquid sky, -in which trembles a single star; the pine-trees -are blacker still; and below lies the dim mysterious -woodland, with the mist rising over the -stream, and, beyond that, soft upland after upland, -like a land of dreams, out to the horizon’s -verge.</p> - -<p>Within all is dark and low; there is a central -panelled hall with round oak arches on either -hand leading through little anterooms to a parlour -and dining-room. There are wide, meaningless -corridors with steps up and down that -connect the wings with the central building; -the staircases are of the most solid oak. All -the rooms are panelled except the attics, which -show the beams crossing in the ancient plasterwork. -At the top of the house is a long<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> -room which runs from end to end, with a great -open fireplace. The kitchen is a huge, paved -chamber with an oak pillar in the centre. A -certain amount of massive oak furniture, sideboards, -chests, and presses, with initials or -dates, belongs to the place; but my father was -a great collector of books, china, and pictures, -which, with the furniture of a large London -house, were put hurriedly in, with little attempt -at order; and no one has since troubled -to arrange them. One little feature must be -mentioned; at the top of the house a crazy oak -door gives access to a flight of stairs that leads -on to a parapet; but below the stairs is a tiny -oratory, with an altar and some seats, where -the household assemble every morning for a -few prayers, and together sing an artless -hymn.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> - -<h2>5</h2> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">My Mother</span></div> - -<p>My mother, who through the following pages -must be understood to be the presiding deity -of the scene—<i lang="la">O quam te memorem?</i>—how -shall I describe her? Seen through her son’s -eyes she has an extraordinary tranquillity and -graciousness of mien. She moves slowly with -an absolutely unconscious dignity. She is naturally -very silent, and has a fixed belief that -she is entirely devoid of all intellectual power, -which is in one sense true, for she reads little -and has no taste for discussion. At the same -time she is gifted with an extraordinary -shrewdness and penetration in practical matters, -and I would trust her judgment without -hesitation. She is intensely affectionate, and -has the largest heart I have ever known; but -at the same time is capable of taking almost -whimsical prejudices against people, which, -however I have combated them at the time, -have generally proved to be justified by subsequent -events. Her sympathy and her geniality<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> -make her delightful company, for she -delights in listening to the talk of clever people -and has a strong sense of humour. She -likes being read to, though I do not think she -questions the thought of what is read. She is -deeply religious, though I do not suppose she -could give a reason for her faith, and is constantly -tolerant of religious differences which -she never attempts to comprehend. In the -village she is simply adored by men, women, -and children alike, though she is not particularly -given to what is called “visiting the poor.”</p> - -<p>At the same time if there is trouble in any -house, no matter of what kind, she goes there -straight by instinct, and has none of the dread -of emotional scenes which make so many of us -cowards in the presence of sorrow and suffering. -I do not think she feels any duty about -it, but it is as natural and spontaneous for her -to go as it is for most of us to desire to keep -away. A shrewd woman of the village, a labourer’s -wife, whom my mother had seen -through a dreadful tragedy a year or two before, -once said in reply to a question of mine, -“It isn’t as if her ladyship said or did more -than any one else—every one was kind to us—but -she used to come in and sit with me and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> -look at me, and after a little I used to feel that -it was all right.”</p> - -<p>She manages the household with less expenditure -of trouble than I have ever seen. -Our servants never seem to leave us; they are -paid what many people would call absurdly -high wages, but I do not think that is the attraction. -My mother does not see very much -of them, and finds fault, when rarely necessary, -with a simple directness which I have in -vain tried to emulate; but her displeasure is so -impersonal that there seems to be no sting in -it. It is not that they have failed in their duty -to herself, but they have been untrue to the -larger duty to which she is herself obedient.</p> - -<p>She never seems to labour under any strong -sense of the imperative duty of philanthropic -activity—indeed it is hard to say how her days -are filled—but in her simplicity, her unselfishness, -her quiet acceptance of the conditions of -life, her tranquillity and her devoted lovingness -she seems to me the best Christian I have -ever seen, and to come nearest to the ideals of -Christ. But, though a large part of her large -income is spent in unostentatious benevolence, -she would think it preposterous if it were suggested<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> -to her that Christianity demanded an -absolute sacrifice of worldly possessions. Yet -she sets no store on comfort or the evidences -of wealth; she simply accepts them, and has a -strong instinctive feeling of stewardship.</p> - -<p>I cannot help thinking that such women are -becoming rarer; and yet it is hard to believe -that they can ever have been other than rare.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> - -<h2>6</h2> - -<p>I gratefully acknowledge the constant presence -of an element in my life which for want -of a better name I will call the sense of beauty. -I mean by that the unaccountable thrill of emotion -by which one is sometimes surprised, often -quite suddenly and unexpectedly; this sense of -wonder, which darts upon the mind with an -almost physical sensation, seems to come in -two different ways. With some, the majority -I believe, it originates entirely in personal relations -with other human beings and is known -as love; with others it arises over a larger region, -and is inspired by a sudden perception -of some incommunicable beauty in a flower, a -scent, a view, a picture, a poem. Those in -whom the latter sense predominates are, I -think, less apt to be affected by human relationships, -but pass through the world in a certain -solitary and wistful mood, with perhaps -more wide and general sources of happiness -but less liable to be stirred to the depths of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> -their being by a friendship or a passion. To -take typical examples of such a class I conceive -that Wordsworth and William Morris were instances. -Wordsworth derived, I believe, his -highest inspiration from the solemn dignities -of nature, in her most stupendous and majestic -forms; while to Morris belonged that -power, which amounted in him to positive genius, -for seeing beauty in the most homely and -simple things.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Beauty and Mystery</span></div> - -<p>I was myself haunted from a very early -date by the sense of beauty and mystery, -though not for many years could I give it a -name; but I have found in my case that it -originated as a rule in some minute effect of -natural things. I have seen some of the wildest -and most astounding natural prospects in Europe; -I have climbed high rocky peaks and -threaded mountain solitudes, but some overshadowing -of horror and awe has robbed emotion -of its most intimate joy; and I have always -found myself more thrilled by some -tranquil vignette—the moon rising through a -forest glade, a red sunset between the boughs -of pines, the crisping wave of some broken -eddy, the “green-dense and dim-delicious” -depth of a woodland pool, the weathered gables<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> -of an ancient manor, an orchard white -with the snows of spring—than I have ever -been by the sight of the most solemn mountain-head -or the furious breakers of some uncontrolled -tide.</p> - -<p>Two or three of these sacred sights I may -venture to describe, taking them at random out -of the treasure-house of memory; two belong -to my schooldays. I was a pupil at a big suburban -school; the house which we inhabited had -once been the villa of a well-known statesman, -and had large and dignified grounds, where -with certain restrictions, we were allowed -to ramble. They were bounded on one side -by a high paling, inaccessible to small limbs, -and a vague speculation as to what was -behind the fence long dwelt with me. One -day, however, I found that I could loose a -portion of a broken paling, and looking -through I saw a quiet place, the tail of a neglected -shrubbery; the spot seemed quite unvisited; -the laurels grew thickly about, and tall -elms gave an austere gloom to the little glade; -the ground was pathless, and thickly overgrown -with periwinkles, but in the centre were -three tiny grave-mounds, the graves, I have -since reflected, of dogs, but which I at the time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> -supposed to be the graves of children. I -gazed with a singular sense of mystery, and -strange dream-pictures rose instinctively in -my mind, weaving themselves over the solitary -and romantic spot. It is strange how often -in dreams and gentle reveries I have visited -the place.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Enchanted Land</span></div> - -<p>The next is a later vision. Near the public -school where I was educated lay a forest to -which we had free admittance. I found that -by hard walking it was just possible to reach -a wooded hill which was a conspicuous feature -of the distant landscape, but the time at -my disposal between two school engagements -never sufficed to penetrate farther. From the -top of this hill it was possible to get a view -of a large tract of forest ground, an open -grassy glade, with large trees of towering -greenness standing sentinel on either side; the -bracken grew luxuriantly in places, and at the -end of the glade was a glint of water in the -horn of some forest pool. This place was to -me a veritable “magic casement”; beyond lay -the enchanted land into which I could not penetrate, -the blue hills on the horizon seen over -the tree-tops. I never dreamt of them as inhabited -by human beings like myself, but as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> -some airy region, with leagues of dreaming -woods and silent forest spaces. At times a -deer would slowly cross the open vale, and -stand to sniff the breeze; the very cooing of -the doves in their leafy fastnesses had a richer -and drowsier sound.</p> - -<p>But the home of incommunicable dreams, -beyond all others, is to me a certain mill—Grately -Mill—that is not many miles from -my present home. My mother had an old -aunt who lived in a pleasant house in the -neighbourhood, and we used to go there when -I was a child to spend a few weeks of the -early summer.</p> - -<p>A little vague lane led to it: a lane that -came from nowhere in particular, and took -you nowhere; meandering humbly among the -pastures wherever it was convenient to them -to permit it, like a fainthearted Christian. -Hard by was a tall, high-shouldered, gabled -farm of red brick, with a bell perched on the -roof in a white pavilion of its own. Down the -lane on hot summer days we used to walk—my -mother and I: my mother whom I revered -as a person of unapproachable age and dim -experience, though she had been in the schoolroom -herself but a year or two before my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> -birth; I trotting by her side with a little fishing-rod -in a grey holland case, to fish for perch -in the old pond at the Hall.</p> - -<p>The lane grew sandier and damper: a rivulet -clucked in the ditch, half-hidden in ragged-robin -with its tattered finery, and bright -varnished ranunculus; the rivulet was a mysterious -place enough ever since the day when -we found it full of waving clusters of strange -dark creatures, more eel than fish, which had -all appeared with miraculous unanimity in a -single night—lamperns, the village naturalist -called them, and told us that in ancient days -they were a delicacy; while I, in my childish -mind, at once knew that it was this which had -gone to the composition of that inexplicable -dish, a surfeit of lampreys, as the history had -it, of which some greedy monarch died.</p> - -<p>Once, too, a bright-coloured eel had been -seen at a certain point, who had only just -eluded the grasp of hot little fingers. How -many times I looked for master eel, expecting -to meet him at the same place, and was careful -to carry a delightful tin box in my pocket, -in which he might travel home in my pocket, -and live an honoured life in a basin in the -night nursery. Poor eel! I am glad now that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> -he escaped, but then he was only a great opportunity -missed—an irreparable regret.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Grately Mill</span></div> - -<p>Then the poor lane, which had been getting -more like a water-course every moment, no -longer made any pretence, and disappeared into -a shallow sheet of clear water—the mill at last! -The scene, as I remember it, had a magical -charm. On the left, by the side of the lane, -rose a crazy footpath of boards and posts with -a wooden handrail, and a sluice or two below. -Beyond, the deep mill-pool slept, dark and -still, all fringed with trees. On the right the -stream flowed off among the meadows, disappearing -into an arch of greenery; in summer -the banks and islets were all overgrown -with tall rich plants, comfrey, figwort, water-dock. -The graceful willow-herb hung its pink -horns; the loosestrife rose in sturdier velvet -spires. On the bank stood the shuttered, -humming mill, the water-wheel splashing and -thundering, like a prisoned giant, in a penthouse -of its own. It was a fearful joy to -look in and see it rise dripping, huge and -black, with the fresh smell of the river water -all about it. All the mill was powdered with -the dust of grain; the air inside was full of -floating specks; the hoppers rattled, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> -gear grumbled in the roof, while the flour -streamed merrily into the open sack. The -miller, a grave preoccupied man, all dusted -over, like a plum, with a thin bloom of flour, -gave us a grave nod of greeting, which seemed -to make us free of the place. I dare say he -was a shy mild man, with but little of the small -change of the mind at his disposal; but he -seemed to me then an austere and statesmanlike -person, full to the brim of grave affairs. -Beyond the mill, a lane of a more determined -character led through arches of elms to the -common. And now, on secular days, the interests -of the chase took precedence of all -else; but there were Sundays in the summer -when we walked to attend Grately Church. -It seems to me at this lapse of time to have -been almost impossibly antique. Ancient -yews stood by it, and it had a white boarded -spire with a cracked bell. Inside, the single -aisleless nave, with ancient oak pews, was -much encumbered in one place by a huge -hand-organ, with a forest of gold pipes, -turned by a wizened man, who opened a little -door in the side and inserted his hand at intervals -to set the tune. The clergyman, an -aged gentleman, wore what was, I suppose,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span> -a dark wig, though at the time I imagined it -to be merely an agreeable variety on ordinary -hair; another pleasant habit he had of slightly -smacking his lips, at every little pause, as he -read, which gave an air of indescribable gusto -to the service:—“Moab—tut—is my washpot—tut—; -over Edom—tut—will I cast out my -shoe—tut—; upon Philistia—tut—will I triumph.”</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Grately Church</span></div> - -<p>In the vestry of the church reposed a -curious relic—a pyx, I believe, is the correct -name. It was a gilded metal chalice with a -top, into which, if my memory serves me, -were screwed little soldiers to guard the sacred -body; these were loose, and how I coveted -them! In the case were certain spikes and -branches of crystal, the broken remains, I believe, -of a spreading crystal tree which once -adorned the top. How far my memory serves -me I know not, but I am sure that the relic -which may still survive, is a most interesting -thing; and I can recollect that when a high -dignitary of the Church stayed with us, it was -kindly brought over by the clergyman for his -inspection, and his surprise was very great.</p> - -<p>The Hall lay back from the common, sheltered -by great trees. The house itself, a low<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> -white building, was on those summer days cool -and fragrant. The feature of the place was -the great fish-ponds—one lay outside the -shrubbery; but another, formerly I believe a -monastic stew-pond, was a long rectangle just -outside the windows of the drawing-room, and -only separated from it by a gravel walk: along -part of it ran an ancient red-brick wall. This -was our favourite fishing-place; but above it, -brooded over by huge chestnuts, lay a deeper -and stiller pond, half covered with water-lilies—too -sacred and awful a place to be -fished in or even visited alone.</p> - -<p>Upon the fishing hours I do not love to -dwell; I would only say that of such cruelties -as attended it I was entirely innocent. I am -sure that I never thought of a perch as other -than a delightful mechanical thing, who had -no grave objection to being hauled up gasping, -with his black stripes gleaming, and -prickling his red fins, to be presently despatched, -and carried home stiff and cold -in a little basket.</p> - -<p>The tea under the tall trees of the lawn; -the admiring inspection of our prey; the -stuffed dog in the hall with his foot upon a -cricket-ball—all these are part of the dream-pictures;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> -and the whole is invested for me -with the purpureal gleams of childhood.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Grately Thirty Years After</span></div> - -<p>The other day I found myself on a bicycle -near enough to Grately to make it possible to -go there; into the Hall grounds I did not venture, -but I struck across the common and -went down the lane to the mill. I was almost -ashamed of the agitation I felt, but the sight -of the common, never visited for nearly thirty -years, induced a singular physical distress. -It was not that everything had grown smaller, -even changed the places that they occupy in -my mental picture, but a sort of homesickness -seemed to draw tight bands across my heart. -What does it mean, this intense local attachment, -for us flimsy creatures, snapped at a -touch, and with so brief a pilgrimage? A -strange thought! The very intensity and -depth of the feeling seems to confer on it a -right to permanence.</p> - -<p>The lane came abruptly to an end by the -side of a commonplace, straight-banked, -country brook. There were no trees, no -water-plants; the road did not dip to the -stream, and in front of me lay a yellow brick -bridge, with grim iron lattices. Alas! I had -mistaken the turn, and must retrace my steps.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> -But stay! what was that squat white house by -the waterside? It was indeed the old mill, -with its boarded projections swept away, its -barns gone, its garden walled with a neat wall. -The old high-timbered bridge was down; -some generous landlord had gone to great -expense, and Grately had a good convenient -road, a sensible bridge, and an up-to-date -mill. Probably there was not a single person -in the parish who did not confess to an improvement.</p> - -<p>But who will give me back the tall trees -and the silent pool? Who will restore the -ancient charm, the delicate mysteries, the gracious -dignity of the place? Is beauty a mere -trick of grouping, the irradiation of a golden -mood, a chance congeries of water and high -trees and sunlight? If beauty be industriously -hunted from one place by ruthless -hands, does she spread her wings and fly? -Is the restless, ceaseless effort of nature to -restore beauty to the dismal messes made by -man, simply broken off and made vain? Or -has she leisure to work harder yet in unvisited -places, patiently enduring the grasp of the -spoiling hand?</p> - -<p>It was with something like a sob that I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> -turned away. But of one thing no one can -rob me, and that is the picture of Grately -Mill, glorified indeed by the patient worship -of years, which is locked into some portfolio -of the mind, and can be unspread in a moment -before the gazing eye.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Egeria</span></div> - -<p>And for one thing I can be grateful—that -the still spirit of sweet and secret places, that -wayward nymph who comes and goes, with -the wind in her hair and the gleam of deep -water in her eyes—she to whom we give many -a clumsy name—that she first beckoned to me -and spoke words in my ear beneath the high -elms of Grately Mill. Many times have we -met and spoken in secret since, my Egeria and -I; many times has she touched my shoulder, -and whispered a magic charm. That presence -has been often withdrawn from me; but -I have but to recall the bridge, the water-plants, -the humming mill, the sunlight on the -sandy shallows, to feel her hand in mine again.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p> - -<h2>7</h2> - -<p>As a boy and a young man I went through -the ordinary classical education—private -school, public school, and university. I do not -think I troubled my head at the time about -the philosophical theory or motive of the -course; but now, looking back upon it after -an interval of twenty years, while my admiration -of the theory of it is enhanced, as a lofty -and dignified scheme of mental education, I -find myself haunted by uneasy doubts as to its -practical efficacy. While it seems to me to -be for a capable and well-equipped boy with -decided literary taste, a noble and refining -influence, I begin to fear that for the large -majority of youthful English minds it is narrowing, -unimproving, and conspicuous for an -absence of intellectual enjoyment.</p> - -<p>Is it not the experience of most people that -little boys are conscientious, duty-loving, interested -not so much in the matter of work, -but in the zealous performance of it; and that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> -when adolescence begins, they grow indifferent, -wearied, even rebellious, until they drift -at last into a kind of cynicism about the whole -thing—a kind of dumb certainty, that whatever -else may be got from work, enjoyment -in no form is the result? And is not the -moral of this, that the apprenticeship once -over and the foundation laid, special tastes -should as far as possible be consulted, and subjects -simplified, so as to give boys a sense of -<em>mastery</em> in something, and interest at all hazards.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Methods of Study</span></div> - -<p>The champions of our classical system defend -it on the ground that the accurate training -in the subtleties of grammar hardens and -fortifies the intelligence, and that the mind is -introduced to the masterpieces of ancient literature, -and thus encouraged in the formation -of correct taste and critical appreciation.</p> - -<p>An excellent theory, and I admit at once -its value for minds of high and firm intellectual -calibre. But how does it actually -work out for the majority? In the first place, -look at what the study of grammar amounts -to—it comes, as a matter of fact, when one -remembers the grammar papers which were -set in examinations, to be little more than a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> -knowledge of arbitrary, odd and eccentric -forms such as a boy seldom if ever meets in -the course of his reading. Imagine teaching -English on the same theory, and making boys -learn that metals have no plural, or that certain -fish use the same form in the singular -and in the plural—things of which one acquires -the knowledge insensibly, and which -are absolutely immaterial. Moreover, the -quantity of grammatical forms in Latin and -Greek are infinitely increased by the immensely -larger number of inflexions. Is it -useful that boys should have to commit to -memory the dual forms in Greek verbs—forms -of a repulsive character in themselves, -and seldom encountered in books? The result -of this method is that the weaker mind -is warped and strained. Some few memories -of a peculiarly retentive type may acquire -these useless facts in a mechanical manner; -but it is hardly more valuable than if they -were required to commit to memory long lists -of nonsense words. Yet in most cases they -are doomed to be speedily and completely forgotten—indeed, -nothing can ever be really -learnt unless a logical connection can be established -between the items.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Mastery and Spirit</span></div> - -<p>Then after the dark apprenticeship of -grammar comes the next stage—the appreciation -of literature; but I diffidently believe -here that not ten per cent of the boys who -are introduced to the classics have ever the -slightest idea that they are in the presence -of literature at all. They never approach the -point which is essential to a love of literature—the -instinctive perception of the intrinsic -beauty of majestic and noble words, and still -less the splendid associations which grow to -be inseparably connected with words, in a -language which one really knows and admires.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Method and Spirit</span></div> - -<p>My own belief is that both the method of -instruction and the spirit of that instruction -are at fault. Like the Presbyterian Liturgy, -the system depends far too much on the individuality -of the teacher, and throws too -great a strain upon his mood. A vigorous, -brilliant, lively, humorous, rhetorical man can -break through the shackles of construing and -parsing, and give the boys the feeling of having -been in contact with a larger mind; but in -the hands of a dull and uninspiring teacher -the system is simply famishing from its portentous -aridity. The result, at all events, is -that the majority of the boys at our schools<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> -never get the idea that they are in the presence -of literature at all. They are kept -kicking their heels in the dark and cold antechamber -of parsing and grammar, and never -get a glimpse of the bright gardens within.</p> - -<p>What is, after all, the aim of education? I -suppose it is twofold: firstly, to make of the -mind a bright, keen, and effective instrument, -capable of seeing a point, of grappling with -a difficulty, of presenting facts or thoughts -with clearness and precision. A young man -properly educated should be able to detect a -fallacy, to correct by acquired clearsightedness -a false logical position. He should not -be at the mercy of any new theory which may -be presented to him in a specious and attractive -shape. That is, I suppose, the negative -side. Then secondly, he should have a cultivated -taste for intellectual things, a power of -enjoyment; he should not bow meekly to authority -in the matter of literature, and force -himself into the admiration of what is prescribed, -but he should be possessed of a dignified -and wholesome originality; he should -have his own taste clearly defined. If his -bent is historical, he should be eagerly interested -in any masterly presentation of historical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> -theory, whether new or old; if philosophical, -he should keep abreast of modern -speculation; if purely literary, he should be -able to return hour after hour to masterpieces -that breathe and burn.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Educational Results</span></div> - -<p>But what is the result of our English education? -In one respect admirable; it turns -out boys who are courteous, generous, brave, -active, and public-spirited; but is it impossible -that these qualities should exist with a certain -intellectual standard? I remember now, -though I did not apply any theory at the time -to the phenomenon, that when at school I used -dimly to wonder at seeing boys who were all -these things—fond of talk, fond of games, -devoted to all open-air exercises, conscientious -and wholesome-minded, who were at the same -time utterly listless in intellectual things—who -could not read a book of any kind except -the simplest novel, and then only to fill a vacant -hour, who could not give a moment’s -attention to the presentment of an interesting -episode, who were moreover utterly contemptuous -of all such things, inclined to think them -intolerably tedious and essentially priggish—and -yet these were the boys of whom most was -made, who were most popular not only with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> -boys but with masters as well, and who, in our -little microcosmography were essentially the -successful people, to be imitated, followed, -and worshipped.</p> - -<p>Now if it were certain that the qualities -which are developed by an English education -would be sacrificed if a higher intellectual -standard were aimed at, I should not hesitate -to sacrifice the intellectual side. But I do not -believe it is necessary; and what is stranger -still, I do not believe that most of our educators -have any idea that the intellectual side of -education is being sacrificed.</p> - -<p>I remember once hearing a veteran and successful -educator say that he considered a well-educated -man was a man whose mind was not -at the mercy of the last new book on any -ordinary subject. If that is an infallible test, -then our public schools may be said to have -succeeded beyond all reasonable expectation. -The ordinary public-school type of man is not -in the least at the mercy of the last new book, -because he is careful never to submit himself -to the chance of pernicious bias—he does not -get so far as to read it.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Educational Aims</span></div> - -<p>At present athletics are so much deferred -to, that boys seem to me to be encouraged deliberately<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> -to lay their plans as if life ended at -thirty. But I believe that schools should aim -at producing a type that should develop naturally -and equably with the years. What we -want to produce is an unselfish, tranquil, contented -type, full of generous visions; neither -prematurely serious nor incurably frivolous, -nor afraid of responsibility, nor morbidly desirous -of influence; neither shunning nor -courting publicity, but natural, wholesome, -truthful, and happy; not afraid of difficulties -nor sadly oppressed with a sense of responsibility; -fond of activity and yet capable of -using and enjoying leisure; not narrow-minded, -not viewing everything from the -standpoint of a particular town or parish, but -patriotic and yet not insular, modern-spirited -and yet not despising the past, practical and -yet with a sense of spiritual realities.</p> - -<p>I think that what is saddest is that the theoretical -perfection screens the practical inutility -of the thing. If it seems good to the -collective wisdom of the country to let education -go, and to make a public-school a kind -of healthy barrack-life for the physical training -of the body, with a certain amount of -mental occupation to fill the vacant hours that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> -might otherwise be mischievous—pleasure -with a hem of duty—let it be frankly admitted -that it is so; but that the education received -by boys at our public-schools is now, except -in intention, literary—that is the position -which I entirely deny.</p> - -<p>Personally I had a certain feeble taste for -literature. I read in a slipshod way a good -deal of English poetry, memoirs, literary history, -and essays, but my reading was utterly -amateurish and unguided. I even had some -slight preferences in style, but I could not -have given a reason for my preference; I -could not write an English essay—I had no -idea of arrangement. I had never been told -to “let the bones show;” I had no sense of proportion, -and considered that anything which -I happened to have in my own mind was relevant -to any subject about which I was writing. -I had never learnt to see the point or to insist -upon the essential.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Classics</span></div> - -<p>Neither do I think that I can claim to have -had any particular love for the classics; but I -was blest with a pictorial mind, and though -much of my classical reading was a mere -weariness to me, I was cheered at intervals -by a sudden romantic glimpse of some scene<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> -or other that seized me with a vivid reality. -The Odyssey and the Æneid were rich in these -surprises; for the talk of Gods, indeed, I had -nothing but bewildered contempt; but such -a scene as that of Laertes in his patched -gaiters, fumbling with a young tree on his upland -farm, at once seized tyrannically upon -my fancy. Catullus, Horace, even Martial, -gave me occasional food for the imagination; -and all at once it seemed worth while to traverse -the arid leagues, or to wade, as Tennyson -said, in a sea of glue, for these divine -moments.</p> - -<p>One such scene that affected my fancy I -will describe in greater detail; and let it stand -as a specimen. It was in the third Æneid; -we were sitting in a dusty class-room, the gas -flaring. The lesson proceeded slowly and -wearily, with a thin trickle of exposition from -the desk, emanating from a master who was -evidently as sick of the whole business as ourselves.</p> - -<p>Andromache, widow of Hector, after a -forced union with Neoptolemus, becomes the -bride of Helenus, Hector’s brother. Helenus -on the death of Pyrrhus becomes his successor -in the chieftainship, and Andromache is once<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> -more a queen. She builds a rustic altar, an -excuse for lamentation, and there bewails the -memory of her first lord. I was reflecting -that she must have made but a dreary wife for -Helenus, when in a moment the scene was -changed. Æneas, it will be remembered, -comes on her in her orisons, with his troop of -warriors behind him, and is greeted by the -terrified queen, who believes him to be an apparition, -with a wild and artless question -ending a burst of passionate grief: “If you -come from the world of spirits,” she says, -“Hector ubi est?” It is one of those sudden -turns that show the ineffable genius of Virgil.</p> - -<p>I saw in a moment a clearing in a wood of -beeches; one great tree stood out from the -rest. Half hidden in the foliage stood a tall -stone pillar, supporting a mouldering urn. -Close beside this was a stone alcove, with a -little altar beneath it. In the alcove stood a -silent listening statue with downcast head. -From the altar went up a little smoke; the -queen herself, a slender figure, clad in black, -with pale worn face and fragile hands, bent -in prayer. By her side were two maidens, -also in the deepest black, a priest in stiff vestments, -and a boy bearing a box of incense.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Virgil</span></div> - -<p>A slight noise falls on the ear of Andromache; -she turns, and there at the edge of a -green forest path, lit by the red light of a low -smouldering sun, stands the figure of a warrior, -his arms rusty and dark, his mailed feet -sunk in the turf, leaning on his spear. His -face is pale and heavily lined, worn with ungentle -experience, and lit by a strange light -of recognition. His pale forked beard falls -on his breast; behind him a mist of spears.</p> - -<p>This was the scene; very rococo, no doubt, -and romantic, but so intensely real, so glowing, -that I could see the pale-stemmed beeches; -and below, through a gap, low fantastic hills -and a wan river winding in the plain. I could -see the white set face of Æneas, the dark-eyed -glance of the queen, the frightened -silence of the worshippers.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> - -<h2>8</h2> - -<p>At Cambridge things were not very different. -I was starved intellectually by the -meagre academical system. I took up the -Classical Tripos, and read, with translations, -in the loosest style imaginable, great masses -of classical literature, caring little about the -subject matter, seldom reading the notes, with -no knowledge of history, archæology, or -philosophy, and even strangely ignorant of -idiom. I received no guidance in these matters; -my attendance at lectures was not insisted -upon; and the composition lecturers, -though conscientious, were not inspiring men. -My tutor did, it must be confessed, make some -attempt to influence my reading, urging me -to lay down a regular plan, and even recommending -books and editions. But I was too -dilatory to carry it out; and though I find -that in one Long Vacation I read through the -Odyssey, the Æneid, and the whole of Aristotle’s -Ethics, yet they left little or no impression<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> -on my mind. I did indeed drift into -a First Class, but this was merely due to -familiarity with, rather than knowledge of, the -Classics; and my ignorance of the commonest -classical rules was phenomenal.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Cambridge Life</span></div> - -<p>But I did derive immense intellectual stimulus -from my Cambridge life, though little -from the prescribed course of study; for I -belonged to a little society that met weekly, -and read papers on literary and ethical subjects, -prolonging a serious, if fitful, discussion -late into the night. I read a great deal of -English in a sketchy way, and even wrote -both poetry and fiction; but I left Cambridge -a thoroughly uneducated man, without an -idea of literary method, and contemning accuracy -and precision in favour of brilliant -and heady writing. The initial impulse to interest -in literature was certainly instinctive in -me; but I maintain that not only did that interest -never receive encouragement from the -professed educators under whose influence I -passed, but that I was not even professionally -trained in the matter; that solidity and accuracy -were never insisted upon; and that the -definiteness, which at least education is capable -of communicating, was either never imparted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> -by mental processes, or that I successfully -resisted the imparting of it—indeed, -never knew that any attempt was being made -to teach me the value or necessity of it.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p> - -<h2>9</h2> - -<p>I had a religious bringing-up. I was made -familiar with the Bible and the offices of religion; -only the natural piety was wanting. -I am quite certain I had no sense of religion -as a child—I do not think I had any morality. -Like many children, I was ruled by associations -rather than by principles. I was sensitive -to disapproval; and being timid by nature, -I was averse to being found out; being moreover -lacking in vitality, I seldom experienced -the sensation of being brought face to face -with temptation—rebellion, anger, and sensual -impulse were unknown to me; but while I was -innocent, I was unconscientious and deceitful, -not so much deliberately as instinctively.</p> - -<p>The sense of religion I take to be, in its -simplest definition, the consciousness of the -presence of the Divine Being, and the practice -of religion to be the maintenance of conscious -union or communion with the Divine. These -were entirely lacking to me. I accepted the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> -fact of God’s existence as I accepted the facts -of history and geography. But my conception -of God, if I may speak plainly and without -profanity, was derived from the Old -Testament, and was destitute of attractiveness. -I conceived of Him as old, vindictive, -unmerciful, occupied in tedious matters, hostile -to all gaiety and juvenility; totally uninterested -in the human race, except in so far -that He regarded their transgressions with -morbid asperity and a kind of gloomy satisfaction, -as giving Him an opportunity of -exercising coercive discipline. He was never -represented to me as the Giver of the simple -joys of life—of light and warmth, of food -and sleep, as the Creator of curious and sweet-smelling -flowers, of aromatic shrubs, of waving -trees, of horned animals and extravagant -insects. Considering how entirely creatures -of sense children are, it has seemed to me -since that it would be well if their simplest -pleasures, the material surroundings of their -lives, were connected with the idea of God—if -they felt that what they enjoyed was sent -by Him; if it were said of a toy that “God -sends you this;” or of some domestic festivity -that “God hopes that you will be happy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> -to-day,”—it appears to me that we should have -less of that dreary philosophy which connects -“God’s will” only with moments of bereavement -and suffering. If we could only feel -with Job, that God, who sends us so much -that is sweet and wholesome, has equally the -right to send us what is evil, we could early -grow to recognise that, when the greater part -of our lives is made up of what is desirable -or interesting, and when we cling to life and -the hope of happiness with so unerring an instinct, -it is probable, nay, certain, that our -afflictions must be ultimately intended to minister -to the fulness of joy.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Religion</span></div> - -<p>Certainly religious practices, though I enjoyed -them in many ways, had no effect on -conduct; indeed, I never thought of them as -having any concern with conduct. Religious -services never seemed to me in childhood to be -solemnities designed for the hallowing of life, -or indeed as having any power to do so, but -merely as part of the framework of duty, as -ceremonies out of which it was possible to -derive a certain amount of interest and satisfaction.</p> - -<p>Church was always a pleasure to me; I -liked the <i lang="fr">mise-en-scène</i>, the timbered roof, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> -fallen day, the stained glass, the stone pillars, -the comfortable pew, the rubricated prayer-book, -the music, the movements of the minister—these -all had a definite æsthetic effect -upon me; moreover, it was a pleasure to note, -with the unshrinking gaze of childhood, the -various delightful peculiarities of members -of the congregation: the old man with apple-red -cheeks, in his smock-frock, who came with -rigid, creaking boots to his place; the sexton, -with his goat-like beard; the solicitor, who -emitted sounds in the hymns like the lowing -of a cow; the throaty tenor, who had but one -vowel for all; the dowager in purple silk, who -sat through the Psalms and inspected her -prayer-book through a gold eye-glass as -though she were examining some natural -curiosity. All these were, in childish parlance, -“so funny.” And Church was thus a -place to which I went willingly and joyfully; -the activity of my observation saved me from -the tedium with which so many children regard -it.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Religious Sentiment</span></div> - -<p>This vacuous æstheticism in the region of -religion continued with me through my school -days. Of purpose and principle there was no -trace. I do indeed remember one matter in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> -which I had recourse to prayer. At my private -school, a big suburban establishment, I -was thrust into a large dormitory, a shrinking -and bewildered atom, fresh from the privacies -and loving attentions of the nursery, and required -to undress and go to bed before the -eyes of fifty boys. It was a rude introduction -to the world, and it is strange to reflect upon -the helpless despair with which a little soul -can be filled under circumstances which to -maturer thoughts appear almost idyllic. But -while I crouched miserably upon my bed, as -I prepared to slip between the sheets—of -which the hard texture alone dismayed me—I -was struck by a shoe, mischievously, but not -brutally thrown by a bigger boy some yards -away. Is it amusing or pathetic to reflect -that night after night I prayed that this might -not be repeated, using a suffrage of the -Litany about our persecutors and slanderers, -which seemed to me dismally appropriate?</p> - -<p>At the public school to which I was shortly -transferred, where I enjoyed a tranquil and -uneventful existence, religion was still a sentiment. -Being one of the older foundations -we had a paid choir, and the musical service -was a real delight to me. I loved the dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> -roof and the thunders of the organ; even now -I can recollect the thrill with which I looked -day after day at the pure lines of the Tudor -building, the innumerable clustered shafts -that ran from pavement to roof. I cared little -for the archæology and history of the -place, but the grace of antiquity, the walls of -mellow brick, the stone-crop that dripped in -purple tufts among the mouldering stones of -the buttress, the very dust that clung to the -rafters of the ancient refectory—all these I -noted with secret thrills of delight.</p> - -<p>Still no sense of reality touched me; life -was but a moving pageant, in which I played -as slight a part as I could contrive to play. -I was inoffensive; my work was easy to me. -I had some congenial friends, and dreamed -away the weeks in a gentle indolence set in a -framework of unengrossing duties.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Pleasures of Ritual</span></div> - -<p>About my sixteenth year I made friends -with a high-church curate whom I met in the -holidays, who was indeed distantly related to -me; he was attached to a large London church, -which existed mainly for ornate services, and -I used to go up from school occasionally to -see him, and even spent a few days in his -house at the beginning or end of the holidays.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> -Looking back, he seems to me now to have -been a somewhat inert and sentimental person, -but I acquired from him a real love of -liturgical things, wrote out with my own hand -a book of Hours, carefully rubricated—though -I do not recollect that I often used it—and -became more ceremonial than ever. I -had long settled that I was to take Orders, -and I well recollect the thrill with which on -one of these visits I saw my friend ascend the -high stone pulpit of the tall church, with flaring -lights, in a hood of a strange pattern, -which he assured me was the antique shape. -The sermon was, I even now recollect, deplorable -both in language and thought, but that -seemed to me a matter of entire indifference; -the central fact was that he stood there vested -with due solemnity, and made rhetorical motions -with an easy grace.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">A Benediction</span></div> - -<p>At this time, too, at school, I took to frequenting -the service of the cathedral in the -town whenever I was able, and became a familiar -figure to vergers and clergy. I have -no doubt that were I to be made a bishop, this -fact would be cited as an instance of early -piety, but the truth was that it was, so to -speak, a mere amusement. I can honestly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> -say that it had no sort of effect on my life, -which ran indolently on, side by side with the -ritual preoccupation, unaffected by it, and indeed -totally distinct from it. My confirmation -came in the middle of these diversions; -the solid and careful preparation that I received -I looked upon as so much tedious -lecturing to be decorously borne, and beside a -dim pleasure in the ceremony, I do not think -it had any influence of a practical kind. -Once, indeed, there did pass a breath of vital -truth over my placid and self-satisfied life, -like a breeze over still water. There came to -stay with us in the holidays an elderly clergyman, -a friend of my mother’s, a London rector, -whose whole life was sincerely given to -helping souls to the light, and who had escaped -by some exquisite lucidity of soul the self-consciousness—too -often, alas, the outcome of -the adulation which is the shadow of holy influence. -He had the gift of talking simply -and sweetly about spiritual things—indeed -nothing else interested him; conversation -about books or politics he listened to with a -gentle urbanity of tolerance; yet when he -talked himself, he never dogmatised, but appealed -with a wistful smile to his hearers to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> -confirm the experiences which he related. -Me, though an awkward boy, he treated with -the most winning deference, and on the morning -of his departure asked me with delightful -grace to accompany him on a short walk, and -opened to me the thought of the hallowing -presence of Christ in daily life. It seems to -me now that he was inviting my confidence, -but I had none to give him; so with a memorable -solemnity he bade me, if I ever needed -help in spiritual things, to come freely to -him; I remember that he did so without any -sense of patronage, but as an older disciple, -wrestling with the same difficulties, and only -a little further ahead in the vale of life. -Lastly he took me to his room, knelt down beside -me, and prayed with exquisite simplicity -and affection that I might be enriched with -the knowledge of Christ, and then laid his -hand upon my head with a loving benediction. -For days and even weeks that talk and that -benediction dwelt with me; but the time had -not come, and I was to be led through darker -waters; and though I prayed for many days -intensely that some revelation of truth might -come to me, yet the seed had fallen on shallow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span> -soil, and was soon scorched up again by the -genial current of my daily life.</p> - -<p>I think, though I say this with sadness, that -he represented religion as too much a withdrawal -from life for one so young, and did -not make it clear to me that my merriment, -my joys, my interests, and my ambitions -might be hallowed and invigorated. He had -himself subordinated life and character so -completely to one end, and thrown aside (if -he had ever possessed them) the dear prejudices -and fiery interests of individuality, that -I doubt if he could have thrown his imagination -swiftly enough back into all the energetic -hopes, the engrossing beckonings of opening -manhood.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> - -<h2>10</h2> - -<p>The rest of my school life passed without -any important change of view. I became successful -in games, popular, active-minded. I -won a scholarship at Cambridge with disastrous -ease.</p> - -<p>Then Cambridge life opened before me. -I speak elsewhere of my intellectual and social -life there, and will pass on to the next event -of importance in my religious development.</p> - -<p>My life had become almost purely selfish. -I was not very ambitious of academical honours, -though I meant to secure a modest first-class; -but I was intensely eager for both social -and literary distinction, and submitted myself -to the full to the dreamful beauty of my surroundings, -and the delicious thrill of artistic -pleasures.</p> - -<p>I have often thought how strangely and -secretly the crucial moment, the most agonising -crisis of my life drifted upon me. I say -deliberately that, looking back over my forty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> -years of life, no day was so fraught for me -with fate, no hour so big with doomful issues, -as that day which dawned so simply and sped -past with such familiar ease to the destined -hour—that moment which waved me, led by -sociable curiosity, into the darkness of suffering -and agony. A new birth indeed! The -current of my days fell, as it were, with suddenness, -unexpected, unguessed at, into the -weltering gulf of despair; that hour turned -me in an instant from a careless boy into a -troubled man. And yet how easily it might -have been otherwise—no, I dare not say that.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Evangelist</span></div> - -<p>It had been like any other day. I had been -to the dreary morning service, read huskily -by a few shivering mortals in the chilly -chapel; I had worked, walked in the afternoon -with a friend, and we had talked of our plans—all -we meant to do and be. After hall, I -went to have some coffee in the rooms of a -mild and amiable youth, now a church dignitary -in the Colonies. I sat, I remember, on -a deep sofa, which I afterwards bought and -still possess. Our host carelessly said that a -great Revivalist was to address a meeting that -night. Some one suggested that we should go. -I laughingly assented. The meeting was held<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> -in a hall in a side street; we went smiling and -talking, and took our places in a crowded -room. The first item was the appearance of -an assistant, who accompanied the evangelist -as a sort of precentor—an immense bilious -man, with black hair, and eyes surrounded by -flaccid, pendent, baggy wrinkles—who came -forward with an unctuous gesture, and took -his place at a small harmonium, placed so -near the front of the platform that it looked -as if both player and instrument must inevitably -topple over; it was inexpressibly ludicrous -to behold. Rolling his eyes in an -affected manner, he touched a few simple -cords, and then a marvellous transformation -came over the room. In a sweet, powerful -voice, with an exquisite simplicity combined -with irresistible emotion, he sang “There were -Ninety-and-Nine.” The man was transfigured. -A deathly hush came over the room, -and I felt my eyes fill with tears; his physical -repulsiveness slipped from him, and left a -sincere impulsive Christian, whose simple -music spoke straight to the heart.</p> - -<p>Then the preacher himself—a heavy-looking, -commonplace man, with a sturdy figure -and no grace of look or gesture—stepped forward.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> -I have no recollection how he began, -but he had not spoken half-a-dozen sentences -before I felt as though he and I were alone -in the world. The details of that speech have -gone from me. After a scathing and indignant -invective on sin, he turned to draw a picture -of the hollow, drifting life, with feeble, -mundane ambitions—utterly selfish, giving no -service, making no sacrifice, tasting the moment, -gliding feebly down the stream of -time to the roaring cataract of death. Every -word he said burnt into my soul. He seemed -to me to probe the secrets of my innermost -heart; to be analysing, as it were, before the -Judge of the world, the arid and pitiful constituents -of my most secret thought. I did -not think I could have heard him out ... -his words fell on me like the stabs of a knife. -Then he made a sudden pause, and in a peroration -of incredible dignity and pathos he -drew us to the feet of the crucified Saviour, -showed us the bleeding hand and the dimmed -eye, and the infinite heart behind. “Just -<em>accept</em> Him,” he cried; “in a moment, in the -twinkling of an eye, you may be His—nestling -in His arms—with the burden of sin and -selfishness resting at His feet.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Wounded Deep</span></div> - -<p>Even as he spoke, pierced as I was to the -heart by contrition and anguish, I knew that -this was not for me.... He invited all -who would be Christ’s to wait and plead with -him. Many men—even, I was surprised to -see, a careless, cynical companion of my own—crowded -to the platform, but I went out -into the night, like one dizzied with a sudden -blow. I was joined, I remember, by a tutor -of my college, who praised the eloquence of -the address, and was surprised to find me so -little responsive; but my only idea was to escape -and be alone: I felt like a wounded creature, -who must crawl into solitude. I went to -my room, and after long and agonising prayers -for light, an intolerable weariness fell -on me, and I slept.</p> - -<p>I awoke at some dim hour of the night in -the clutch of insupportable fear; let me say -at once that with the miserable weeks that followed -there was mingled much of physical -and nervous suffering, far more, indeed, than -I then knew, or was permitted to know. I -had been reading hard, and throwing myself -with unaccustomed energy into a hundred new -ideas and speculations. I had had a few -weeks before a sudden attack of sleeplessness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> -which should have warned me of overstrain. -But now every nervous misery known to man -beset me—intolerable depression, spectral remorse, -nocturnal terrors. My work was neglected. -I read the Bible incessantly, and -prayed for the hour together. Sometimes my -depression would leave me for a few hours, -like a cat playing with a mouse, and leap upon -me like an evil spirit in the middle of some -social gathering or harmless distraction, striking -the word from my lips and the smile -from my face.</p> - -<p>For some weeks this lasted, and I think I -was nearly mad. Two strange facts I will record. -One day, beside myself with agitation, -seeing no way out—for my prayers seemed to -batter, as it were, like waves against a stony -and obdurate cliff, and no hope or comfort -ever slid into my soul—I wrote two letters: -one to an eminent Roman Catholic, in whose -sermons I had found some encouragement, -and one to the elder friend I have above -spoken of. In two days I received the answers. -That from the Romanist hard, irritated, -and bewildered—my only way was to -submit myself to true direction, and he did not -see that I had any intention of doing this;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> -that it was obvious that I was being plagued -for some sin which I had not ventured to open -to him. I burnt the letter with a hopeless -shudder. The other from my old friend, appointing -a time to meet me, and saying that -he understood, and that my prayers would -avail.</p> - -<p>I went soon after to see him, in a dark -house in a London square. He heard me with -the utmost patience, bade me believe that I -was not <em>alone</em> in my experience; that in many -a life there was—there must be—some root of -bitterness that must flower before the true -seed could be sown, and adding many other -manly and tender things.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Liberty</span></div> - -<p>He gave me certain directions, and though -I will confess that I could not follow them -for long—the soul must find her own path, -I think, among the crags—yet he led me into -a calmer, quieter, more tranquil frame of -mind; he taught me that I must not expect -to find the way all at once, that long coldness -and habitual self-deceit must be slowly -purged away. But I can never forget the -infinite gratitude I owe him for the loving and -strenuous way in which he brought me out into -a place of liberty with the tenderness of a true -father in God.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> - -<h2>11</h2> - -<p>Thus rudely awakened to the paramount -necessity of embracing a faith, bowing to a -principle, obeying a gentle force which should -sustain and control the soul, I flung myself -for a time with ardour into theological reading, -my end not erudition, but to drink at the -source of life. Is it arrogant to say that I -passed through a painful period of disillusionment? -all round the pure well I found -traces of strife and bitterness. I cast no -doubt on the sincerity and zeal of those who -had preceded me; but not content with drinking, -and finding their eyes enlightened, they -had stamped the margin of the pool into the -mire, and the waters rose turbid and strife-stained -to the lip. Some, like cattle on a summer -evening, seemed to stand and brood within -the pool itself, careless if they fouled the -waters; others had built themselves booths on -the margin, and sold the precious draughts in -vessels of their own, enraged that any should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> -desire the authentic stream. There was, it -seemed, but little room for the wayfarer; and -the very standing ground was encumbered -with impotent folk.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Discerning the Faith</span></div> - -<p>Not to strain a metaphor, I found that the -commentators obscured rather than assisted. -What I desired was to realise the character, -to divine the inner thoughts of Jesus, to be -fired by the impetuous eloquence of Paul, to -be strengthened by the ardent simplicity of -John. These critics, men of incredible diligence -and patience, seemed to me to make a -fence about the law, and to wrap the form I -wished to see in innumerable vestments of -curious design. Readers of the Protagoras -of Plato will remember how the great sophist -spoke from the centre of a mass of rugs and -coverlets, among which, for his delectation, -he lay, while the humming of his voice filled -the arches of the cloister with a heavy burden -of sound. I found myself in the same position -as the disciples of Protagoras; the voice -that I longed to hear, spoke, but it had to -penetrate through the wrappings and veils -which these men, in their zeal for service, had -in mistaken reverence flung about the lively -oracle.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> - -<p>A wise man said to me not long ago that -the fault of teaching nowadays was that -knowledge was all coined into counters; and -that the desire of learners seemed to be not -to possess themselves of the ore, not to -strengthen and toughen the mind by the pursuit, -but to possess themselves of as many of -these tokens as possible, and to hand them on -unchanged and unchangeable to those who -came to learn of themselves.</p> - -<p>This was my difficulty; the shelves teemed -with books, the lecturers cried aloud in every -College court, like the jackdaws that cawed -and clanged about the venerable towers; and -for a period I flew with notebook and pen -from lecture to lecture, entering admirable -maxims, acute verbal distinctions, ingenious -parallels in my poor pages. At home I turned -through book after book, and imbued myself -in the learning of the schools, dreaming that, -though the rind was tough, the precious morsels -lay succulent within.</p> - -<p>In this conceit of knowledge I was led to -leave my College and to plunge into practical -life; what my work was shall presently be -related, but I will own that it was a relief. I -had begun to feel that though I had learnt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> -the use of the tools, I was no nearer finding -the precious metal of which I was in search.</p> - -<p>The further development of my faith after -this cannot be told in detail, but it may be -briefly sketched, after a life of some intellectual -activity, not without practical employment, -which has now extended over many -years.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Father</span></div> - -<p>I began, I think, very far from Christ. -The only vital faith that I had at first was an -intense instinctive belief in the absolute power, -the infinite energies, of the Father; to me he -was not only Almighty, as our weak word -phrases it, a Being who could, if he would, exert -His power, but παντοκρατῶρ—all-conquering, -all-subduing. I was led, by a process of -mathematical certainty, to see that if the -Father was anywhere, He was everywhere; -that if He made us and bade us be, He was -responsible for the smallest and most sordid -details of our life and thought, as well as for -the noblest and highest. It cannot indeed be -otherwise; every thought and action springs -from some cause, in many cases referable to -events which took place in lives outside of and -anterior to our own. In any case in which -a man seems to enjoy the faculty of choice,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> -his choice is in reality determined by a number -of previous causes; given all the data, his action -could be inevitably predicted. Thus I -gradually realised that sin in the moral world, -and disease in the physical, are each of them -some manifestation of the Eternal Will. If -He gives to me the joy of life, the energy of -action, did He not give it to the subtle fungus, -to the venomous bacteria which, once established -in our bodies, are known by the names -of cancer and fever? Why all life should be -this uneasy battle I know not; but if we can -predicate consciousness of any kind to these -strange rudiments, the living slime of the pit, -is it irreverent to say that faith may play a -part in their work as well? When the health-giving -medicine pours along our veins, what -does it mean but that everywhere it leaves destruction -behind it, and that the organisms of -disease which have, with delighted zest, been -triumphing in their chosen dwelling and rioting -in the instinctive joy of life, sadly and -mutely resign the energy that animates them, -or sink into sleep. It is all a balance, a strife, -a battle. Why such striving and fighting, -such uneasy victory and deep unrest should -be the Father’s will for all His creatures, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> -know not; but that it <em>is</em> a condition, a law of -His own mind, I can reverently believe. -When we sing the <cite>Benedicite</cite>, which I for one -do with all my heart, we must be conscious -that it is only a selection, after all, of phenomena -that are impressive, delightful, or useful -to ourselves. Nothing that we call, God -forgive us, noxious, finds a place there. St. -Francis, indeed, went further, and praised -God for “our sister the Death of the Body,” -but in the larger <cite>Benedicite</cite> of the universe, -which is heard by the ear of God, the fever -and the pestilence, the cobra and the graveyard -worm utter their voices too; and who -shall say that the Father hears them not?</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Joy of the World</span></div> - -<p>If one believes that happiness is inch by -inch diminishing, that it is all a losing fight, -then it must be granted that we have no refuge -but in a Stoic hardening of the heart; -but when we look at life and see the huge -preponderance of joy over pain—such tracts -of healthy energy, sweet duty, quiet movement—indeed -when we see, as we often do, the -touching spectacle of hope and joy again and -again triumphant over weakness and weariness; -when we see such unselfishness abroad, -such ardent desire to lighten the loads of others<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> -and to bear their burdens; then it is faithless -indeed if we allow ourselves to believe -that the Father has any end in view but the -ultimate happiness of all the innumerable -units, which He endows with independent energies, -and which, one by one, after their short -taste of this beautiful and exquisite world, -resign their powers again, often so gladly, -into His hand.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Our Insignificance</span></div> - -<p>But the fault, if I may so phrase it, of this -faith, is the vastness of the conception to -which it opens the mind. When I contemplate -this earth with its continents and islands, -its mountains and plains, all stored with histories -of life and death, the bones of dead -monsters, the shattered hulks of time; the vast -briny ocean with all the mysterious life that -stirs beneath the heaving crests; when I realise -that even this world, with all its infinite records -of life, is but a speck in the heavens, and that -every one of the suns of space may be surrounded -with the same train of satellites, in -which some tumultuous drama of life may be, -nay, must be enacting itself—that even on -the fiery orbs themselves some appalling Titan -forms may be putting forth their prodigious -energies, suffering and dying—the mind of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> -man reels before the thought;—and yet all -is in the mind of God. The consciousness of -the microscopic minuteness of my own life -and energies, which yet are all in all to me, -becomes crushing and paralysing in the light -of such a thought. It seems impossible to -believe, in the presence of such a spectacle, -that the single life can have any definite importance, -and the temptation comes to resign -all effort, to swim on the stream, just planning -life to be as easy and as pleasant as possible, -before one sinks into the abyss.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span></p> - -<h2>12</h2> - -<p>From such a paralysis of thought and life two -beliefs have saved me.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Master</span></div> - -<p>First, it may be confessed, came the belief -in the Spirit of God, the thought of inner holiness, -not born from any contemplation of the -world around, which seems indeed to point -to far different ideals. Yet as true and truer -than the bewildering example of nature is the -inner voice which speaks, after the wind and -storm, in the silent solitudes of the soul. -That this voice exists and is heard can admit -of no tangible demonstration; each must speak -for himself; but experience forbids me to -doubt that there is something which contradicts -the seduction of appetite, something -which calls, as it were, a flush to the face of -the soul at the thought of triumphs of sense, -a voice that without being derisive or harsh, -yet has a terrible and instantaneous severity; -and wields a mental scourge, the blows of -which are no less fearful to receive because<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> -they are accompanied with no physical disaster. -To recognise this voice as the very voice -and word of the Father to sentient souls, is -the inevitable result of experience and -thought.</p> - -<p>Then came the triumphant belief, weak at -first, but taking slow shape, that the attitude -of the soul to its Maker can be something -more than a distant reverence, an overpowering -awe, a humble worship; the belief, the certainty -that it can be, as it were, a personal -link—that we can indeed hold converse with -God, speak with Him, call upon Him, put to -use a human phrase, our hand in His, only desiring -to be led according to His will.</p> - -<p>Then came the further step; after some -study of the systems of other teachers of humanity, -after a desire to find in the great redeemers -of mankind, in Buddha, Socrates, -Mahomet, Confucius, Shakespeare, the secret -of self-conquest, of reconciliation, the knowledge -slowly dawns upon the mind that in -Jesus of Galilee alone we are in the presence -of something which enlightens man not from -within but from without. The other great -teachers of humanity seem to have looked -upon the world and into their own hearts, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> -deduced from thence, by flashes of indescribable -genius, some order out of the chaos, some -wise and temperate scheme, but with Jesus—though -I long resisted the conviction—it is -different. He comes, not as a man speaking -by observation and thought, but as a visitant -from some secret place, who knows the truth -rather than guesses at it. I need not say that -his reporters, the Gospel writers, had but an -imperfect conception of His majesty. His ineffable -greatness—it could not well be otherwise; -the mystery rather is that with such simple -views of life, such elementary conceptions -of the scheme of things, they yet gave so much -of the stupendous truth, and revealed Jesus -in his words and acts as the Divine Man, who -spoke to man not by spiritual influences but -by the very authentic utterance of God. -Such teaching as the parables, such scenes -as the raising of Lazarus, or the midday talk -by the wayside well of Sychar, emerge from -all art and history with a dignity that lays no -claim to the majesty that they win; and as the -tragedy darkens and thickens to its close, such -scenes as the trial, recorded by St. John, and -the sacred death, bring home to the mind the -fact that no mere humanity could bear itself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> -with such gentle and tranquil dignity, such -intense and yet such unselfish suffering as -were manifested in the Son of Man.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Return</span></div> - -<p>And so, as the traveller goes out and wanders -through the cities of men, among stately -palaces, among the glories of art, or climbs -among the aching solitudes of lonely mountains, -or feasts his eyes upon green isles floating -in sapphire seas, and returns to find that -the old strait dwelling-place, the simple duties -of life, the familiar friends, homely though -they be, are the true anchors of the spirit; so, -after a weary pilgrimage, the soul comes back, -with glad relief, with wistful tenderness, to -the old beliefs of childhood, which, in its pride -and stubbornness, it cast aside, and rejected -as weak and inadequate and faded; finds after -infinite trouble and weariness that it has -but learnt afresh what it knew; and that -though the wanderer has ransacked the world, -digged and drunk strange waters, trafficked -for foreign merchandise, yet the Pearl of -Price, the White Stone is hidden after all in -his own garden-ground, and inscribed with his -own new name.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p> - -<h2>13</h2> - -<p>I need not enter very closely into the period -of my life which followed the university. -After a good deal of hesitation and uncertainty -I decided to enter for the Home Civil -Service, and obtained a post in a subordinate -office. The work I found not wholly uninteresting, -but it needs no special record here. -I acquired the knowledge of how to conduct -business, a certain practical power of foreseeing -contingencies, a certain acquaintance with -legal procedure, and some knowledge of human -nature in its official aspect.</p> - -<p>Intellectually and morally this period of my -life was rather stagnant. I had been through -a good deal of excitement, of mental and moral -malady, of general <i lang="fr">bouleversement</i>. Nature -exacted a certain amount of quiescence, -melancholy quiescence for the most part, because -I felt myself singularly without energy -to carry out my hopes and schemes, and at -the same time it seemed that time was ebbing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> -away purposelessly, and that I was not driving, -so to speak, any piles in the fluid and oozy -substratum of ideas on which my life seemed -built. To revel in metaphors, I was like a -snake which has with a great strain bolted a -quadruped, and needs a long space of uneasy -and difficult digestion. But at the time -I did not see this; I only thought I was losing -time: I felt with Milton—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth,</div> -<div class="verse">Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But beset as I was by the sublime impatience -of youth, I had not serenity enough to follow -out the thoughts which Milton works out in -the rest of the sonnet.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Literary Work</span></div> - -<p>At the same time, so far as literary work -went, to which I felt greatly drawn, I was not -so impatient. I wrote a great deal for my -private amusement, and to practise facility of -expression, but with little idea of hurried publication. -A story which I sent to a well-known -editor was courteously returned to me, with a -letter in which he stated that he had read my -work carefully, and that he felt it a duty to -tell me that it was “sauce without meat.” -This kind and wholesome advice made a great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> -difference to me; I determined that I would -attempt to live a little before I indulged in -baseless generalisation, or lectured other people -on the art of life. I soon gained great -facility in writing, and developed a theory, -which I have ever since had no reason to doubt, -that performance is simply a matter of the intensity -of desire. If one only wants enough -to complete a definite piece of work, be it -poem, essay, story, or some far more definite -and prosaic task, I have found that it gets -itself done in spite of the insistent pressure of -other businesses and the deadening monotony -of heavy routine, simply because one goes back -to it with delight, schemes to clear time for -it, waits for it round corners, and loses no -time in spurring and whipping the mind to -work, which is necessary in the case of less attractive -tasks. The moment that there comes -a leisurely gap, the mind closes on the beloved -work like a limpet; when this happens -day after day and week after week, the accumulations -become prodigious.</p> - -<p>I thus felt gradually more and more, that -when the <i lang="la">magnum opus</i> did present itself to -be done, I should probably be able to carry it -through; and meanwhile I had sufficient self-respect,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> -although I suffered twinges of -thwarted ambition, not to force my crude -theories, my scrambling prose, or my faltering -verse upon the world.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">London</span></div> - -<p>Meanwhile I lived a lonely sort of life, with -two or three close intimates. I never really -cared for London, but it is at the same time -idle to deny its fascination. In the first place -it is full from day to day of prodigious, astounding, -unexpected beauties—sometimes -beauty on a noble scale, in the grand style, -such as when the sunset shakes its hair among -ragged clouds, and the endless leagues of -house-roofs and the fronts of town palaces -dwindle into a far-off steely horizon-line under -the huge and wild expanse of sky. Sometimes -it is the smaller, but no less alluring -beauty of subtle atmospherical effects; and so -conventional is the human appreciation of -beauty that the constant presence, in these -London pictures, of straight framing lines, -contributed by house-front and street-end, is -an aid to the imagination. Again, there is -the beauty of contrasts; the vignettes afforded -by the sudden blossoming of rustic flowers -and shrubs in unexpected places; the rustle of -green leaves at the end of a monotonous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> -street. And then, apart from natural beauty, -there is the vast, absorbing, incredible pageant -of humanity, full of pathos, of wistfulness, -and of sweetness. But of this I can say but -little; for it always moved me, and moves me -yet, with a sort of horror. I think it was always -to me a spectacular interest; I never felt -<em>one</em> with the human beings whom I watched, -or even in the same boat, so to speak, with -them; the contemplation of the fact that I -am one of so many millions has been to me a -humiliating rather than an inspiring thought; -it dashes the pleasures of individuality; it arraigns -the soul before a dark and inflexible -bar. Passing daily through London, there is -little possibility in the case of an imaginative -man for hopeful expansion of the heart, little -ground for anything but an acquiescent acceptance. -Under these conditions it is too -rudely brought home to me to be wholesome, -how ineffective, undistinguished, typical, minute, -uninteresting any one human being is after -all: and though the sight of humanity in -every form is attractive, bewildering, painfully -interesting, thrilling, and astounding—though -one finds unexpected beauty and goodness -everywhere—yet I recognise that city life<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> -had a deadening effect on my consciousness, -and hindered rather than helped the development -of thought and life.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Artist</span></div> - -<p>Still, in other ways this period was most -valuable—it made me practical instead of -fanciful; alert instead of dreamy; it made me -feel what I had never known before, the -necessity for grasping the <em>exact</em> point of a -matter, and not losing oneself among side issues. -It helped me out of the entirely amateurish -condition of mind into which I had -been drifting—and, moreover, it taught me -one thing which I had never realised, a lesson -for which I am profoundly grateful, -namely that literature and art play a very -small part in the lives of the majority of people; -that most men have no sort of an idea that -they are serious matters, but look upon them -as more or less graceful amusements; that in -such regions they have no power of criticism, -and no judgment; but that these are not -nearly such serious defects as the defect of -vision which the artist and the man of letters -suffer from and encourage—the defect, I -mean, of treating artistic ideals as matters of -pre-eminent national, even of moral importance. -They must be content to range themselves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> -frankly with other craftsmen; they may -sustain themselves by thinking that they may -help, a very little, to ameliorate conditions, to -elevate the tone of morality and thought, to -provide sources of recreation, to strengthen -the sense of beauty; but they must remember -that they cannot hope to belong to the primal -and elemental things of life. Not till the -primal needs are satisfied does the work of the -poet and artist begin—“After the banquet, -the minstrel.”</p> - -<p>The poet and the artist too often live, like -the Lady of Shalott, weaving a magic web of -fair and rich colour, but dealing not with life -itself, and not even with life viewed <i lang="la">ipsis -oculis</i>, but in the magic mirror. The Lady of -Shalott is doubly secluded from the world; she -does not mingle with it, she does not even see -it; so the writer sometimes does not even see -the life which he describes, but draws his -knowledge secondhand, through books and -bookish secluded talk. I do not think that I -under-rate the artistic vocation; but it is only -one of many, and, though different in kind, -certainly not superior to the vocations of those -who do the practical work of the world.</p> - -<p>From this dangerous heresy I was saved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> -just at the moment when it was waiting to -seize upon me, and at a time when a man’s -convictions are apt to settle themselves for life, -by contact with the prosaic, straightforward -and commonplace world.</p> - -<p>At one time I saw a certain amount of society; -my father’s old friends were very kind -to me, and I was thus introduced to what is -a far more interesting circle of society than -the circle which would rank itself highest, and -which spends an amount of serious toil in the -search of amusement, with results which to an -outsider appear to be unsatisfactory. The -circle to which I gained admittance was the -official set—men who had definite and interesting -work in the world—barristers, government -officials, politicians and the like, men -versed in affairs, and with a hard and definite -knowledge of what was really going on. -Here I learnt how different is the actual movement -of politics from the reflection of it which -appears in the papers, which often definitely -conceals the truth from the public.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Diversions</span></div> - -<p>My amusements at this period were of the -mildest character; I spent Sundays in the -summer months at Golden End; Sundays in -the winter as a rule at my lodgings; and devoted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> -the afternoons on which I was free, to -long aimless rambles in London, or even -farther afield. I have an absurd pleasure in -observing the details of domestic architecture; -and there is a variety of entertainment to be -derived, for a person with this low and feeble -taste, from the exploration of London, which -would probably be inconceivable to persons of -a more conscientious artistic standard.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">A Rude Shock</span></div> - -<p>At this period I had few intimates; and sociable -as I had been at school and college, I -was now thrown far more on my own resources; -I sometimes think it was a wise and -kindly preparation for what was coming; and -I certainly learnt the pleasures to be derived -from reading and lonely contemplation and -solitary reflection, pleasures which have stood -me in good stead in later days. I used indeed -to think that the enforced spending of so -many hours of the day with other human beings -gave a peculiar zest to these solitary -hours. Whether this was wholesome or -natural I know not, but I certainly enjoyed -it, and lived for several years a life of interior -speculation which was neither sluggish nor -morbid. I learnt my business thoroughly, -and in all probability I should have settled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> -down quietly and comfortably to the life of -a bachelor official, rotating from chambers to -office and from office to club, had it not been -that just at the moment when I was beginning -to crystallise into sluggish, comfortable -habits, I was flung by a rude shock into a very -different kind of atmosphere.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p> - -<h2>14</h2> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Doctor</span></div> - -<p>I must now relate, however briefly, the event -which once for all determined the conditions -of my present life. For the last six months -of my professional work I had been feeling -indefinitely though not decidedly unwell. I -found myself disinclined to exertion, bodily -or mental, easily elated, easily depressed, at -times strangely somnolent, at others irritably -wakeful; at last some troublesome symptoms -warned me that I had better put myself in the -hands of a doctor. I went to a local practitioner -whose account disquieted me; he advised -me to apply to an eminent specialist, which -I accordingly did.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Verdict</span></div> - -<p>I am not likely to forget the incidents of -that day. I went up to London, and made my -way to the specialist’s house. After a dreary -period of waiting, in a dark room looking -out on a blank wall, the table abundantly furnished -with periodicals whose creased and battered -aspect betokened the nervous handling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> -to which they had been subjected, I was at last -summoned to the presence of the great man -himself. He presented an appearance of imperturbable -good-nature; his rosy cheeks, his -little snub nose, his neatly groomed appearance, -his gold-rimmed spectacles, wore an air -of commonplace prosperity that was at once -reassuring. He asked me a number of questions, -made a thorough examination, writing -down certain details in a huge volume, and -finally threw himself back in his chair with -a deliberate air that somewhat disconcerted -me. At last my sentence came. I was undoubtedly -suffering from the premonitory -symptoms of a serious, indeed dangerous complaint, -and I must at once submit myself to -the condition of an invalid life. He drew out -a table diet, and told me to live a healthy, -quiet life under the most restful conditions -attainable. He asked me about my circumstances, -and I told him with as much calmness -as I could muster. He replied that I was -very fortunate, that I must at once give up -professional work and be content to <em>vegetate</em>. -“Mind,” he said, “I don’t want you to be -<em>bored</em>—that will be as bad for you as to be -overworked. But you must avoid all kinds<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> -of worry and fatigue—all extremes. I should -not advise you to travel at present, if you -<em>like</em> a country life—in fact I should say, live -the life that attracts you, apart from any professional -exertions; don’t do anything you -don’t like. Now, Mr. ——,” he continued, “I -have told you the worst—the very worst. I -can’t say whether your constitution will triumph -over this complaint: to be candid, I do -not think it will; but there is no question of -any immediate risk whatever. Indeed, if you -were dependent on your own exertions for a -livelihood, I could promise you some years of -work—though that would render it almost impossible -for you ever to recover. As it is, you -may consider that you have a chance of entire -recovery, and if you can follow my directions, -and no unforeseen complications intervene, -I think you may look forward to a fairly long -life; but mind that any work you do must be -of the nature of amusement. Once and for -all, <em>strain</em> of any sort is out of the question, -and if you indulge in any excessive or exciting -exertions, you will inevitably shorten your life. -There, I have told you a disagreeable truth—make -the best of it—remember that I see -many people every week who have to bear far<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> -more distressing communications. You had -better come to see me every three months, unless -you have any marked symptoms, such as”—(there -followed medical details with which -I need not trouble the reader)—“in that case -come to me at once; but I tell you plainly -that I do not anticipate them. You seem to -have what I call the patient temperament—to -have a vocation, if I may say so,” (here he -smiled benevolently) “for the invalid life.” -He rose as he spoke, shook hands kindly, and -opened the door.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> - -<h2>15</h2> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">New Perceptions</span></div> - -<p>I will confess that at first this communication -was a great shock to me; I was for a time -bewildered and plunged into a deep dejection. -To say farewell to the bustle and activity of -life—to be laid aside on a shelf, like a cracked -vase, turning as far as possible my ornamental -front to the world, spoilt for homely service. -To be relegated to the failures; to be regarded -and spoken of as an invalid—to live the -shadowed life, a creature of rules and hours, -fretting over drugs and beef tea—a degrading, -a humiliating rôle. I admit that the first -weeks of my enforced retirement were bitter -indeed. The perpetual fret of small restrictions -had at first the effect of making me -feel physically and mentally incapable. Only -very gradually did the sad cloud lift. The -first thing that came to my help was a totally -unexpected feeling. When I had got used to -the altered conditions of life, when I found -that the regulated existence had become to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> -large extent mechanical, when I had learnt -to decide instinctively what I could attempt -and what I must leave alone, I found my -perceptions curiously heightened and intensified -by the shadowy background which enveloped -me. Sounds and sights thrilled me in -an unaccustomed way—the very thought, -hardly defined, but existing like a quiet subconsciousness, -that my tenure of life was certainly -frail, and might be brief, seemed to -bring out into sharp relief the simple and unnoticed -sensations of ordinary life. The pure -gush of morning air through the opened casement, -the delicious coolness of water on the -languid body, the liquid song of birds, the -sprouting of green buds upon the hedge, the -sharp and aromatic scent of rosy larch tassels, -the monotonous babble of the stream beneath -its high water plants, the pearly laminæ of the -morning cloudland, the glowing wrack of sunset -with the liquid bays of intenser green—all -these stirred my spirit with an added value of -beauty, an enjoyment at once passionate and -tranquil, as though they held some whispered -secret for the soul.</p> - -<p>The same quickening effect passed, I noticed, -over intellectual perceptions. Pictures<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> -in which there was some latent quality, some -hidden brooding, some mystery lying beneath -and beyond superficial effect, gave up their -secrets to my eye. Music came home to me -with an intensity of pathos and passion which -I had before never even suspected, and even -here the same subtle power of appreciation -seemed to have been granted me. It seemed -that I was no longer taken in by technical art -or mechanical perfection. The hard rippling -cascades which had formerly attracted me, -where a musician was merely working out, if -I may use the word, some subject with a -mathematical precision, seemed to me hollow -and vain; all that was pompous and violent -followed suit, and what I now seemed to be -able to discern was all that endeavoured, however -faultily, to express some ardour of the -spirit, some indefinable delicacy of feeling.</p> - -<p>Something of the same power seemed to be -mine in dealing with literature. All hard brilliance, -all exaggerated display, all literary -agility and diplomacy that might have once -deceived me, appeared to ring cracked and -thin; <em>mere</em> style, style that concealed rather -than expressed thought, fell as it were in glassy -tingling showers on my initiated spirit; while,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> -on the other hand, all that was truthfully felt, -sincerely conceived or intensely desired, drew -me as with a magical compulsion. It was -then that I first perceived what the sympathy, -the perception born of suffering might be, -when that suffering was not so intrusive, so -severe, as to throw the sick spirit back upon -itself—then that I learnt what detachment, -what spectatorial power might be conferred -by a catastrophe not violent, but sure, by a -presage of distant doom. I felt like a man -who has long stumbled among intricate lanes, -his view obscured by the deep-cut earth-walls -of his prison, and by the sordid lower slopes -with their paltry details, when the road leads -out upon the open moor, and when at last he -climbs freely and exultingly upon the broad -grassy shoulders of the hill. The true perspective—the -map of life opened out before -me; I learnt that all art is only valuable when -it is the sedulous flowering of the sweet and -gracious spirit, and that beyond all power of -human expression lies a province where the -deepest thoughts, the highest mysteries of the -spirit sleep—only guessed at, wrestled with, -hankered after by the most skilled master of -all the arts of mortal subtlety.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span></p> - -<p>Perhaps the very thing that made these -fleeting impressions so perilously sweet, was -the sense of their evanescence.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">But oh, the very reason why</div> -<div class="verse">I love them, is because they die.</div> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Shadow</span></div> - -<p class="noindent">In this exalted mood, with this sense of -heightened perception all about me, I began -for awhile to luxuriate. I imagined that I -had learnt a permanent lesson, gained a higher -level of philosophy, escaped from the grip of -material things. Alas! it was but transitory. -I had not triumphed. What I did gain, what -did stay with me, was a more deliberate intention -of enjoying simple things, a greater -expectation of beauty in homely life. This -remained, but in a diminished degree. I suppose -that the mood was one of intense nervous -tension, for by degrees it was shadowed and -blotted, until I fell into a profound depression. -At best what could I hope for?—a -shadowed life, an inglorious gloom? The -dull waste years stretched before me—days, -weeks, months of wearisome little duties; -dreary tending of the lamp of life; and what -a life! life without service, joy, brightness, or -usefulness. I was to be stranded like a hulk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> -on an oozy shore, only thankful for every -month that the sodden timbers still held together. -I saw that something larger and -deeper was required; I saw that religion and -philosophy must unite to form some definite -theory of life, to build a foundation on which -I could securely rest.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p> - -<h2>16</h2> - -<p>The service of others, in some form or another, -must sustain me. Philosophy pointed -out that to narrow my circle every year, -to turn the microscope of thought closer and -closer upon my frail self, would be to sink -month by month deeper into egotism and self-pity. -Religion gave a more generous impulse -still.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Beginnings</span></div> - -<p>What is our duty with respect to philanthropy? -It is obviously absurd to think that -every one is bound to tie themselves hand and -foot to some thoroughly uncongenial task. -Fitness and vocation must come in. Clergy, -doctors, teachers are perhaps the most obvious -professional philanthropists; for either of the -two latter professions I was incapacitated. -Some hovering thought of attempting to take -orders, and to become a kind of amateur, unprofessional -curate, visited me; but my religious -views made that difficult, and the position -of a man who preaches what he does not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> -wholly believe is inconsistent with self-respect. -Christianity as taught by the sects seemed to -me to have drifted hopelessly away from the -detached simplicity inculcated by Christ; to -have become a mere part of the social system, -fearfully invaded and overlaid by centuries -of unintelligent tradition. To work, for instance, -even with Mr. Woodward, at his -orders, on his system, would have been an impossibility -both for him and for myself. I -had, besides, a strong feeling that work, to be -of use, must be done, not in a spirit of complacent -self-satisfaction, but at least with some -energy of enjoyment, some conviction. It -seemed moreover clear that, for a time at all -events, my place and position in the world was -settled: I must live a quiet home life, and endeavour, -at all events, to restore some measure -of effective health. How could I serve my -neighbours best? They were mostly quiet -country people—a few squires and clergy, a -few farmers, and many farm labourers. -Should I accept a country life as my sphere, -or was I bound to try and find some other outlet -for whatever effectiveness I possessed? I -came deliberately to the conclusion that I was -not only not bound to go elsewhere, but that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> -it was the most sensible, wisest, and Christian -solution to stay where I was and make some -experiments.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">My Schemes</span></div> - -<p>The next practical difficulty was <em>how</em> I -could help. English people have a strong -sense of independence. They would neither -understand nor value a fussy, dragooning -philanthropist, who bustled about among them, -finding fault with their domestic arrangements, -lecturing, dictating. I determined -that I would try to give them the help -they wanted; not the help I thought they -ought to want. That I would go among -them with no idea of <em>improving</em>, but of doing, -if possible, neighbourly and unobtrusive kindnesses, -and that under no circumstances would -I diminish their sense of independence by -weak generosity.</p> - -<p>About this time, my mother at luncheon -happened to mention that the widow of a -small farmer, who was living in a cottage not -fifty yards from our gate, was in trouble about -her eldest boy, who was disobedient, idle, and -unsatisfactory. He had been employed by -more than one neighbour in garden work, but -had lost two places by laziness and impertinence. -Here was a <i lang="fr">point d’appui</i>. In the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> -afternoon I strolled across; nervous and shy, -I confess, to a ridiculous degree. I knew the -woman by sight, and little more. I felt -thoroughly unfitted for my rôle, and feared -that patronage would be resented. However, -I went and found Mrs. Dewhurst at home. I -was received with real geniality and something -of delicate sympathy—the news of my -illness had got about. I determined I would -ask no leading questions, but bit by bit her -anxieties were revealed: the boy was a trouble -to her. “What did he want?” She didn’t -know; but he was discontented and naughty, -had got into bad company. I asked if it -would be any good my seeing the boy, and -found that it would evidently be a relief. I -asked her to send the boy to me that evening, -and went away with a real and friendly handshake, -and an invitation to come again. In -the evening Master Dewhurst turned up—a -shy, uninteresting, rather insolent boy, strong -and well-built, and with a world of energy in -his black eyes. I asked him what he wanted -to do, and after a little talk it all came out: -he was sick of the place; he did not want -garden work. “What would he do? What -<em>did</em> he like?” I found that he wanted to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> -something of the world. Would he go to sea? -The boy brightened up at once, and then said -he didn’t want to leave his mother. Our interview -closed, and this necessitated my paying a -further call on the mother, who was most -sensible, and evidently felt that what the boy -wanted was a thorough change.</p> - -<p>To make a long story short, it cost me a -few letters and a very little money, defined as -a loan; the boy went off to a training ship, -and after a few weeks found that he had the -very life he wanted; indeed, he is now a promising -young sailor, who never fails to write to -me at intervals, and who comes to see me whenever -he comes home. The mother is a firm -friend. Now that I am at my ease with her, I -am astonished at the shrewdness and sense of -her talk.</p> - -<p>It would be tedious to recount, as I could, -fifty similar adventures; my enterprises include -a village band, a cricket club, a co-operative -store; but the personal work, such as it is, -has broadened every year: I am an informal -adviser to thirty or forty families, and the -correspondence entailed, to say nothing of my -visits, gives me much pleasant occupation. -The circle now insensibly widens; I do not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> -pretend that there are not times of weariness, -and even disagreeable experiences connected -with it. I am a poor hand in a sick-room, I -confess it with shame; my mother, who is not -particularly interested in her neighbours, is -ten times as effective.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Reward</span></div> - -<p>But what I feel most strongly about the -whole, is the intense interest which has grown -up about it. The trust which these simple -folk repose in me is the factor which rescues -me from the indolent impulse to leave matters -alone; even if I desired to do so, I could not -for very shame disappoint them. Moreover, -I cannot pretend that it takes up very much -time. The institutions run themselves for the -most part. I don’t overdo my visits; indeed, -I seldom go to call on my friends unless there -is something specific to be done. But I am always -at home for them between seven and -eight. My downstairs smoking-room, once -an office, has a door which opens on the drive, -so that it is not necessary for these Nicodemite -visitors to come through the house. -Sometimes for days together I have no one; -sometimes I have three or four callers in the -evening. I don’t talk religion as a rule, unless -I am asked; but we discuss politics and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> -local matters with avidity. I have persistently -refused to take any office, and I fear -that our neighbours think me a very lazy kind -of dilettante, who happens to be interested in -the small-talk of rustics. I will not be a -Guardian, as I have little turn for business; -and when it was suggested to me that I might -be a J. P., I threw cold water on the scheme. -Any official position would alter my relation -to my friends, and I should often be put in -a difficulty; but by being absolutely unattached, -I find that confidential dealings are -made easy.</p> - -<p>I fear that this will sound a very shabby, -unromantic, and gelatinous form of philanthropy, -and I am quite unable to defend it -on utilitarian principles. I can only say that -it is deeply absorbing; that it pays, so to speak, -a large interest on a small investment of -trouble, and that it has given me a sense of -perspective in human things which I never -had before. The difficulty in writing about -it is to abstain from platitudes; I can only -say that it has revealed to me how much more -emotion and experience go to make up a platitude -than I ever suspected before in my ambitious -days.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p> - -<h2>17</h2> - -<p>Ennui is, after all, the one foe that we all -fear; and in arranging our life, the most serious -preoccupation is how to escape it. The -obvious reply is, of course, “plenty of cheerful -society.” But is not general society to a -man with a taste for seclusion the most irritating, -wearing, <i lang="fr">ennuyeux</i> method of filling -the time? It is not the actual presence of -people that is distressing, though that in some -moods is unbearable, but it is the consciousness -of duties towards them, whether as host -or guest, that sits, like the Old Man of the Sea, -upon one’s shoulders. A considerable degree -of seclusion can be attained by a solitary-minded -man at a large hotel. The only time -of the day when you are compelled to be -gregarious is the table d’hôte dinner; and then, -even if you desire to talk, it is often made impossible -by the presence of foreigners among -whom one is sandwiched. But take a visit at -a large English country-house; a mixed party<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> -with possibly little in common; the protracted -meals, the vacuous sessions, the interminable -promenades. Men are better off than women -in this respect, as at most periods of the year -they are swept off in the early forenoon to -some vigorous employment, and are not expected -to return till tea-time. But take such -a period in August, a month in which many -busy men are compelled to pay visits if they -pay them at all. Think of the desultory -cricket matches, the futile gabble of garden -parties.</p> - -<p>Of course the desire of solitude, or rather, -the nervous aversion to company, may become -so intense as to fall under the head of monomania; -doctors give it an ugly name, I know -not exactly what it is, like the agoraphobia, -which is one of the subsections of a certain -form of madness. Agoraphobia is the nervous -horror of crowds, which causes persons -afflicted by it to swoon away at the prospect -of having to pass through a square or street -crowded with people.</p> - -<p>But the dislike of visitors is a distinct, but -quite as specific form of nervous mania. One -lady of whom I have heard was in the habit -of darting to the window and involving herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> -in the window-curtain the moment she -heard a ring at the bell; another, more secretive -still, crept under the sofa. Not so very -long ago I went over a great house in the -North; my host took me to a suite of upper -rooms with a charming view. “These,” he -said, “were inhabited by my old aunt Susan -till her death some months ago; she was somewhat -eccentric in her habits”—here he thrust -his foot under a roomy settee which stood in -the window, and to my intense surprise a bell -rang loudly underneath—“Ah,” he said, rather -shamefacedly, “they haven’t taken it off.” I -begged for an explanation, and he said that -the old lady had formed an inveterate habit of -creeping under the settee the moment she -heard a knock at the door; to cure her of it, -they hung a bell on a spring beneath it, so that -she gave warning of her whereabouts.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Solitude</span></div> - -<p>Society is good for most of us; but solitude -is equally good, as a tonic medicine, granted -that sociability is accepted as a factor in our -life. A certain deliberate solitude, like the -fast days in the Roman Church, is useful, even -if only by way of contrast, and that we may -return with fresh zest to ordinary intercourse.</p> - -<p>People who are used to sociable life find<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> -the smallest gap, the smallest touch of solitude -oppressive and <i lang="fr">ennuyeux</i>; and it may -be taken for granted that the avoidance of -ennui, in whatever form that whimsical complaint -makes itself felt, is one of the most instinctive -prepossessions of the human race; but -it does not follow that solitude should not be -resolutely practised; and any sociable person -who has strength of mind to devote, say, one -day of the week to absolute and unbroken -loneliness would find not only that such times -would come to have a positive value of their -own, but that they would enhance infinitely -the pleasures of social life.</p> - -<p>It is a curious thing how fast the instinct -for solitude grows. A friend of mine, a -clergyman, a man of an inveterately sociable -disposition, was compelled by the exigencies -of his position to take charge of a lonely sea-coast -parish, the incumbent of which had fallen -desperately ill. The parish was not very -populous, and extremely scattered; the nearest -houses, inhabited by educated people were -respectively four and five miles away—my -friend was poor, an indifferent walker, and -had no vehicle at his command.</p> - -<p>He went off, he told me, with extreme and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> -acute depression. He found a small rectory-house -with three old silent servants. He established -himself there with his books, and began -in a very heavy-hearted way to discharge -the duties of the position; he spent his mornings -in quiet reading or strolling—the place -lay at the top of high cliffs and included many -wild and magnificent prospects. The afternoon -he spent in trudging over the parish, -making himself acquainted with the farmers -and other inhabitants of the region. In the -evening he read and wrote again. He had not -been there a week before he became conscious -that the life had a charm. He had written in -the first few days of his depression to several -old friends imploring them to have mercy on -his loneliness. Circumstances delayed their -arrival, and at last when he had been there -some six weeks, a letter announcing the arrival -of an old friend and his wife for a week’s -visit gave him, he confessed, far more annoyance -than pleasure. He entertained them, -however, but felt distinctly relieved when they -departed. At the end of the six months I -saw him, and he told me that solitude was a -dangerous Circe, seductive, delicious, but one -that should be resolutely and deliberately<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> -shunned, an opiate of which one could not -estimate the fascination. And I am not -speaking of a torpid or indolent man, but a -man of force, intellect, and cultivation, of a -restless mind and vivid interests.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>[<i>The passages that follow were either extracted -by the author himself from his -own diaries, or are taken from a notebook -containing fragments of an autobiographical -character. When the date is -ascertainable it is given at the head of the -piece.</i>—J. T.]</p></div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p> - -<h2>18</h2> - -<p>Now I will draw, carefully, faithfully, and -lovingly, the portraits of some of my friends; -they are not ever likely to set eyes on the -delineation: and if by some chance they do, -they will forgive me, I think.</p> - -<p>I have chosen three or four of the most -typical of my not very numerous neighbours, -though there are many similar portraits scattered -up and down my diaries.</p> - -<p>It happened this morning that a small piece -of parish business turned up which necessitated -my communicating with Sir James, -our chief landowner. Staunton is his name, -and his rank is baronet. He comes from a -typically English stock. As early as the fourteenth -century the Stauntons seem to have -held land in the parish; they were yeomen, no -doubt, owning a few hundred acres of freehold. -In the sixteenth century one of them -drifted to London, made a fortune, and, dying -childless, left his money to the head of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> -house, who bought more land, built a larger -house, became esquire, and eventually knight; -his brass is in the church. They were unimaginative -folk, and whenever the country was -divided, they generally contrived to find themselves -upon the prosaic and successful side.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Bishop</span></div> - -<p>Early in the eighteenth century there were -two brothers: the younger, a clergyman, by -some happy accident became connected with -the Court, made a fortunate marriage, and -held a deanery first, and then a bishopric. -Here he amassed a considerable fortune. His -portrait, which hangs at the Park, represents a -man with a face of the shape and colour of a -ripe plum, with hardly more distinction of -feature, shrouded in a full wig. Behind him, -under a velvet curtain, stands his cathedral, in -a stormy sky. The bishop’s monument is one -of the chief disfigurements, or the chief ornaments -of our church, according as your taste -is severe or catholic. It represents the deceased -prelate in a reclining attitude, with a -somewhat rueful expression, as of a man -fallen from a considerable height. Over him -bends a solicitous angel in the attitude of one -inquiring what is amiss. One of the prelate’s -delicate hands is outstretched from a gigantic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> -lawn sleeve, like a haggis, which requires an -iron support to sustain it; the other elbow is -propped upon some marble volumes of controversial -divinity. In an alcove behind is a -tumid mitre, quite putting into the shade a -meagre celestial crown with marble rays, which -is pushed unceremoniously into the top of the -recess.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Baronets</span></div> - -<p>The bishop succeeded his elder brother in -the estate, and added largely to the property. -The bishop’s only son sat for a neighbouring -borough, and was created a baronet for his -services, which were of the most straightforward -kind. At this point, by one of the -strange freaks of which even county families -are sometimes guilty, a curious gleam of romance -flashed across the dull record. The -baronet’s eldest son developed dim literary -tastes, drifted to London, became a hanger-on -of the Johnsonian circle—his name occurs -in footnotes to literary memoirs of the period; -married a lady of questionable reputation, and -published two volumes of “Letters to a Young -Lady of Quality,” which combine, to a quite -singular degree, magnificence of diction -with tenuity of thought. This Jack Staunton -was a spendthrift, and would have made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> -strange havoc of the estate, but his father -fortunately outlived him; and by the offer of -a small pension to Mrs. Jack, who was left -hopelessly destitute, contrived to get the little -grandson and heir into his own hands. The -little boy developed into the kind of person -that no one would desire as a descendant, but -that all would envy as an ancestor. He was a -miser pure and simple. In his day the tenants -were ground down, rents were raised, plantations -were made, land was acquired in all directions; -but the house became ruinous, and -the miserable owner, in a suit of coarse cloth -like a second-rate farmer, sneaked about his -lands with a shy and secret smile, avoiding -speech with tenants and neighbours alike, and -eating small and penurious meals in the dusty -dining-room in company with an aged and -drunken bailiff, the discovery of whose constant -attempts to defraud his master of a few -shillings were the delight and triumph of the -baronet’s life. He died a bachelor; at his -death a cousin, a grandson of the first baronet, -succeeded, and found that whatever else he -had done, the miser had left immense accumulations -of money behind him. This gentleman -was in the army, and fought at Waterloo,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> -after which he imitated the example of his -class, and became an unflinching Tory politician. -The fourth baronet was a singularly -inconspicuous person whom I can just remember, -whose principal diversion was his kennel. -I have often seen him when, as a child, -I used to lunch there with my mother, stand -throughout the meal in absolute silence, sipping -a glass of sherry on the hearthrug, and -slowly munching a large biscuit, and, before -we withdrew, producing from his pocket the -envelopes which had contained the correspondence -of the morning, and filling them with -bones, pieces of fat, fag-ends of joints, to -bestow upon the dogs in the course of the -afternoon. This habit I considered, as a -child, to be distinctly agreeable, and I should -have been deeply disappointed if Sir John -had ever failed to do it.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Sir James</span></div> - -<p>The present Sir James is now a man of -forty. He was at Eton and Trinity, and for -a short time in the Guards. He married the -daughter of a neighbouring baronet, and at -the age of thirty, when his father died, settled -down to the congenial occupation of a country -gentleman. He is, in spite of the fact -that he had a large landed estate, a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> -wealthy man. I imagine he has at least £20,000 -a year. He has a London house, to which -Lady Staunton goes for the season, but Sir -James, who makes a point of accompanying -her, soon finds that business necessitates his at -once returning to the country; and I am not -sure that the summer months, which he spends -absolutely alone, are not the most agreeable -part of the year for him. He has three stolid -and healthy children—two boys and a girl. -He takes no interest whatever in politics, religion, -literature, or art. He takes in the -<cite>Standard</cite> and the <cite>Field</cite>. He hunts a little, -and shoots a little, but does not care about -either. He spends his morning and afternoon -in pottering about the estate. In the -evening he writes a few letters, dines well, -reads the paper and goes to bed. He does -not care about dining out; indeed the prospect -of a dinner-party or a dance clouds the -pleasure of the day. He goes to church once -on Sunday; he is an active magistrate; he has, -at long intervals, two or three friends of like -tastes to stay with him, who accompany him, -much to his dislike, in his perambulations, and -stand about whistling, or staring at stacks and -cattle, while he talks to the bailiff. But he is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> -a kindly, cheery, generous man, with a good -head for business, and an idea of his position. -He is absolutely honourable and straightforward, -and faces an unpleasant duty, when he -has made up his mind to it, with entire tranquillity. -No mental speculation has ever come -in his way; at school he was a sound, healthy -boy, good at games, who did his work punctually, -and was of blameless character. He -made no particular friends; sat through school -after school, under various sorts of masters, -never inattentive, and never interested. He -had a preference for dull and sober teachers, -men with whom, as he said, “you knew where -you were;” a stimulating teacher bewildered -him,—“always talking about poetry and rot.” -At Cambridge it was the same. He rowed -in his College boat; he passed the prescribed -examinations; he led a clean healthy decorous -life; and no idea, small or great, no sense of -beauty, no wonder at the scheme of things, -ever entered his head. If by chance he ever -found himself in the company of an enthusiastic -undergraduate, whose mind and heart -were full of burning, incomplete, fantastic -thoughts, James listened politely to what he -had to say, hazarded no statements, and said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> -in quiet after-comment, “Gad, how that chap -does jaw!” No one ever thought him stupid; -he knew what was going on; he was sociable, -kind, not the least egotistical, and far too -much of a gentleman to exhibit the least complacency -in his position or wealth—only he -knew exactly what he liked, and had none of -the pathetic admiration for talent that is sometimes -found in the unintellectual. When he -went into the Guards it was just the same. -He was popular and respected, friendly with -his men, perfectly punctual, capable and respectable. -He had no taste for wine or -gambling, or disreputable courses. He admired -nobody and nothing, and no one ever -obtained the slightest influence over him. At -home he was perfectly happy, kind to his -sisters, ready to do anything he was asked, and -to join in anything that was going on. When -he succeeded to the estate, he went quietly to -work to find a wife, and married a pretty, contented -girl, with the same notions as himself. -He never said an unkind thing to her, or to -any of his family, and expressed no extravagant -affection for any one. He is trustee for -all his relations, and always finds time to look -after their affairs. He is always ready to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span> -subscribe to any good object, and had contrived -never to squabble with an angular -ritualistic clergyman, who thinks him a devoted -son of the Church. He has declined -several invitations to stand for Parliament, -and has no desire to be elevated to the Peerage. -He will probably live to a green old age, -and leave an immense fortune. I do not -fancy that he is much given to meditate about -his latter end; but if he ever lets his mind -range over the life beyond the grave, he -probably anticipates vaguely that, under -somewhat airy conditions, he will continue to -enjoy the consideration of his fellow-beings, -and deserve their respect.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p> - -<h2>19</h2> - -<p>For nearly ten years after we came to Golden -End, the parish was administered by an elderly -clergyman, who had already been over -twenty years in the place. He was little known -outside the district at all; I doubt if, between -the occasion of his appointment to the living -and his death, his name ever appeared in the -papers. The Bishop of the diocese knew -nothing of him; if the name was mentioned in -clerical society, it was dismissed again with -some such comment as “Ah, poor Woodward! -an able man, I believe, but utterly unpractical;” -and yet I have always held this man to -be on the whole one of the most remarkable -people I have ever known.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Mr. Woodward</span></div> - -<p>He was a tall thin man, with a slight stoop. -He could not be called handsome, but his face -had a strange dignity and power; he had a -pallid complexion, at times indeed like parchment -from its bloodlessness, and dark hair -which remained dark up to the very end. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span> -eyebrows were habitually drawn up, giving -to his face a look of patient endurance; his eyelids -drooped over his eyes, which gave his expression -a certain appearance of cynicism, but -when he opened them full, and turned them -upon you, they were dark, passionate, and -with a peculiar brightness. His lips were full -and large, with beautiful curves, but slightly -compressed as a rule, which gave a sense of -severity. He was clean shaven, and always -very carefully dressed, but in somewhat secular -style, with high collars, a frock-coat and waistcoat, -a full white cambric tie, and—I shudder -to relate it in these days—he was seldom to be -seen in black trousers, but wore a shade of dark -grey. If you had substituted a black tie for a -white one you would have had an ordinary -English layman dressed as though for town—for -he always wore a tall hat. He often rode -about the parish, when he wore a dark grey -riding-suit with gaiters. I do not think he -ever gave his clothes a thought, but he had the -instincts of a fine gentleman, and loved neatness -and cleanliness. He had never married, -but his house was administered by an elderly -sister—rather a grim, majestic personage, -with a sharp ironical tongue, and no great indulgence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> -for weakness. Miss Woodward considered -herself an invalid, and only appeared -in fine weather, driving in a smart little open -carriage. They were people of considerable -wealth, and the rectory, which was an important -house standing in a large glebe, had -two gardeners and good stables, and was furnished -within, in a dignified way, with old solid -furniture. Mr. Woodward had a large library, -and at the little dinner-parties that he -gave, where the food was of the simplest, the -plate was ancient and abundant—old silver -candlesticks and salvers in profusion—and a -row of family pictures beamed on you from -the walls. Mr. Woodward used to say, if -any one admired any particular piece of plate, -“Yes, I believe it is good; it was all collected -by an old uncle of mine, who left it to me with -his blessing for my lifetime. Of course I -don’t quite approve of using it—I believe I -ought not even to have two coats—but I can’t -sell it, and meantime it looks very nice and -does no harm.” The living was a wealthy -one, but it was soon discovered that Mr. -Woodward spent all that he received on that -head in the parish. He did not pauperise -idle parishioners, but he was always ready<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> -with a timely gift to tide an honest man over -a difficulty. He liked to start the boys in life, -and would give a girl a little marriage portion. -He paid for a parish nurse, but at the same -time he insisted on almsgiving as a duty. “I -don’t do these things to save you the trouble -of giving,” he would say, “but to give you a -lead; and if I find that the offertories go -down, then my subscriptions will go down -too;” but he would sometimes say that he -feared he was making things difficult for his -successor. “I can’t help that; if he is a good -man the people will understand.”</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Church</span></div> - -<p>Mr. Woodward was a great politician and -used to say that it was a perpetual temptation -to him to sit over the papers in the morning -instead of doing his work. But the result was -that he always had something to talk about, -and his visits were enjoyed by the least spiritual -of his parishioners. He was of course -eclectic in his politics, and combined a good -deal of radicalism with an intense love and -veneration for the past. He restored his -church with infinite care and taste, and was -for ever beautifying it in small ways. He -used to say that there were two kinds of -church-goers—the people who liked the social<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span> -aspect of the service, who preferred a blaze of -light, hearty singing, and the presence of a -large number of people; but that were others -who preferred it from the quiet and devotional -side, and who were only distracted from -the main object of the service by the presence -of alert and critical persons. Consequently -he had a little transept divided from the body -of the church by a simple screen, and kept -the lights low within it. The transept was -approached by a separate door, and he invited -people who could not come for the whole service -to slip in for a little of it. At the same -time there was plenty of room in the church, -and as the parish is not thickly populated, so -that you could be sure of finding a seat in any -part of the church that suited your mood. -He never would have a surpliced choir; and -in the morning service, nothing was sung except -the canticles and hymns; but there was a -fine organ built at his expense, and he offered -a sufficiently large salary to secure an organist -of considerable taste and skill. He greatly -believed in music, and part of the organist’s -duty was to give a little recital once a week, -which was generally well attended. He himself -was always present at the choir practices,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> -and the result of the whole was that the congregation -sang well, with a tone and a feeling -that I have never heard in places where the -indigenous materials for choral music were so -scanty.</p> - -<p>Mr. Woodward talked a good deal on religious -subjects, but with an ease and a naturalness -which saved his hearers from any feeling -of awkwardness or affectation. I have -never heard any one who seemed to live so -naturally in the seen and the unseen together, -and his transitions from mundane to religious -talk were made with such simplicity that his -hearers felt no embarrassment or pain. After -all, the ethical side of life is what we are all -interested in—moreover, Mr. Woodward had -a decidedly magnetic gift—that gift which, if -it had been accompanied with more fire and -volubility, would have made him an orator. -As it was, the circle to whom he talked felt insensibly -interested in what he spoke of, and at -the same time there was such a transparent -simplicity about the man that no one could -have called him affected. His talk it would -be impossible to recall; it depended upon all -sorts of subtle and delicate effects of personality. -Indeed, I remember once after an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> -evening spent in his company, during which -he had talked with an extraordinary pathos -and emotion, I wrote down what I could remember -of it. I look at it now and wonder -what the spell was; it seems so ordinary, so -simple, so, may I say, platitudinal.</p> - -<p>Yet I may mention two or three of his -chance sayings. I found him one day in his -study deeply engrossed in a book which I saw -was the Life of Darwin. He leapt to his feet -to greet me, and after the usual courtesies -said, “What a wonderful book this is—it is -from end to end nothing but a cry for the -Nicene Creed! The man walks along, doing -his duty so splendidly and nobly, with such -single-heartedness and simplicity, and just -misses the way all the time; the gospel he -wanted is just the other side of the wall. -But he must know now, I think. Whenever -I go to the Abbey, I always go straight to his -grave, and kneel down close beside it, and -pray that his eyes may be opened. Very -foolish and wrong, I dare say, but I can’t -help it!”</p> - -<p>Another day he found me working at a little -pedigree of my father’s simple ancestors. -I had hunted their names up in an old register,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> -and there was quite a line of simple persons to -record. He looked over my shoulder at the -sheet while I told him what it was. “Dear -old folk!” he said, “I hope you say a prayer -now and then for some of them; they belong -to you and you to them, but I dare say they -were sad Socinians, many of them (laughing). -Well, that’s all over now. I wonder what -they do with themselves over there?”</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Peacock</span></div> - -<p>Mr. Woodward was of course adored by the -people of the village. In his trim garden -lived a couple of pea-fowl—gruff and selfish -birds, but very beautiful to look at. Mr. -Woodward had a singular delight in watching -the old peacock trail his glories in the sun. -They roosted in a tree that overhung the road. -There came to stay in the next village a sailor, -a ne’er-do-weel, who used to hang about with -a gun. One evening Mr. Woodward heard a -shot fired in the lane, went out of his study, -and found that the sailor had shot the peacock, -who was lying on his back in the road, feebly -poking out his claws, while the aggressor was -pulling the feathers from his tail. Mr. -Woodward was extraordinarily moved. The -man caught in the act looked confused and bewildered. -“Why did you shoot my poor old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> -bird?” said Mr. Woodward. The sailor in -apology said he thought it was a pheasant. -Mr. Woodward, on the verge of tears, carried -the helpless fowl into the garden, but finding -it was already dead, interred it with his own -hands, told his sister at dinner what had happened, -and said no more.</p> - -<p>But the story spread, and four stalwart -young parishioners of Mr. Woodward’s -vowed vengeance, caught the luckless sailor in -a lane, broke his gun, and put him in the village -pond, from which he emerged a lamentable -sight, cursing and spluttering; the process -was sternly repeated, and not until he -handed over all his available cash for the purpose -of replacing the bird did his judges desist. -Another peacock was bought and presented -to Mr. Woodward, the offender being -obliged to make the presentation himself with -an abject apology, being frankly told that the -slightest deviation from the programme would -mean another lustral washing.</p> - -<p>The above story testifies to the sort of position -which Mr. Woodward held in his parish; -and what is the most remarkable part of -it, indicates the esteem with which he was regarded -by the most difficult members of a congregation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> -to conciliate—the young men. But -then Mr. Woodward was at ease with the -young men. He had talked to them as boys, -with a grave politeness which many people -hold to be unnecessary in the case of the -young. He had encouraged them to come to -him in all sorts of little troubles. The men -who had resented the loss of Mr. Woodward’s -peacock knew him as an intimate and honoured -family friend; he had tided one over a -small money difficulty, and smoothed the path -of an ambition for another. He had claimed -no sacerdotal rights over the liberties of his -people, but such allegiance as he had won was -the allegiance that always waits upon sympathy -and goodwill; and further, he was -shrewd and practical in small concerns, and -had the great gift of foreseeing contingencies. -He never forgot the clerical character, but he -made it unobtrusive, kept it waiting round the -corner, and it was always there when it was -wanted.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Professor</span></div> - -<p>I was present once at an interesting conversation -between Mr. Woodward and a distinguished -university professor who by some accident -was staying with myself. The professor -had expressed himself as much interested<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> -in the conditions of rural life and was -lamenting to me the dissidence which he -thought was growing up between the clergy -and their flocks. I told him about Mr. Woodward -and took him to tea. The professor with -a courteous frankness attacked Mr. Woodward -on the same point. He said that he believed -that the raising of theological and clerical -standards had had the effect of turning -the clergy into a class, enthusiastic, no doubt, -but interested in a small circle of things to -which they attached extreme importance, -though they were mostly traditional or antiquarian. -He said that they were losing their -hold on English life, and inclined not so much -to uphold a scrupulous standard of conduct, -as to enforce a preoccupation in doctrinal and -liturgical questions, interesting enough, but of -no practical importance. Mr. Woodward did -not contradict him; the professor, warming to -his work, said that the ordinary village sermon -was of a futile kind, and possessed no shrewdness -or definiteness as a rule. Mr. Woodward -asked him to expand the idea—what ought the -clergy to preach about? “Well,” said the professor, -“they ought to touch on politics—not -party politics, of course, but social measures,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> -historical developments and so forth. I was -present,” he went on, “some years ago when, -in a country town, the Bishop of the diocese -preached a sermon at the parish church, the -week after the French had been defeated at -Sedan, and the Bishop made not the slightest -allusion to the event, though it was the dominant -idea in the minds of the sensible members -of the congregation; the clergy ought not only -to preach politics—they ought to talk politics—they -ought to show that they have the same -interests as their people.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Woodward, leaning forward, -“I agree with much that you say, Professor—very -much; but you look at things in -a different perspective. We don’t think much -about politics here in the country—home politics -a little, but foreign politics not at all. -When we hear of rumours of war we are not -particularly troubled;” (with a smile) “and -when I have to try and encourage an old bedridden -woman who is very much bewildered -with this world, and has no imagination left -to deal with the next—and who is sadly afraid -of her long journey in the dark—when I have -to try and argue with a naughty boy who has -got some poor girl into trouble, and doesn’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> -feel in his heart that he has done a selfish or a -brutal thing, am I to talk to them about the -battle of Sedan, or even about the reform of -the House of Lords?”</p> - -<p>The professor smiled grimly, but perhaps a -little foolishly, and did not take up the challenge. -But Mr. Woodward said to me a few -days afterwards: “I was very much interested -in your friend the professor—a most amiable, -and, I should think, unselfish person. How -good of him to interest himself in the parish -clergy! But you know, my dear boy, the intellectual -atmosphere is a difficult one to live -in—a man needs some very human trial of his -own to keep him humble and sane. I expect -the professor wants a long illness!” (smiling) -“No, I dare say he is very good in his own -place, and does good work for Christ, but he -is a man clothed in soft raiment in these wilds, -and you and I must do all we can to prevent -him from rewriting the Lord’s Prayer. I am -afraid he thinks there is a sad absence of the -intellectual element in it. It must be very -distressing to him to think how often it is -used; and yet there is not an allusion to politics -in it—not even to comprehensive measures -of social reform.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Mr. Woodward’s Sermons</span></div> - -<p>Mr. Woodward’s sermons were always a -pleasure to me. He told me once that he had -a great dislike to using conventional religious -language; and thus, though he was in belief -something of a High Churchman, he was so -careful to avoid catch-words or party formulas -that few people suspected how high the -doctrine was. I took an elderly evangelical -aunt to church once, when Mr. Woodward -preached a sermon on baptismal regeneration -of rather an advanced type. I shuddered to -think of the denunciations which I anticipated -after church; indeed, I should not have been -surprised if my aunt had gathered up her -books—she was a masculine personage—and -swept out of the building. Both on the contrary, -she listened intently, rather moist-eyed, -I thought, to the discourse, and afterwards -spoke to me with extreme emphasis of it as a -real <em>gospel</em> sermon. Mr. Woodward wrote -his sermons, but often I think departed from -the text. He discoursed with a simple tranquillity -of manner that made each hearer feel -as if he was alone with him. His allusions -to local events were thrilling in their directness -and pathos; and in passing, I may say -that he was the only man I ever heard who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> -made the giving out of notices, both in manner -and matter, into a fine art. On Christmas -Day he used to speak about the events -of the year; one winter there was a bad epidemic -of diphtheria in the village, and several -children died. The shepherd on one of the -farms, a somewhat gruff and unsociable character, -lost two little children on Christmas Eve. -Mr. Woodward, unknown to me at the time, -had spent the evening with the unhappy man, -who was almost beside himself with grief.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Christmas Sermon</span></div> - -<p>In the sermon he began quite simply, describing -the scene of the first Christmas Eve -in a few picturesque words. Then he quoted -Christina Rossetti’s Christmas Carol—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“In the bleak mid-winter</div> -<div class="verse">Wintry winds made moan,”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">dwelling on the exquisite words in a way -which brought the tears to my eyes. When -he came to the lines describing the gifts made -to Christ—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">“If I were a shepherd</div> -<div class="verse">I would bring a lamb,”</div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">he stopped dead for some seconds. I feel -sure that he had not thought of the application<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> -before. Then he looked down the church -and said—</p> - -<p>“I spent a long time yesterday in the house -of one who follows the calling of a shepherd -among us.... He has given <em>two</em> lambs -to Christ.”</p> - -<p>There was an uncontrollable throb of emotion -in the large congregation, and I confess -that the tears filled my eyes. Mr. Woodward -went on—</p> - -<p>“Yes, it has pleased God to lead him -through deep waters; but I do not think that -he will altogether withhold from him something -of his Christmas joy. He knows that -they are safe with Christ—safe with Christ, -and waiting for him there—and that will be -more and more of a joy, and less and less of -a sorrow as the years go on, till God restores -him the dear children He has taken from him -now. We must not forget him in our prayers.”</p> - -<p>Then after a pause he resumed. There was -no rhetoric or oratory about it; but I have -never in my life heard anything so absolutely -affecting and moving—any word which -seemed to go so straight from heart to heart; -it was the genius of humanity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p> - -<p>A few months after this Mr. Woodward -died, as he always wished to die, quite suddenly, -in his chair. He had often said to me -that he did hope he wouldn’t die in bed, with -bed-clothes tucked under his chin, and medicine -bottles by him; he said he was sure he -would not make an edifying end under the -circumstances. His heart had long been -weak; and he was found sitting with his head -on his breast as though asleep, smiling to himself. -In one hand his pen was still clasped. -I have never seen such heartfelt grief as was -shown at his funeral. His sister did not survive -him a month. The week after her death -I walked up to the rectory, and found the -house being dismantled. Mr. Woodward’s -books were being packed into deal cases; the -study was already a dusty, awkward room. -It was strange to think of the sudden break-up -of that centre of beautiful life and high -example. All over and done! Yet not all; -there are many grateful hearts who do not -forget Mr. Woodward; and what he would -have thought and what he would have said are -still the natural guide for conduct in a dozen -simple households. If death must come, it -was so that he would have wished it; and Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span> -Woodward could be called happy in life and -death perhaps more than any other man I -have known.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></p> - -<h2>20</h2> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Mr. Cuthbert</span></div> - -<p>Who was to be Mr. Woodward’s successor? -For some weeks we had lived in a state of agitated -expectancy. One morning, soon after -breakfast, a card was brought to me—The -Rev. Cyril Cuthbert. I went down to the -drawing-room and found my mother talking -to a young clergyman, who rose at my entrance, -and informed me that he had been -offered the living, and that he had ventured to -call and consult me, adding that he had been -told I was all-powerful in the parish. I was -distinctly prepossessed by his appearance, and -perhaps by his appreciation, however exaggerated, -of my influence; he was a small man -with thin features, but bronzed and active; -his hair was parted in the middle and lay in -wiry waves on each side. He had small, almost -feminine, hands and feet, and rather a -delicate walk. He was entirely self-possessed, -very genial in talk, with a pleasant -laugh; at the same time he gave me an impression<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> -of strength. He was dressed in very old -and shabby clothes, of decidedly clerical cut, -but his hat and coat were almost green from -exposure to weather. Yet he was obviously -a gentleman. I gathered that he was the son -of a country squire, that he had been at a public -school and Oxford, and that he had been -for some years a curate in a large manufacturing -town. As we talked my impressions -became more definite; the muscles of the jaw -were strongly developed, and I began to fancy -that the genial manner concealed a considerable -amount of self-will. He had the eye -which I have been led to associate with the -fanatic, of a certain cold blue, shallow and impenetrable, -which does not let you far into the -soul, but meets you with a bright and unshrinking -gaze.</p> - -<p>At his request I accompanied him to church -and vicarage. At the latter, he said to me -frankly that he was a poor man, and that he -would not be able to keep it up in the same -style—“Indeed,” he said with a smile, “I don’t -think it would be right to do so.” I said that -I didn’t think it very material, but that as a -matter of fact I thought that the perfection -of Mr. Woodward’s arrangements had had a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> -humanising influence in the place. At the -church he was pleased at the neatness and -general air of use that the building had; but -he looked with disfavour at the simple arrangements -of the chancel. I noticed that he -bowed and murmured a few words of prayer -when he entered the building. When we had -examined the church he said to me, “To speak -frankly, Mr. ——,—I don’t know what your -views are,—but what is the church tone of this -place like?” I said that I hardly knew how -to describe it—the church certainly played a -large part in the lives of the parishioners; but -that I supposed that Mr. Woodward would -perhaps be called old-fashioned. “Yes, indeed,” -sighed Mr. Cuthbert, looking wearily -round and shrugging his shoulders. “The -altar indeed is distinctly dishonouring to the -Blessed Sacrament—no attempt at Catholic -practice or tradition. There is not, I see, even -a second altar in the church; but, please God, -if He sends me here we will change all that.”</p> - -<p>Before we left the church he fell on his -knees and prayed with absolute self-absorption.</p> - -<p>When we got outside he said to me: “May -I tell you something? I have just returned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> -from a visit to a friend of mine, a priest at -A——; he has got everything—simply everything; -he is a noble fellow—if I could but hope -to imitate him.”</p> - -<p>A—— was, I knew, a great railway depôt, -and thinking that Mr. Cuthbert did not fully -understand how very rural a parish we were, -I said, “I am afraid there is not very much -scope here for great activity. We have a -reading-room and a club, but it has never been -a great success—the people won’t turn out in -the evenings.”</p> - -<p>“Reading-rooms and clubs,” said Mr. Cuthbert -in high disdain; “I did not mean that kind -of thing at all—I was thinking of things -much nearer the heart of the people. Herries -has incense and lights, the eucharistic vestments, -he reserves the sacrament—you may -see a dozen people kneeling before the tabernacle -whenever you enter the church—he has -often said to me that he doesn’t know how he -could keep hope alive in his heart in the midst -of such vice and sin, if it were not for the -thought of the Blessed Presence, in the midst -of it, in the quiet church. He has a sisterhood -in his parish too under a very strict rule. -They never leave the convent, and spend whole<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> -days in intercession. The sacrament has been -reserved there for fifteen years. Then confession -is urged plainly upon all, and it is a -sight to make one thrill with joy to see the -great rough navvies bending before Herries -as he sits in his embroidered stole, they telling -him the secrets of their hearts, and he -bringing them nearer to the joy of their Lord. -Some of the workmen in the parish are the -most frequent at confession. Oh! he is a -noble fellow; he tells me he has no time for -visiting—positively no time at all. His -whole day is spent in deepening the devotional -life—the hours are recited in the church—he -gives up ten hours every week to the direction -of penitents, and he must spend, I should say, -two hours a day at his <i lang="fr">priedieu</i>. He says he -could not have strength for his work if he -did not. His sermons are beautiful; he speaks -from the heart without preparation. He says -he has learnt to trust the Spirit, and just says -what is given him to say.</p> - -<p>“Then he is devoted to his choristers, and -they to him; it is a privilege to see him surrounded -by them in their little cassocks while -he leads them in a simple meditation. And -he is a man of a deeply tender spirit—I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> -seen him, dining with his curates, burst into -tears at the mere mention of the name of the -dear Mother of Christ. I ought not to trouble -you with all this—I am too enthusiastic! -But the sight of him has put it into my heart -more than anything else I have ever known -to try and build up a really Catholic centre, -which might do something to leaven the heavy -Protestantism which is the curse of England. -One more thing which especially struck me; -it moved me to tears to hear one of his great -rough fellows—a shunter, I believe, who is -often overthrown by the demon of strong -drink—talk so simply and faithfully of the -Holy Mass: what rich associations that word -has! Nothing but eternity will ever reveal -the terrible loss which the disuse of that splendid -word has inflicted on our unhappy England.”</p> - -<p>I was too much bewildered by this statement -to make any adequate reply, but said to console -him that I thought the parish was wonderfully -good, and prepared to look upon the -clergyman as a friend. “Yes,” said Mr. -Cuthbert, “that is all very well for a beginning, -but it must be something more than that. -They must revere him as steward of the mysteries<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> -of God—they must be ready to open -their inmost heart to him; they must come to -recognise that it is through him, as a consecrated -priest of Christ, that the highest spiritual -blessings can reach them: that he alone -can confer upon them the absolution which -can set them free from the guilt of sin.”</p> - -<p>I felt that I ought not to let Mr. Cuthbert -think that I was altogether of the same mind -with him in these matters and so I said: -“Well, you must remember that all this is -unfamiliar here; Mr. Woodward did not approve -of confession—he held that habitual -confession was weakening to the moral nature, -and encouraged the most hysterical kind -of egotism—though no one was more ready -to listen to any one’s troubles and to give the -most loving advice in real difficulties. But -as to the point about absolution, I think he -felt, and I should agree with him, that God -only can forgive sin, and that the clergy are -merely the human interpreters of that forgiveness; -it is so much more easy to apprehend a -great moral principle like the forgiveness of -sin from another human being than to arrive -at it in the silence of one’s own troubled heart.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Cuthbert smiled, not very pleasantly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> -and said, “I had hoped you would have shared -my views more warmly—it is a disappointment! -seriously, the power to bind and loose -conferred on the Apostles by Christ Himself—does -that mean nothing?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” I said, “the clergy are the -accredited ministers in the matter, of course, -and they have a sacred charge, but as to powers -conferred upon the Apostles, it seems that -other powers were conferred on His followers -which they no longer possess—they were to -drink poison with impunity, handle venomous -snakes, and even to heal the sick.”</p> - -<p>“Purely local and temporary provisions,” -said Mr. Cuthbert, “which we have no doubt -forfeited—if indeed we have forfeited them—by -want of faith. The other was a gift -for time and eternity.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t remember,” I said, “that any such -distinction was laid down in the Gospel—but -in any case you would not maintain, would -you, that they possessed the power <i lang="la">proprio -motu</i>? To push it to extremes, that if a man -was absolved by a priest, God’s forgiveness -was bound to follow, even if the priest were -deceived as to the reality of the penitence -which claimed forgiveness.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Cuthbert frowned and said, “To me it -is not a question of theorising. It is a purely practical -matter. I look upon it in this way—if -a man is absolved by a priest, he is sure -he is forgiven; if he is not, he cannot be sure -of forgiveness.”</p> - -<p>“I should hold,” I said, “that it was purely -a matter of inner penitence. But I did not -mean to entangle you in a theological argument—and -I hope we are at one on essential -matters.”</p> - -<p>As we walked back I pointed out to him -some of my favourite views—the long back -of the distant downs; the dark forest tract that -closed the northern horizon—but he looked -with courteous indifference: his heart was full -of Catholic tradition.</p> - -<p>We heard a few days after that he had accepted -the living, and we asked him to come -and stay with us while he was getting into -the vicarage, which he was furnishing with -austere severity. Mr. Woodward’s pleasant -dark study became a somewhat grim library, -with books in deal shelves, carpeted with matting -and with a large deal table to work at. -Mr. Cuthbert dwelt much on the thought of -sitting there in a cassock with a tippet, but I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> -do not think he had any of the instincts of a -student—it was rather the <i lang="fr">mise-en-scène</i> that -pleased him. A bedroom became an oratory, -with a large ivory crucifix. The dining-room -he called his refectory, and he had a scheme -at one time of having two young men to do -the housework and cooking, which fortunately -fell through, though they were to have had -cassocks with cord-girdles, and to have been -called lay brothers. On the other hand he was -a very pleasant visitor, as long as theological -discussions were avoided. He was bright, -gay, outwardly sympathetic, full of a certain -kind of humour, and with all the ways of a -fine gentleman. The more I disagreed with -him the more I liked him personally.</p> - -<p>One evening after dinner, as we sat smoking—he -was a great smoker—we had a rather -serious discussion. I said to him that I really -should like to understand what his theory of -church work was.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Catholic Tradition</span></div> - -<p>“It is all summed up in two phrases,” said -Mr. Cuthbert. “Catholic practice—Catholic -tradition. I hold that the Reformation inflicted -a grievous blow upon this country. -To break with Rome was almost inevitable, -I admit, because of the corruption of doctrine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> -that was beginning; but we need not -have thrown over all manner of high and -holy ways and traditions, solemn accessories -of worship, tender assistances to devotion, -any more than the Puritans were bound to -break statues and damage stained glass windows.”</p> - -<p>“Quite so,” I said; “but where does this -Catholic tradition come from?”</p> - -<p>“From the Primitive Church,” said Mr. -Cuthbert. “As far back as we can trace the -history of church practice we find these, -or many of these, exquisite ceremonies, which -I for one think it a solemn duty to try and restore.”</p> - -<p>“But after all,” I said, “they are of human -origin, are they not? You would not -say that they have a divine sanction?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “their sanction -is practically divine. We read that in the -last days spent by our Lord in His glorified -nature on the earth, He ‘spake to them of the -things concerning the Kingdom of God.’ I -myself think it is only reasonable to suppose -that He was laying down the precise ceremonial -that He wished should attend the worship<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> -of His Kingdom. I do not think that -extravagant.”</p> - -<p>“But,” I said, “was not the whole tenor of -His teaching against such ceremonial precision? -Did He not for His Sacraments choose -the simplest and humblest actions of daily life—eating -and drinking? Was He not always -finding fault with the Pharisees for forgetting -spiritual truth in their zeal for tradition -and practice?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Cuthbert, “for <em>forgetting</em> -the weightier matters of the law; but He -approved of their ceremonial. He said: -‘These ought ye to have done, and not to have -left the other undone.’”</p> - -<p>“I believe myself,” I said, “that He felt -they should have obeyed their conscience in -the matter; but surely the whole of the teaching -of the Gospel is to loose human beings -from tyranny of detail, and to teach them to -live a simple life on great principles?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot agree,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “The -instinct for reverence, for the reverent and -seemly expression of spiritual feeling, for the -symbolic representation of spiritual feeling, -for the symbolic representation of divine -truths is a depreciated one, but a true one; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> -this instinct He graciously defined, fortified, -and consecrated; and I believe that the -Church was following the true guidance of -the Spirit in the matter, when it slowly built -up the grand and massive fabric of Catholic -practice and tradition.”</p> - -<p>“But,” I said, “who are the Church? There -are a great many people who feel the exact -opposite of what you maintain—and true -Christians too.”</p> - -<p>“They are grievously mistaken,” said Mr. -Cuthbert, “and suffer an irreparable loss.”</p> - -<p>“But who is to decide?” I said, a little nettled.</p> - -<p>“A General Œcumenical Council would be -competent to do so,” said Mr. Cuthbert.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean of the Anglican Communion?” -I said.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, no,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “The -Anglican Communion indeed! No; such -a Council must have representatives of all -Churches who have received and maintain the -Divine succession.”</p> - -<p>“But,” said I, “you must know that the -thing is impossible. Who could summon -such a Council, and who would attend it?”</p> - -<p>“That is not my business,” said Mr. Cuthbert;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> -“I do not want any such Council. I am -sure of my position; it is only you and others -who wish to sacrifice the most exquisite part of -Christian life who need such a solution. I am -content with what I know; and humbly and -faithfully I shall attempt as far as I can to -follow the dictates of my conscience in the -matter to endeavor to bring it home to the -consciences of my flock.”</p> - -<p>I felt I could not carry the argument further -without loss of temper; but it was surprising -to me how I continued to like, and -even to respect, the man.</p> - -<p>He has not, it must be confessed, obtained -any great hold on the parish. Mr. Woodward’s -quiet, delicate, fatherly work has gone; -but Mr. Cuthbert has a few women who attend -confession, and he is content. He has -adorned the church according to his views, and -the congregation think it rather pretty. They -do not dislike his sermons, though they do not -understand them; and as for his vestments, -they regard them with a mild and somewhat -bewildered interest. They like to see Mr. -Cuthbert, he is so pleasant and good-humoured. -He is assiduous in his visiting, -and very assiduous in holding daily services,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> -which are entirely unattended. He has -no priestly influence; and I fear it would pain -him deeply if he knew that his social influence -is considerable. Personally, I find him a -pleasant neighbour and highly congenial companion. -We have many agreeable talks; and -when I am in that irritable tense mood which -is apt to develop in solitude, and which can -only be cleared by an ebullition of spleen, I -walk up to the vicarage and have a theological -argument. It does neither myself nor Mr. -Cuthbert any harm, and we are better friends -than ever—indeed, he calls me quite the most -agreeable Erastian he knows.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p> - -<h2>21</h2> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Recluse</span></div> - -<p>Let me try to sketch the most Arcadian -scholar I have ever seen or dreamed of; they -are common enough in books; the gentleman -of high family, with lustrous eyes and thin -veined hands, who sits among musty folios—Heaven -knows what he is supposed to be -studying, or why they need be musty—who -is in some very nebulous way believed to -watch the movements of the heavens, who -takes no notice of his prattling golden-haired -daughter, except to print an absent kiss upon -her brow—if there are such persons they are -hard to encounter.</p> - -<p>There is a little market-town a mile or two -away, nestled among steep valleys; the cows -that graze on the steep fields that surround it -look down into the chimney-pots and back -gardens. One of the converging valleys is -rich in woods, and has a pleasant trout-stream, -that flows among elders, bickers along by -woodland corners, and runs brimming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> -through rich water meadows, full of meadowsweet -and willow-herb—the place in summer -has a hot honied smell. You need not follow -the road, but you may take an aimless footpath, -which meanders from stile to stile in a -leisurely way. After a mile or so a little -stream bubbles in on the left; and close beside -it an old deep farm-road, full of boulders and -mud in winter, half road, half water-course, -plunges down from the wood. All the -hedges are full of gnarled roots fringed with -luxuriant ferns. On a cloudy summer day it -is like a hothouse here, and the flowers know it -and revel in the warm growing air. Higher -and higher the road goes; then it passes a -farm-house, once an ancient manor: the walls -green with lichen and moss, and a curious -ancient cognizance, a bear with a ragged staff -clasped in his paws, over the doorway. The -farm is embowered in huge sprawling laurels -and has a little garden, with box hedges and -sharp savoury smells of herbs and sweet-william, -and a row of humming hives. Push -open the byre gate and go further yet; we are -near the crest of the hill now: just below the -top grows a thick wood of larches, set close together. -You would not know there was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> -house in here. There is a little rustic gate at -the corner of the plantation, and a path, just -a track, rarely trodden, soft with a carpet of -innumerable larch-needles.</p> - -<p>Presently you come in sight of a small yellow -stone house; not a venerable house, nor a -beautiful one—if anything, a little pretentious, -and looking as if the heart of the plantation -had been cut out to build it as indeed it -was; round-topped windows, high parapets, -no roof visible, and only one rather makeshift -chimney; the whole air of it rather sinister, -and at the same time shamefaced—a little -as though it set out to be castellated and -had suddenly shrunk and collapsed, and been -hastily finished. A gravel walk very full of -weeds runs immediately round the house; -there is no garden, but a small enclosure for -cabbages grown very rank. In most of the -windows hang dirty-looking blinds half -pulled down; a general air of sordid neglect -broods over the place. Here in this house -had lived for many years—and, for all I -know, lives there still—a retired gentleman, a -public school and University man, who had -taken high honours at the latter; not rich, but -with a competence. What had caused his seclusion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> -from the world I do not know, and I -am not particular to inquire; whether a false -step and the forced abandonment of a career, -a disappointment of some kind, a hypochondriacal -whim, or a settled and deliberate resolution. -I know not, but always hoped the last.</p> - -<p>From some slight indications I have -thought that, for some reason or other, in -youth, my recluse had cause to think that his -life would not be a long one—his selection of -a site was apparently fortuitous. He preferred -a mild climate, and, it seems, took a -fancy to the very remote and sequestered character -of the valley; he bought a few acres of -land, planted them with larches, and in the -centre erected the unsightly house which I have -described.</p> - -<p>Inside the place was rather more attractive -than you would have expected. There was a -pinched little entry, rather bare, and a steep -staircase leading to the upper regions; in front -of you a door leading to some offices; on the -left a door that opened into a large room to -which all the rest of the house had been sacrificed. -It had three windows, much overshadowed -by the larches, which indeed at one -corner actually touched the house and swept<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> -the windows as they swayed in the breeze. The -room was barely furnished, with a carpet -faded beyond recognition, and high presses, -mostly containing books. An oak table stood -near one of the windows, where our hermit -took his meals; another table, covered with -books, was set near the fireplace; at the far -end a door led into an ugly slit of a room -lighted by a skylight, where he slept. But -I gathered that for days together he did not -go to bed, but dozed in his chair. On the -walls hung two or three portraits, black with -age. One of an officer in a military uniform -of the last century with a huge, adumbrating -cocked-hat; a divine in bands and wig; and a -pinched-looking lady in blue silk with two -boys. His only servant was an elderly strong-looking -woman of about fifty, with a look of -intense mental suffering on her face, and -weary eyes which she seldom lifted from the -floor. I never heard her utter more than three -consecutive words. She was afflicted I heard, -not from herself, with a power of seeing apparitions, -not, curiously, in the house, but in -the wood all round; she told Mr. Woodward -that “the dead used to look in at the window -at noon and beckon her out.” In consequence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> -of this she had not set foot outside the doors -for twenty years, except once, when her master -had been attacked by sudden illness. The -only outside servant he had was a surly man -who lived in a cottage a quarter of a mile away -on the high-road, who marketed for them, -drew water, and met the carrier’s cart which -brought their necessaries.</p> - -<p>The man himself was a student of history: -he never wrote, except a few marginal notes -in his books. He was totally ignorant of -what was going on, took in no papers, and -asked no questions as to current events. He -received no letters, and the only parcels that -came to him were boxes of books from a London -library—memoirs, historical treatises, and -biographies of the last century. I take it he -had a minute knowledge of the social and political -life of England up to the beginning of -the present century; he received no one but -Mr. Woodward who saw him two or three -times a year, and it was with Mr. Woodward -that I went, making the excuse (which was -actually the case) that some literary work that -I was doing was suspended for want of books.</p> - -<p>We were shown in; he did not rise to receive -us, but greeted us with extreme cordiality,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> -and an old-fashioned kind of courtesy, absolutely -without embarrassment. He was a tall, -thin man, with a fair complexion, and straggling -hair and beard. He seemed to be in -excellent health; and I learnt that in the matter -of food and drink he was singularly abstemious, -which accounted for his clear complexion -and brilliant eye. He smoked in moderation -a very fragrant tobacco of which he -gave me a small quantity, but refused to say -where he obtained it. There was an air of infinite -contentment about him. He seemed to -me to hope for nothing and expect nothing -from life; to live in the moment and for the -moment. If ever I saw serene happiness written -on a face in legible characters, it was there. -He talked a little on theological points, with an -air of gentle good-humour, to Mr. Woodward, -somewhat as you might talk to a child, with -amiable interest in the unexpected cleverness -of its replies; he gave me the information I -requested clearly and concisely but with no -apparent zest, and seemed to have no wish to -dwell on the subject or to part with his store -of knowledge.</p> - -<p>His one form of exercise was long vague -walks; in the winter he rarely left the house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> -except on moonlight nights; but in the summer -he was accustomed to start as soon as it -was light, and to ramble, never on the roads, -but by unfrequented field-paths, for miles and -miles, generally returning before the ordinary -world was astir. On hot days he would sit -by the stream in a very remote nook beneath a -high bank where the water ran swiftly down -a narrow channel, and swung into a deep black -pool; here, I was told, he would stay for hours -with his eyes fixed on the water, lost in some -mysterious reverie. I take it he was a poet -without power of expression, and his heart was -as clean as a child’s.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Modern Life</span></div> - -<p>It is the fashion now to talk with much affected -weariness of the hurry and bustle of -modern life. No doubt such things are to be -found if you go in search of them; and to have -your life attended by a great quantity of either -is generally held to be a sign of success. But -the truth is, that this is what ordinary people -like. The ordinary man has no precise idea -what to do with his time. He needs to have it -filled up by a good many conflicting and petty -duties, and if it is filled he has a feeling that -he is useful. But many of these duties are -only necessary because of the existence of each<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> -other; it is a vicious circle. “What are those -fields for?” said a squire who had lately succeeded -to an estate, as he walked round with -the bailiff. “To grow oats, sir.” “And what -do you do with the oats?” “Feed the horses, -sir.” “And what do you want the horses for?” -“To plough the fields, sir.” That is what -much of the bustle of modern life consists of.</p> - -<p>Solitude and silence are a great strain; but -if you enjoy them they are at least harmless, -which is more than can be said of many activities. -Such is not perhaps the temper in -which continents are explored, battles won, empires -extended, fortunes made. But whatever -concrete gain we make for ourselves must be -taken from others; and we ought to be very -certain indeed of the meaning of this life, and -the nature of the world to which we all migrate, -before we immerse ourselves in self-contrived -businesses. To be natural, to find -our true life, to be independent of luxuries, not -to be at the mercy of prejudices and false -ideals—that is the secret of life: who can say -that it is a secret that we most of us make our -own? My recluse, I think, was nearer the -Kingdom of Heaven, where places are not laid -according to the table of precedence, than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> -many men who have had biographies and statues, -and who will be, I fear, sadly adrift in -the world of silence into which they may be -flung.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> - -<h2>22</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Nov. 6, 1890.</i></p> - -<p>To-day the gale had blown itself out; all yesterday -it blustered round corners, shook casements, -thundered in the chimneys, and roared -in the pines. Now it is bright and fresh, and -the steady wind is routing one by one the few -clouds that hang in the sky. I came in yesterday -at dusk, and the whole heaven was full -of great ragged, lowering storm-wreaths, -weeping wildly and sadly; now the rain is over, -though in the morning a sudden dash of great -drops mingled with hail made the windows patter; -but the sun shone out very low and white -from the clouds, even while the hail leapt on -the window-sill.</p> - -<p>I took the field-path that wanders aimlessly -away below the house; the water lay in the -grass, and the sodden leaves had a bitter smell. -The copses were very bare, and the stream ran -hoarse and turbid. The way wound by fallows -and hedges—now threading a steep copse, -now along the silent water-meadows, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> -through an open forest space, with faggots -tied and piled, or by a cattle byre. Here and -there I turned into a country lane, till at last -the village of Spyfield lay before me, with the -ancient church of dark sandstone and the little -street of handsome Georgian houses, very neat -and prim—a place, you would think, where -every one went to bed at ten, and where no -murmurs of wars ever penetrated.</p> - -<p>Just beyond the village, my friend, Mr. -Campden, the great artist, has built himself a -palace. It is somewhat rococo, no doubt, with -its marble terrace and its gilded cupolas. But -it gleams in the dark hanging wood with an -exotic beauty of its own, as if a Genie had -uprooted it from a Tuscan slope, and planted -it swiftly, in an unfamiliar world, in an hour -of breathless labour between the twilight and -the dawn. Still, fantastic as it is, it is an -agreeable contrast to the brick-built mansions, -with their slated turrets, that have lately, alas, -begun to alight in our woodlands.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Mr. Campden</span></div> - -<p>Mr. Campden is a real prince, a Lorenzo the -Magnificent; not only is he the painter of pictures -which command a high price, though to -me they are little more than harmonious wallpaper; -but he binds books, makes furniture,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> -weaves tapestry, and even bakes tiles and pottery; -and the slender minaret that rises from a -plain, windowless building on the right, is -nothing but a concealed chimney. Moreover, -he inherited through a relative’s death an immense -fortune, so that he is a millionaire as -well. To-day I followed the little steep lane -that skirts his domain, and halted for a moment -at a great grille of ironwork, which gives the -passer-by a romantic and generous glimpse of -a pleached alley, terminated by a mysterious -leaden statue. I peeped in cautiously, and -saw the great man in a blue suit, with a fur -cloak thrown round his shoulders, a slouched -hat set back from his forehead, and a loose -red tie gleaming from his low-cut collar. I -was near enough to see his wavy white hair and -beard, his keen eyes, his thin hands, as he paced -delicately about, breathing the air, and looking -critically at the exquisite house beyond him. -I am sure of a welcome from Mr. Campden—indeed, -he has a princely welcome for all the -world—but to-day I felt a certain simple -schoolboy shyness, which ill accords with Mr. -Campden’s Venetian manner. It is delightful -after long rusticity to be with him, but it is like -taking a part in some solemn and affected<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span> -dance; to Mr. Campden I am the student-recluse, -and to be gracefully bantered accordingly, -and asked a series of questions on matters -with which I am wholly unacquainted, but -which are all part of the setting with which his -pictorial mind has dowered me. On my first -visit to him I spoke of the field-names of the -neighbourhood, and so Mr. Campden speaks -to me of Domesday Book, which I have never -seen. I happened to express—in sheer wantonness—an -interest in strange birds, and I -have ever since to Mr. Campden been a man -who, in the intervals of reading Domesday -Book, stands in all weathers on hilltops, or by -reedy stream-ends, watching for eagles and -swans, like a Roman augur—indeed Augur is -the name he gives me—our dear Augur—when -I am introduced to his great friends.</p> - -<p>Mr. Campden has an infinite contempt for -the gentlemen of the neighbourhood, whom he -treats with splendid courtesy, and the kind of -patronising amusement with which one listens -to the prattle of a rustic child. It is a matter -of unceasing merriment to me to see him with -a young squire of the neighbourhood, an intelligent -young fellow who has travelled a -good deal, and is a considerable reader. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> -has a certain superficial shyness, and consequently -has never been able to secure enough -of the talk for himself to show Mr. Campden -what he is thinking of; and Mr. Campden at -once boards him with questions about the price -of eggs and the rotation of crops, calling him, -“Will Honeycomb” from the <cite>Spectator</cite>; and -when plied with nervous questions as to Perugino -or Carlo Dolce, saying grandiloquently, -“My dear young man, I know nothing whatever -about it; I leave that to the critics. I am -a republican in art, a red indeed, ha, ha! And -you and I must not concern ourselves with such -things. Here we are in the country, and we -must talk of <em>bullocks</em>. Tell me now, in Lorton -market last week, what price did a Tegg -fetch?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Campden is extraordinarily ignorant of -all country matters, and has a small stock of -ancient provincial words, not indigenous to the -neighbourhood, but gathered from local histories, -that he produces with complacent pride. -Indeed, I do not know that I ever saw a more -ludicrous scene than Mr. Campden talking -agriculture to a distinguished scientific man, -whom a neighbouring squire had brought over -to tea with him, and whom he took for a landowner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> -To hear Mr. Campden explaining a -subject with which he was not acquainted to -a courteous scientist, who did not even know to -what he was alluding, was a sight to make angels -laugh.</p> - -<p>But to-day I let Mr. Campden pace like a -peacock up and down his pleasaunces, with his -greyhound following him, and threaded the -water-meadows homewards. I gave myself -up to the luxurious influences of solitude and -cool airs, and walked slowly, indifferent where -I went, by sandstone pits, by brimming -streams, through dripping coverts, till the day -declined. What did I think of? I hardly -dare confess. There are two or three ludicrous, -pitiful ambitions that lurk in the corners -of my mind, which, when I am alone and aimless, -I take out and hold, as a child holds a -doll, while fancy invests them with radiant -hues. These and no other were my mental -pabulum. I know they cannot be realised—indeed, -I do not desire them—but these odd -and dusty fancies remain with me from far-off -boyish days; and many a time have I thus -paraded them in all their silliness.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Home</span></div> - -<p>But the hedgerow grasses grew indistinguishably -grey; the cattle splashed home along<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> -the road; the sharp smell of wood smoke from -cottage fires, piled for the long evenings, stole -down the woodways; pheasants muttered and -crowed in the coverts, and sprang clanging to -their roosts. The murmur of the stream became -louder and more insistent; and as I -turned the corner of the wood, it was with a -glow of pleasure that I saw the sober gables -of Golden End, and the hall window, like a -red solemn eye, gaze cheerily upon the misty -valley.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p> - -<h2>23</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>July 7, 1891.</i></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">In the Woods</span></div> - -<p>I cannot tell why it is, but to be alone among -woods, especially towards evening, is often attended -with a vague unrest, an unsubstantial -awe, which, though of the nature of pleasure, -is perilously near the confines of horror. On -certain days, when the nerves are very alert -and the woods unusually still, I have known -the sense become almost insupportable. There -is a certain feeling of being haunted, followed, -watched, almost dogged, which is bewildering -and unmanning. Foolish as it may appear, I -have found the carrying of a gun almost a relief -on such occasions. But what heightens -the sense in a strange degree is the presence of -still water. A stream is lively—it encourages -and consoles; but the sight of a long dark lake, -with the woods coming down to the water’s -edge, is a sight so solemn as to be positively -oppressive. Each kind of natural scenery has -its own awe—the <i lang="la">genius loci</i>, so to speak. On -a grassy down there is the terror of the huge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> -open-eyed gaze of the sky. In craggy mountains -there is something wild and beastlike -frowning from the rocks. Among ice and -snow there is something mercilessly pure and -averse to life; but neither of these is so intense -or definite as the horror of still woods and silent -waters. The feeling is admirably expressed -by Mr. George Macdonald in <cite>Phantastes</cite>, -a magical book. It is that sensation of -haunting presences hiding behind trees, watching -us timidly from the fern, peeping from -dark copses, resting among fantastic and -weather-worn rocks, that finds expression in -the stories of Dryads and fairies, which seem -so deeply implanted in the mind of man. -Who, on coming out through dark woods into -some green sequestered lawn, set deep in the -fringing forest, has not had the sensation of -an interrupted revel, as festivity suddenly -abandoned by wild, ethereal natures, who have -shrunk in silent alarm back into the sheltering -shades? If only one had been more wary, -and stolen a moment earlier upon the unsuspecting -company!</p> - -<p>But there is a darker and cloudier sensation, -the <i lang="la">admonitus locorum</i>, which I have experienced -upon fields of battle, and places where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> -some huge tragedy of human suffering and -excitement has been wrought. I have felt it -upon the rustic ploughland of Jena, and on -the grassy slopes of Flodden; it has crept over -me under the mouldering walls and frowning -gateways of old guarded towns; and not only -there, where it may be nothing but the reflex -of shadowy imaginations, but on wind-swept -moors and tranquil valleys, I have felt, by -some secret intuition, some overpowering -tremor of spirit, that here some desperate -strife has been waged, some primeval conflict -enacted. There is a spot in the valley of -Llanthony, a grassy tumulus among steep -green hills, where the sense came over me with -an uncontrollable throb of insight, that here -some desperate stand was made, some barbarous -Themopylæ lost or won.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">A Dark Secret</span></div> - -<p>There is a place near Golden End where I -encountered a singular experience. I own -that I never pass it now without some obsession -of feeling; indeed, I will confess that -when I am alone I take a considerable circuit -to avoid the place. An ancient footway, trodden -deep in a sandy covert, winds up through -a copse, and comes out into a quiet place far -from the high-road, in the heart of the wood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> -Here stands a mouldering barn, and there are -two or three shrubs, an escalonia and a cypress, -that testify to some remote human occupation. -There is a stretch of green sward, varied with -bracken, and on the left a deep excavation, -where sand has been dug: in winter, a pool; -in summer, a marshy place full of stiff, lush -water-plants. In this place, time after time -as I passed it, there seemed to be a strange -silence. No bird seemed to sing here, no -woodland beast to frisk here; a secret shame -or horror rested on the spot. It was with no -sense of surprise, but rather of resolved doubt, -that I found, one bright morning, two labouring -men bent over some object that lay upon -the ground. When they saw me, they seemed -at first to hesitate, and then asked me to come -and look. It was a spectacle of singular horror: -they had drawn from the marshy edge of -the pool the tiny skeleton of a child, wrapped -in some oozy and ragged cloths; the slime -dripping from the eyeless cavities of the little -skull, and the weeds trailing over the unsightly -cerements. It had caught the eye of -one of them as they were passing. “The place -has always had an evil name,” said one of -them with a strange solemnity. There had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> -been a house there, I gathered, inhabited by a -mysterious evil family, a place of dark sin -and hideous tradition. The stock had dwindled -down to a wild solitary woman, who extracted -a bare sustenance out of a tiny farm, -and who alternated long periods of torpid -gloom with disgusting orgies of drunkenness. -Thirty years ago she had died, and the farm -had remained so long unlet that it was at last -pulled down, and the land planted with wood. -Subsequent investigations revealed nothing; -and the body had lain there, it was thought, -for fully that time, preserved from decay by -an iron-bound box in which it had been enclosed, -and of which some traces still remained -in reddish smears of rust and clotted nails. -That picture—the sunlit morning, the troubled -faces of the men, the silent spectatorial woods—has -dwelt with me ineffaceably.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Obsession</span></div> - -<p>Again, I have been constantly visited by the -same inexplicable sensation in a certain room at -Golden End. The room in question is a great -bare chamber at the top of the house: the walls -are plastered, and covered in all directions by -solid warped beams; through the closed and -dusty window the sunlight filters sordidly into -the room. I do not know why it has never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span> -been furnished, but I gathered that my father -took an unexplained dislike to the room from -the first. The odd feature of it is, that in the -wall at one end is a small door, as of a cupboard, -some feet from the ground, which -opens, not as you would expect into a cupboard, -but into a loft, where you can see the -tiles, the brickwork of the clustered chimney-stacks, -and the plastered lathwork of the floor, -in and below the joists of the timber. This -strange opening can never have been a window, -because the shutter is of the same date -as the house; still less a door, for it is hardly -possible to squeeze through it; but as the loft -into which it looks is an accretion of later date -than the room itself, it seems to me that the -garret may have been once a granary up to -which sacks were swung from the ground by -a pulley; and this is made more possible by the -existence of some iron staples on the outer side -of it, that appear to have once controlled some -simple mechanism.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Evil Room</span></div> - -<p>The room is now a mere receptacle for lumber, -but it is strange that all who enter it, even -the newest inmate of the house, take an unaccountable -dislike to the place. I have myself -struggled against the feeling; I once indeed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> -shut myself up there on a sunny afternoon, -and endeavoured to shame myself by -pure reason out of the disagreeable, almost -physical sensation that at once came over me, -but all in vain; there was something about the -bare room, with its dusty and worm-eaten -floor, the hot stagnant air, the floating motes -in the stained sunlight, and above all the sinister -little door, that gave me a discomfort that -it seems impossible to express in speech. My -own room must have been the scene of many -a serious human event. Sick men must have -lain there; hopeless prayers must have echoed -there; children must have been born there, and -souls must have quitted their shattered tenement -beneath its ancient panels. But these -have after all been normal experiences; in the -other room, I make no doubt, some altogether -abnormal event must have happened, something -of which the ethereal aroma, as of some -evil, penetrating acid, must have bitten deep -into wall and floor, and soaked the very beam -of the roof with anxious and disturbed oppression. -In feverish fancy I see strange -things enact themselves; I see at the dead of -night pale heads crane from the window, oppressive -silence hold the room, as some dim and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> -ugly burden jerks and dangles from the descending -rope, while the rude gear creaks and -rustles, and the vane upon the cupola sings its -melancholy rusty song in the glimmering darkness. -It is strange that the mind should be so -tangibly impressed and yet should have no -power given it to solve the sad enigma.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p> - -<h2>24</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Sep. 10, 1891.</i></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Country</span></div> - -<p>Very few consecutive days pass at Golden -End without my contriving to get what I most -enjoy in the form of exercise—a long, slow, -solitary ride; severer activities are denied me. -I have a strong, big-boned, amiable horse—strength -is the one desideratum in a horse, in -country where, to reach a point that appears -to be a quarter of a mile away, it is often necessary -to descend by a steep lane to a point -two or three hundred feet below and to ascend -a corresponding acclivity on the other side. -Sometimes my ride has a definite object. I -have to see a neighbouring farmer on business, -or there is shopping to be done at Spyfield, -or a distant call has to be paid—but it is best -when there is no such scheme—and the result -is that after a few years there is hardly a lane -within a radius of five miles that I have not -carefully explored and hardly a hamlet within -ten miles that I have not visited.</p> - -<p>The by-lanes are the most attractive feature.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> -You turn out of the high-road down a steep -sandy track, with high banks overhung by -hazel and spindlewood and oak-copse; the -ground falls rapidly. Through gaps at the -side you can see the high, sloping forest glades -opposite, or look along lonely green rides -which lead straight into the heart of silent -woods. There has been as a rule no parsimonious -policy of enclosure, and the result is -that there are often wide grassy spaces beside -the road, thick-set with furze or forest undergrowth, -with here and there a tiny pool, or a -little dingle where sandstone has been dug. -Down at the base of the hill you find a stream -running deep below a rustic white-railed -bridge, through sandy cuttings, all richly embowered -with alders, and murmuring pleasantly -through tall water-plants. Here and -there is a weather-tiled cottage, with a boarded -gable and a huge brick chimney-stack, flanked -by a monstrous yew. Suddenly the road -strikes into a piece of common, a true English -forest, with a few huge beeches, and thick -covert of ferns and saplings; still higher and -you are on open ground, with the fragrant air -blowing off the heather; a clump of pines -marks the summit, and in an instant the rolling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> -plain lies before you, rich in wood, rising in -billowy ranges, with the smoke going up from -a hundred hamlets, and the shadowy downs -closing the horizon. Then you can ride a mile -or two on soft white sand-paths winding in -and out among the heather, while the sun goes -slowly down among purple islands of cloud, -with gilded promontories and fiords of rosy -light, and the landscape grows more and more -indistinct and romantic, suffused in a golden -haze. At last it is time to turn homewards, -and you wind down into a leafy dingle, where -the air lies in cool strata across the sun-warmed -path, and fragrant wood-smells, from the heart -of winding ways and marshy streamlets, pour -out of the green dusk. The whole day you -have hardly seen a human being—an old labourer -has looked out with a slow bovine stare -from some field-corner, a group of cottage -children have hailed you over a fence, or a -carter walking beside a clinking team has -given you a muttered greeting—the only -sounds have been the voices of birds breaking -from the thicket, the rustle of leaves, the murmuring -of unseen streams, and the padding of -your horse’s hoofs in the sandy lane.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Peaceful Mind</span></div> - -<p>And what does the mind do in these tranquil<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> -hours? I hardly know. The thought runs in -a little leisurely stream, glancing from point to -point; the observation is, I notice, prematurely -acute, and, though the intellectual faculties -are in abeyance, drinks in impressions with -greedy delight: the feathery, blue-green foliage -of the ash-suckers, the grotesque, geometrical -forms in the lonely sandstone quarry, the -curving water-meadows with their tousled -grasses, the stone-leek on the roof of mellowed -barns, the flash of white chalk-quarries carved -out of distant downs, the climbing, clustering -roofs of the hamlet on the neighbouring -ridge.</p> - -<p>Some would say that the mind in such hours -grows dull, narrow, rustical, and slow—“in the -lonely vale of streams,” as Ossian sang, -“abides the narrow soul.” I hardly know, but -I think it is the opposite: it is true that one -does not learn in such silent hours the deft -trick of speech, the easy flow of humorous -thoughts, the tinkling interchange of the mind; -but there creeps over the spirit something of -the coolness of the pasture, the tranquillity of -green copses, and the contentment of the lazy -stream. I think that, undiluted, such days -might foster the elementary brutishness of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> -spirit, and that just as rhododendrons degenerate, -if untended, to the primal magenta type, -so one might revert by slow degrees to the animal -which lies not far below the civilised surface. -But there is no danger in my own life -that I should have too much of such reverie; -indeed, I have to scheme a little for it; and it -is to me a bath of peace, a plunge into the quiet -waters of nature, a refreshing return to the -untroubled and gentle spirit of the earth.</p> - -<p>The only thing to fear in such rides as these, -is if some ugly or sordid thought, some muddy -difficulty, some tangled dilemma is stuck like -a burr on the mind; then indeed such hours -are of little use, if they be not positively harmful. -The mind (at least my mind) has a way -of arranging matters in solitude so as to be -as little hopeful, as little kindly as possible; -the fretted spirit brews its venom, practises -for odious repartees, plans devilish questions, -and rehearses the mean drama over and over. -At such hours I feel indeed like Sinbad, with -the lithe legs and skinny arms of the Old -Man of the Sea twined round his neck. But -the mood changes—an interesting letter, a sunshiny -day, a pleasant visitor—any of these -raises the spirit out of the mire, and restores<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> -me to myself; and I resume my accustomed -tranquillity all the more sedulously for having -had a dip in the tonic tide of depression.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p> - -<h2>25</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>June 6, 1892.</i></p> - -<p>I have often thought what a lightening of the -load of life it would be if we could arrive at -greater simplicity and directness in our social -dealings with others. Of course the first difficulty -to triumph over is the physical difficulty -of simple shyness, which so often paralyses -men and women in the presence of a stranger. -But how instantly and perfectly a natural person -evokes naturalness in others. This naturalness -is hardly to be achieved without a certain -healthy egotism. It by no means produces -naturalness in others to begin operations -by questioning people about themselves. But -if one person begins to talk easily and frankly -about his own interests, others insensibly follow -suit by a kind of simple imitativeness. -And if the inspirer of this naturalness is not -a profound egotist, if he is really interested -in other people, if he can waive his own claims -to attention, the difficulty is overcome.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Conveyancer</span></div> - -<p>The other day I was bicycling, and on turning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> -out of Spyfield, where I had been doing -some business, I observed another bicyclist a -little ahead of me. He was a tall thin man, -with a loose white hat, and he rode with a certain -fantastic childish zest which attracted my -attention. If there was a little upward slope -in the road, he tacked extravagantly from side -to side, and seemed to be encouraging himself -by murmured exhortations. He had a word -for every one he passed. I rode for about -half a mile behind him, and he at last dismounted -at the foot of a steep slope that leads -up to a place called Gallows Hill. He stopped -half-way up the hill to study a map, and -as I passed him wheeling my bicycle, he called -cheerily to me to ask how far it was to a neighbouring -village. I told him to the best of my -ability, whereupon he said, “Oh no, I am sure -you are wrong; it must be twice that distance!” -I was for an instant somewhat nettled, feeling -that if he knew the distance, his question had a -certain wantonness. So I said, “Well, I have -lived here for twenty years and know all the -roads very well.” The stranger touched his -hat and said, “I am sure I apologise with all -my heart; I ought not to have spoken as I -did.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> - -<p>Examining him at my leisure I saw him to -be a tall, lean man, with rather exaggerated -features. He had a big, thin head, a long, -pointed nose, a mobile and smiling mouth, -large dark eyes, and full side-whiskers. I -took him at once for a professional man of -some kind, solicitor, schoolmaster, or even a -clergyman, though his attire was not clerical. -“Here,” he said, “just take the end of this map -and let us consult together.” I did as I was -desired, and he pointed out the way he meant -to take. “Now,” he said, “there is a train -there in an hour, and I want to arrive there -<em>easily</em>—mind you, not <em>hot</em>; that is so uncomfortable.” -I told him that if he knew the -road, which was a complicated one, he could -probably just do it in the time; but I added -that I was myself going to pass a station on -the line, where he might catch the same train -nearer town. He looked at me with a certain -slyness. “Are you certain of that?” he cried; -“I have all the trains at my fingers’ ends.” -I assured him it was so, while he consulted a -time-table. “Right!” he said, “you are right, -but <em>all</em> the trains do not stop there; it is not -a deduction that you can draw from the fact -of <em>one</em> stopping at the <em>other</em> station.” We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> -walked up to the top of the hill together, and -I proposed that we should ride in company. -He accepted with alacrity. “Nothing I should -like better!” As we got on to our bicycles -his foot slipped. “You will notice,” he said, -“that these are new boots—of a good pattern—but -somewhat smooth on the sole; in fact -they slip.” I replied that it was a good thing -to scratch new boots on the sole, so as to -roughen them before riding. “A capital -idea!” he said delightedly; “I shall do it the -moment I return, with a pair of nail-scissors, -<em>closed</em>, mind you, to prevent my straining -either blade.” We then rode off, and after a -few yards he said, “Now, this is not my usual -pace—rather faster than I can go with comfort.” -I begged him to take his own pace, -and he then began to talk of the country. -“Pent up in my chambers,” he said—“I am a -conveyancer, you must know—I long for a -green lane and a row of elms. I have lived -for years in town, in a most convenient street, -I must tell you, but I sicken for the country; -and now that I am in easier circumstances—I -have lived a <em>hard</em> life, mind you—I am -going to make the great change, and live in -the country. Now, what is your opinion of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> -the relative merits of town and country as a -place of residence?” I told him that the only -disadvantage of the country to my mind was -the difficulty of servants. “Right again!” he -said, as if I had answered a riddle. “But I -have overcome that; I have been educating a -pair of good maids for years—they are paragons, -and they will go anywhere with me; indeed, -they prefer the country themselves.”</p> - -<p>In such light talk we beguiled the way; too -soon we came to where our roads divided; I -pointed out to him the turn he was to take. -“Well,” he said cheerily, “all pleasant things -come to an end. I confess that I have enjoyed -your company, and am grateful for -your kind communications; perhaps we may -have another encounter, and if not, we will be -glad to have met, and think sometimes of this -pleasant hour!” He put his foot upon the -step of his bicycle cautiously, then mounted -gleefully, and saying “Good-bye, good-bye!” -he waved his hand, and in a moment was out -of sight.</p> - -<p>The thought of this brave and merry spirit -planning schemes of life, making the most of -simple pleasures, has always dwelt with me. -The gods, as we know from Homer, assumed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> -the forms of men, and were at the pains to -relate long and wholly unreliable stories to -account for their presence at particular times -and places; and I have sometimes wondered -whether in the lean conveyancer, with his childlike -zest for experience, his brisk enjoyment -of the smallest details of daily life, I did not -entertain some genial, masquerading angel unawares.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> - -<h2>26</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>June 8, 1893.</i></p> - -<p>Is it not the experience of every one that at -rare intervals, by some happy accident, life -presents one with a sudden and delicious thrill -of beauty? I have often tried to analyse the -constituent elements of these moments, but the -essence is subtle and defies detection. They -cannot be calculated upon, or produced by any -amount of volition or previous preparation. -One thing about these tiny ecstasies I have -noticed—they do not come as a rule when one -is tranquil, healthy, serene—they rather come -as a compensation for weariness and discontent; -and yet they are the purest gold of life, -and a good deal of sand is well worth washing -for a pellet or two of the real metal.</p> - -<p>To-day I was more than usually impatient; -over me all the week had hung the shadow of -some trying, difficult business—the sort of -business which, whatever you do, will be done -to nobody’s satisfaction. After a vain attempt -to wrestle with it, I gave it up, and went<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> -out on a bicycle; the wind blew gently and -steadily this soft June day; all the blue sky -was filled with large white clouds, blackening -to rain. I made for the one piece of flat -ground in our neighbourhood. It is tranquillising, -I have often found, to the dweller -in a hilly land, to cool and sober the eye occasionally -with the pure breadths of a level plain. -The grass was thick and heavy-headed in the -fields, but of mere wantonness I turned down -a lane which I know has no ending,—a mere -relief-road for carts to have access to a farm,—and -soon came to the end of it in a small -grassy circle, with a cottage or two, where a -footpath strikes off across the fields.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Heretofore Unvisited</span></div> - -<p>Why did I never come here before, I -thought. Through a gap in the hedge I saw -a large broad pasture, fringed in the far distance -with full-foliaged, rotund elms in thick -leaf; a row of willows on the horizon marked -the track of a stream. In the pasture in front -of me was a broad oblong pool of water with -water-lilies; down one side ran a row of huge -horse-chestnuts, and the end was rich in elders -full of flat white cakes of blossom. In the -field grazed an old horse; while a pigeon sailed -lazily down from the trees and ran to the pool<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> -to drink. That was all there was to see. But -it brought me with a deep and inexplicable -thrill close to the heart of the old, kindly, patient -Earth, the mother and the mistress and -the servant of all—she who allows us to tear -and rend her for our own paltry ends, and -then sets, how sweetly and tranquilly, to work, -with what a sense of inexhaustible leisure, to -paint and mellow and adorn the rude and -bleeding gaps. We tear up a copse, and she -fills the ugly scars in the spring with a crop -of fresh flowers—of flowers, perhaps, which -are not seen in the neighbourhood, but whose -seeds have lain vital and moist in the ground, -but too deep to know the impulse born of the -spring sun. Yet now they burst their armoured -mail, and send a thin, white, worm-like -arm to the top, which, as soon as it passes -into the light, drinks from the rays the green -flush that it chooses to hide its nakedness. We -dig a pool in the crumbling marl. At the -time the wound seems irreparable; the ugly, -slobbered banks grin at us like death; the -ground is full of footprints and slime, broken -roots and bedabbled leaves,—and next year it -is all a paradise of green and luscious water-plants, -with a hundred quiet lives being lived<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> -there, of snail and worm and beetle, as though -the place had never been disturbed. We build -a raw red house with an insupportably geometrical -outline, the hue of the vicious fire still in -the bricks; pass fifty years, and the bricks are -mellow and soft, plastered with orange rosettes -or grey filaments of lichen; the ugly window -frames are blistered and warped; the roof has -taken a soft and yielding outline—all is in -peace and harmony with the green world in -which it sits.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Repairer of the Breach</span></div> - -<p>I never saw this more beautifully illustrated -than once, when a great house in Whitehall -was destroyed, and heaped up in a hideous -rockery of bricks. All through the winter -these raw ruins, partly concealed by a rough -hoarding, tainted the view; but as soon as -spring returned, from every inch of grit rose -a forest of green stalks of willow-herb, each -in summer to be crowned with a spire of fantastic -crimson flowers, and to pass a little later -into those graceful, ghostly husks that shiver -in the wind. Centuries must have passed since -willow-herb had grown on that spot. Had -they laid dormant, these hopeful seeds, or had -they been wafted along dusty streets and high -in air over sun-scorched spaces? Nature at all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> -events had seen her chance, and done her work -patiently and wisely as ever.</p> - -<p>But to return to my lane-end. How strange -and deep are the impressions of a deep and -inviolate peace that some quiet corner like this -gives to the restless spirit! It can never be so -with the scenes that have grown familiar, -where we have carried about with us the burden -of private cares—the symptoms of the -disease of life. In any house where we have -lived, every corner, however peaceful and -beautiful in itself, is bound to be gradually -soaked, as it were, in the miseries of life, to -conceal its beauties under the accretion of sordid -associations.</p> - -<p>This room we connect with some sad misunderstanding. -There we gave way to some -petty passion of resentment, of jealousy, of -irritation, or vainly tried to pacify some similar -outbreak from one we loved. This is the -torture of imagination; to feel the beauty of -sight and sound, we must be sensitive; and if -we are sensitive, we carry about the shadow -with us—the capacity for self-torment, the -struggle of the ideal with the passing mood.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Sad Associations</span></div> - -<p>I have sometimes climbed to the top of a -hill and looked into some unknown and placid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> -valley, with field and wood and rivulet and -the homes of men. I have seen the figures -of men and oxen move sedately about those -quiet fields. Often, too, gliding at evening -in a train through a pastoral country when the -setting sun bathes all things in genial light and -contented shade, I have felt the same thought. -“How peaceful, how simple life would be, nay, -must be, here.” Only very gradually, as life -goes on, does it dawn upon the soul that the -trouble lies deeper, and that though surrounded -by the most unimagined peace, the -same fret, the same beating of restless wings, -the same delays attend. That dreamt-of -peace can hardly be attained. The most we -can do is to enjoy it to the utmost when it is -with us; and when it takes its flight, and -leaves us dumb, discontented, peevish, to -quench the sordid thought in resolute <em>silence</em>, -to curb the grating mood, to battle mutely -with the cowering fear; and so to escape investing -the house and the garden that we love -with the poisonous and bitter associations that -strike the beauty out of the fairest scene.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> - -<h2>27</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>September 20, 1894.</i></p> - -<p>I had to-day a strange little instance of the -patient, immutable habit of nature. Some -years ago there was a particular walk of which -I was fond; it led through pastures, by shady -wood-ends, and came out eventually on a -bridge that spanned the line. Here I often -went to see a certain express pass; there was -something thrilling in the silent cutting, the -beckoning, ghostly arm of the high signal, -the faint far-off murmur, and then the roar -of the great train forging past. It was a -breath from the world.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Red Spider</span></div> - -<p>On the parapet of the bridge, grey with -close-grained lichen, there lived a numerous -colony of little crimson spiders. What they -did I never could discern; they wandered aimlessly -about hither and thither, in a sort of -feeble, blind haste; if they ever encountered -each other on their rambles, they stopped, twiddled -horns, and fled in a sudden horror; they -never seemed to eat or sleep, and even continued<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> -their endless peregrinations in the middle -of heavy showers, which flicked them quivering -to death.</p> - -<p>I used to amuse myself with thinking how -one had but to alter the scale, so to speak, and -what appalling, intolerable monsters these -would become. Think of it! huge crimson -shapeless masses, with strong wiry legs, and -waving mandibles, tramping silently over the -grey veldt, and perhaps preying on minute -luckless insects, which would flee before them -in vain.</p> - -<p>One day I walked on ahead, leaving a companion -to follow. He did follow, and joined -me on the bridge—bringing heavy tidings -which had just arrived after I left home.</p> - -<p>The place grew to me so inseparably connected -with the horror of the news that I instinctively -abandoned it; but to-day, finding -myself close to the place—nearly ten years -had passed without my visiting it—I turned -aside, musing on the old sadness, with something -in my heart of the soft regret that a -sorrow wears when seen through the haze of -years.</p> - -<p>There was the place, just the same; I bent -to see a passing train and (I had forgotten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> -all about them) there were my red spiders still -pursuing their aimless perambulations. But -who can tell the dynasties, the genealogies that -had bridged the interval?</p> - -<p>The red spider has no great use in the world, -as far as I know. But he has every right to -be there, and to enjoy the sun falling so warm -on the stone. I wonder what he thinks about -it all? For me, he has become the type of the -patient, pretty fancies of nature, so persistently -pursued, so void of moral, so deliciously -fantastic and useless—but after all, what am -I to talk of usefulness?</p> - -<p>Spider and man, man and spider—and to -the pitying, tender mind of God, the brisk -spider on his ledge, and the dull, wistful, middle-aged -man who loiters looking about him, -wondering and waiting, are much the same. -He has a careful thought of each, I know:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="verse">To both alike the darkness and the day,</div> -<div class="verse indent1">The sunshine and the flowers,</div> -<div class="verse">We draw sad comfort, thinking we obey</div> -<div class="verse indent1">A deeper will than ours.</div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> - -<h2>28</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>August 4, 1895.</i></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Dawn</span></div> - -<p>Just another picture lingers with me, for no -very defined reason. It was an August night; -I had gone to rest with the wind sighing and -buffeting against my windows, but when I -awoke with a start, deep in the night, roused, -it seemed, as by footsteps in the air and a sudden -hollow calling of airy voices, it was utterly -still outside. I drew aside my heavy -tapestry curtain, and lo! it was the dawn. A -faint upward gush of lemon-coloured light -edged the eastern hills. The air as I threw -the casement wide was unutterably sweet and -cool. In the faint light, over the roof of the -great barn, I saw what I had seen a hundred -times before, a quiet wood-end, upon which -the climbing hedges converge. But now it -seemed to lie there in a pure and silent dream, -sleeping a light sleep, waiting contentedly for -the dawn and smiling softly to itself. Over -the fields lay little wreaths of mist, and beyond -the wood, hills of faintest blue, the hills<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> -of dreamland, where it seems as if no harsh -wind could blow or cold rain fall. I felt as -though I stood to watch the stainless slumber -of one I loved, and was permitted by some -happy and holy chance to see for once the unuttered -peace that earth enjoys in her lonely -and unwatched hours. Too often, alas! one -carries into the fairest scenes a turmoil of -spirit, a clouded mind that breaks and mars -the spell. But here it was not so; I gazed -upon the hushed eyes of the earth, and heard -her sleeping breath; and, as the height of blessing, -I seemed myself to have left for a moment -the past behind, to have no overshadowing -from the future, but to live only in the inviolate -moment, clear-eyed and clean-hearted, -to see the earth in her holiest and most secluded -sanctuary, unsuspicious and untroubled, -bathed in the light and careless slumber of -eternal youth, in that delicious oblivion that -fences day from weary day.</p> - -<p>In the jaded morning light the glory was -faded, and the little wood wore its usual workaday -look, the face it bears before the world; -but I, I had seen it in its golden dreams; I -knew its secret, and it could not deceive me; it -had yielded to me unawares its sublimest confidence,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> -and however it might masquerade as -a commonplace wood, a covert for game, a -commercial item in an estate-book, known by -some homely name, I had seen it once undisguised, -and knew it as one of the porches of -heaven.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p> - -<h2>29</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>April 4, 1896.</i></p> - -<p>It seems a futile task to say anything about -the spring; yet poets and romancers make no -apologies for treating of love, which is an old -and familiar phenomenon enough. And I declare -that the wonder of spring, so far from -growing familiar, strikes upon the mind with -a bewildering strangeness, a rapturous surprise, -which is greater every year. Every -spring I say to myself that I never realised before -what a miraculous, what an astounding -thing is the sudden conspiracy of trees and -flowers, hatched so insensibly, and carried out -so punctually, to leap into life and loveliness -together. The velvety softness of the grass, -the mist of green that hangs about the copse, -the swift weaving of the climbing tapestry -that screens the hedgerow-banks, the jewellery -of flowers that sparkle out of all sequestered -places; they are adorable. But this early day -of spring is close and heavy, with a slow rain -dropping reluctantly out of the sky, a day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> -when an insidious melancholy lies in wait for -human beings, a sense of inadequacy, a meek -rebellion against all activity, bodily or mental. -I walk slowly and sedately along the sandy -roads fast oozing into mire. There is a sense -of expectancy in the air; tree and flower are -dispirited too, oppressed with heaviness, and -yet gratefully conscious, as I am not, of the -divine storage of that pure and subtle element -that is taking place for their benefit. “Praise -God,” said Saint Francis, “for our sister the -water, for she is very serviceable to us and -humble and clean.” Yes, we give thanks! but, -alas! to sit still and be pumped into, as Carlyle -said of Coleridge’s conversation, can never be -an enlivening process.</p> - -<p>Yet would that the soul could gratefully recognise -her own rainy days; could droop, like -Nature, with patient acquiescence, with wise -passivity, till the wells of strength and freshness -are stored!</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Subtle Superiorities</span></div> - -<p>The particular form of melancholy which I -find besets me on these sad reflective mornings, -is to compare my vague ambitions with my concrete -performances. I will not say that in my -dreamful youth I cherished the idea of swaying -the world. I never expected to play a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> -brave part on the public stage. Political and -military life—the two careers which ripple -communities to the verge, never came within -the range of my possibilities. But I think -that I was conscious—as most intelligent -young creatures undoubtedly are—of a subtle -superiority to other people. An ingenious -preacher once said that we cannot easily delude -ourselves into the belief that we are richer, -taller, more handsome, or even wiser, better, -abler, and more capable than other people, but -we can and do very easily nourish a secret belief -that we are more <em>interesting</em> than others. -Such an illusion has a marvellous vitality; it -has a delicate power of resisting the rude lessons -to the contrary which contact with the -world would teach us; and I should hardly -like to confess how ill I have learned my lesson. -I realise, of course, that I have done little -to establish this superiority in the eyes of -others; but I find it hard to disabuse myself -of the vague belief that if only I had the art -of more popular and definite expression, if only -the world had a little more leisure to look -in sequestered nooks for delicate flowers of -thought and temperament, then it might be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> -realized how exquisite a nature is here neglected.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Hard Truth</span></div> - -<p>In saying this I am admitting the reader to -the inmost <i lang="la">penetralia</i> of thought. I frankly -confess that in my robust and equable moments -I do recognise the broken edge of my life, and -what a very poor thing I have made of it—but, -for all that, it is my honest belief that we -most of us have in our hearts that inmost -shrine of egotism, where the fire burns clear -and fragrant before an idealised image of -self; and I go further, and say that I believe -this to be a wholesome and valuable thing, because -it is of the essence of self-respect, and -gives us a feeble impulse in the direction of -virtue and faith. If a man ever came to -realise exactly his place in the world, as others -realise it, how feeble, how uninteresting, how -ludicrously unnecessary he is, and with what -a speedy unconcern others would accommodate -themselves to his immediate disappearance, he -would sink into an abyss of gloom out of which -nothing would lift him. It is one of the divine -uses of love, that it glorifies life by restoring -and raising one’s self-esteem.</p> - -<p>In the dejected reveries of such languorous -spring days as these, no such robust egotism as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> -I have above represented comes to my aid. I -see myself stealing along, a shy, tarnished -thing, a blot among the fresh hopes and tender -dreams that smile on every bank. The pitiful -fabric of my life is mercilessly unveiled; here -I loiter, a lonely, shabby man, bruised by contact -with the word, dilatory, dumb, timid, registering -tea-table triumphs, local complacencies, -provincial superiorities—spending sheltered -days in such comfortable dreams as are -born of warm fires, ample meals, soft easy-chairs, -and congratulating myself on poetical -potentialities, without any awkward necessities -of translating my dreams into corrective action—or -else discharging homely duties with an -almost sacerdotal solemnity, and dignifying -with the title of religious quietism what is done -by hundreds of people instinctively and simply -and without pretentiousness. If I raved -against my limitations, deemed my cage a -prison, beat myself sick against the bars, I -might then claim to be a fiery and ardent soul; -but I cannot honestly do this; and I must comfort -myself with the thought that possibly the -ill-health, which necessitates my retirement, -compensates for the disabilities it inflicts on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> -me, by removing the stimulus which would -make my prison insupportable.</p> - -<p>In this agreeable frame of mind I drew near -home and stood awhile on the deserted bowling-green -with its elder-thickets, its little -grassy terraces, its air of regretful wildness, so -often worn by a place that has been tamed by -civilisation and has not quite reverted to its native -savagery. A thrush sang with incredible -clearness, repeating a luscious phrase often -enough to establish its precision of form, and -yet not often enough to satiate—a triumph -of instinctive art.</p> - -<p>These thrushes are great favourites of mine; -I often sit, on a dewy morning, to watch them -hunting. They hop lightly along, till they -espy a worm lying in blissful luxury out of his -hole; two long hops, and they are upon him; -he, using all his retractile might, clings to his -home, but the thrush sets his feet firm in the -broad stride of the Greek warrior, gives a -mighty tug—you can see the viscous elastic -thread strain—and the worm is stretched -writhing on the grass. What are the dim -dreams of the poor reptile, I wonder; does he -regret his cool burrow, “and youth and -strength and this delightful world?”—no, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> -think it is a stoical resignation. For a moment -the thrush takes no notice of him, but -surveys the horizon with a caution which the -excitement of the chase has for an instant imprudently -diverted. Then the meal begins, -with horrid leisureliness.</p> - -<p>But it is strange to note the perpetual instinctive -consciousness of danger which besets -birds thus in the open; they must live in a tension -of nervous watchfulness which would -depress a human being into melancholia. -There is no absorbed gobbling; between every -mouthful the little head with its beady eyes -swings right and left to see that all is clear; -and he is for ever changing his position and -seldom fronts the same way for two seconds -together.</p> - -<p>Do we realise what it must be to live, as even -these sheltered birds do in a quiet garden, with -the fear of attack and death hanging over -them from morning to night?</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Bondage of a Bird</span></div> - -<p>Another fact that these thrushes have taught -me is the extreme narrowness of their self-chosen -world. They are born and live within -the compass of a few yards. We are apt to -envy a bird the power of changing his horizon, -of soaring above the world, and choosing for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> -his home the one spot he desires. Think what -our life would be if, without luggage, without -encumbrances, we could rise in the air and, -winging our way out to the horizon, choose -some sequestered valley, and there, without -house, without rates and taxes, abide, with -water babbling in its channel and food abundant. -Yet it is far otherwise. One of my -thrushes has a white feather in his wing; he -was hatched out in a big syringa which stands -above the bowling-green; and though I have -observed the birds all about my few acres carefully -enough I have never seen this particular -thrush anywhere but on the lawn. He never -seems even to cross the wall into the garden; -he has a favourite bush to roost in, and another -where he sometimes sings: at times he -beats along the privet hedge, or in the broad -border, but he generally hops about the lawn, -and I do not think he has ever ventured beyond -it. He works hard for his living too; he is -up at dawn, and till early afternoon he is generally -engaged in foraging. He will die, I -suppose, in the garden, though how his body -is disposed of is a mystery to me.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Soul of a Thrush</span></div> - -<p>He takes the limitations of his life just as -he finds them; he never seems to think he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> -would like to be otherwise; but he works diligently -for his living, he sings a grateful song, -he sleeps well, he does not compare himself -with other birds or wish his lot was different—he -has no regrets, no hopes, and few cares. -Still less has he any philanthropic designs of -raising the tone of his brother thrushes, or -directing a mission among the quarrelsome -sparrows. Sometimes he fights a round or -two, and when the spring comes, stirred by -delicious longings, he will build a nest, devote -the food he would like to devour to his beady-eyed, -yellow-lipped young, and die as he has -lived. There is a good deal to be said for this -brave and honest life, and especially for the -bright and wholesome music which he makes -within the thickets. I do not know that it can -be improved upon.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span></p> - -<h2>30</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Aug. 19, 1898.</i></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">God’s Acre</span></div> - -<p>There is a simple form of expedition of -which I am very fond; that is the leisurely -visiting of some rustic church in the neighbourhood. -They are often very beautifully -placed—sometimes they stand high on the -ridges and bear a bold testimony to the faith; -sometimes they lie nestled in trees, hidden in -valleys, as if to show it is possible to be holy -and beautiful, though unseen. Sometimes -they are the central ornament of a village -street; there generally seems some simple and -tender reason for their position; but the more -populous their neighbourhood, the more they -have suffered from the zeal of the restorer. -What I love best of all is a church that stands -a little apart, sheltered in wood, dreaming by -itself, and guarding its tranquil and grateful -secret—“<i lang="la">secretum meum mihi</i>,” it seems to -say.</p> - -<p>I like to loiter in the churchyard ground to -step over the hillocks, to read the artless epitaphs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> -on slanting tombs; it is not a morbid -taste, for if there is one feeling more than -another that such a visit removes and tranquillises, -it is the fear of death. Death here -appears in its most peaceful light; it seems so -necessary, so common, so quiet and inevitable -an end, like a haven after a troubled sea. -Here all the sad and unhappy incidents of -mortality are forgotten, and death appears -only in the light of a tender and dreamful -sleep.</p> - -<p>Better still is the grateful coolness of the -church itself; here one can trace in the epitaphs -the fortunes of a family—one can see the -graves of old squires who have walked over -their own fields, talked with their neighbours, -shot, hunted, eaten, drunk, have loved and -been loved, and have yielded their place in the -fulness of days to those that have come after -them. Very moving, too, are the evidences of -the sincere grief, which underlies the pompous -phraseology of the marble monument with its -urns and cherubs. I love to read the long -list of homely virtues attributed by the living -to the dead in the depth of sorrow, and to believe -them true. Then there are records of untimely -deaths,—the young wife, the soldier in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> -his prime, the boy or girl who have died unstained -by life, and about whom clings the -passionate remembrance of the happy days -that are no more. Such records as those do -not preach the lesson of vanity and decay, but -the lesson of pure and grateful resignation, -the faith that the God who made the world so -beautiful, and filled it so full of happiness, has -surprises in store for His children, in a world -undreamed of.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Monument</span></div> - -<p>One monument in a church not far from -Golden End always brings tears to my eyes; -there is a chapel in the aisle, the mausoleum -of an ancient family, where mouldering banners -and pennons hang in the gloom; in the -centre of the chapel is an altar-tomb, on which -lies the figure of a young boy, thirteen years -old, the inscription says. He reclines on one -arm, he has a delicately carved linen shirt -that leaves the slender neck free, and he is -wrapped in a loose gown; he looks upward toward -the east, his long hair falling over his -shoulders, his thin and shapely hand upon his -knee. On each side of the tomb, kneeling on -marble cushions on the ledge, are his father -and mother, an earl and countess. The -mother, in the stately costume of a bygone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> -court, with hair carefully draped, watches the -face of the child with a look in which love -seems to have cast out grief. The earl in -armour, a strongly-built, soldier-like figure, -looks across the boy’s knee at his wife’s face, -but in his expression—I know not if it be art—there -seems to be a look of rebellious sorrow, -of thwarted pride. All his wealth and state -could not keep his darling with him, and he -does not seem to understand. There have -they knelt, the little group, for over two centuries, -waiting and watching, and one is glad -to think that they know now whatever there -is to know. Outside the golden afternoon -slants across the headstones, and the birds twitter -in the ivy, while a full stream winds below -through the meadows that once were theirs.</p> - -<p>Such a contemplation does not withdraw one -from life or tend to give a false view of its -energies; it does not forbid one to act, to love, -to live; it only gilds with a solemn radiance -the cloud that overshadows us all, the darkness -of the inevitable end. Face to face with the -<i lang="la">lacrimæ rerum</i> in so simple and tender a form, -the heavy words <i lang="la">Memento Mori</i> fall upon the -heart not as a sad and harsh interruption of -wordly dreams and fancies, but as a deep pedal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> -note upon a sweet organ, giving strength and -fulness and balance to the dying away of the -last grave and gentle chord.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> - -<h2>31</h2> - -<p>If any one whose eye may fall upon these -pages be absolutely equable of temperament, -serene, contented, the same one day as another, -as Dr. Johnson said of Reynolds, let him not -read this chapter—he will think it a mere cry -in the dark, better smothered in the bed-clothes, -an unmanly piece of morbid pathology, a -secret and sordid disease better undivulged, on -which all persons of proper pride should hold -their peace.</p> - -<p>Well, it is not for him that I write; there -are books and books, and even chapters and -chapters, just as there are people and people. -I myself avoid books dealing with health and -disease. I used when younger to be unable -to resist the temptation of a medical book; -but now I am wiser, and if I sometimes yield -to the temptation, it is with a backward glancing -eye and a cautious step. And I will -say that I generally put back the book with a -snap, in a moment, as though a snake had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> -stung me. But there will be no pathology -here—nothing but a patient effort to look a -failing in the face, and to suggest a remedy.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Fears</span></div> - -<p>I speak to the initiated, to those who have -gone down into the dark cave, and seen the -fire burn low in the shrine, and watched aghast -the formless, mouldering things—hideous implements -are they, or mere weapons?—that -hang upon the walls.</p> - -<p>Do you know what it is to dwell, perhaps for -days together, under the shadow of a fear? -Perhaps a definite fear—a fear of poverty, -or a fear of obloquy, or a fear of harshness, -or a fear of pain, or a fear of disease—or, -worse than all, a boding, misshapen, sullen -dread which has no definite cause, and is therefore -the harder to resist.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Dreams</span></div> - -<p>These moods, I say it with gratitude for -myself and for the encouragement of others, -tend to diminish in acuteness and in frequency -as I grow older. They are now, as ever, preluded -by dreams of a singular kind, dreams of -rapid and confused action, dreams of a romantic -and exaggerated pictorial character—huge -mountain ranges, lofty and venerable -buildings, landscapes of incredible beauty, -gardens of unimaginable luxuriance, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> -pass with incredible rapidity before the mind. -I will indicate two of these in detail. I was -in a vessel like a yacht, armed with a massive -steel prow like a ram, which moved in some -aerial fashion over a landscape, skimming it -seemed to me but a few feet above the ground. -A tall man of benignant aspect stood upon the -bridge, and directed the operations of the unseen -navigator. We ascended a heathery valley, -and presently encountered snow-drifts, -upon which the vessel seemed to settle down -to her full speed; at last we entered a prodigious -snowfield, with vast ridged snow-waves -extending in every direction for miles; the vessel -ran not over but through these waves, sending -up huge spouts of snow which fell in cool -showers upon my head and hands, while the -tinkle of dry ice fragments made a perpetual -low music. At last we stopped and I descended -on to the plateau. Far ahead, -through rolling clouds, I saw the black snow-crowned -heights of a mountain, loftier than -any seen by human eye, and for leagues round -me lay the interminable waste of snow. I was -aroused from my absorption by a voice behind -me; the vessel started again on her course with -a leap like a porpoise, and though I screamed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> -aloud to stop her, I saw her, in a few seconds, -many yards ahead, describing great curves -as she ran, with the snow spouting over her like -a fountain.</p> - -<p>The second was a very different scene. I -was in the vine-clad alleys of some Italian garden; -against the still blue air a single stone -pine defined itself; I walked along a path, and -turning a corner an exquisite conventual building -of immense size, built of a light brown -stone, revealed itself. From all the alleys -round emerged troops of monastic figures in -soft white gowns, and a mellow chime of exceeding -sweetness floated from the building. -I saw that I too was robed like the rest; but -the gliding figures outstripped me; and arriving -last at a great iron portal I found it closed, -and the strains of a great organ came drowsily -from within.</p> - -<p>Then into the dream falls a sudden sense of -despair like an ashen cloud; a feeling of incredible -agony, intensified by the beauty of the -surrounding scene, that agony which feverishly -questions as to why so dark a stroke -should fall when the mind seems at peace with -itself and lost in dreamy wonder at the loveliness -all about it. Then the vision closes, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> -for a time the mind battles with dark waves -of anguish, emerging at last, like a diver from -a dim sea, into the waking consciousness. The -sickly daylight filters through the window curtains -and the familiar room swims into sight. -The first thought is one of unutterable relief, -which is struck instantly out of the mind by -the pounce of the troubled mood; and then -follows a ghastly hour, when every possibility -of horror and woe intangible presses in upon -the battling mind. At such moments a definite -difficulty, a practical problem would be -welcome—but there is none; the misery is too -deep for thought, and even, when after long -wrestling, the knowledge comes that it is all a -subjective condition, and that there is no adequate -cause in life or circumstances for this -unmanning terror—even then it can only be -silently endured, like the racking of some fierce -physical pain.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Woe</span></div> - -<p>The day that succeeds to such a waking -mood is almost the worst part of the experience. -Shaken and dizzied by the inrush of -woe, the mind straggles wearily through hour -after hour; the familiar duties are intolerable; -food has no savour; action and thought no interest; -and if for an hour the tired head is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> -diverted by some passing event, or if, oppressed -with utter exhaustion, it sinks into an -unrefreshing slumber, repose but gives the -strength to suffer—the accursed mood leaps -again, as from an unseen lair, upon the unnerved -consciousness, and tears like some -strange beast the helpless and palpitating soul.</p> - -<p>When first, at Cambridge, I had the woeful -experiences above recorded, I was so unused to -endurance, so bewildered by suffering, that I -think for awhile I was almost beside myself. -I recollect going down with some friends, in -a brief lull of misery, to watch a football -match, when the horror seized me in the middle -of a cheerful talk with such vehemence, -that I could only rush off with a muttered -word, and return to my rooms, in which I immured -myself to spend an hour in an agony -of prayer. Again I recollect sitting with -some of the friends of my own age after hall; -we were smoking and talking peacefully -enough—for some days my torment had been -suspended—when all at once, out of the secret -darkness the terror leapt upon me, and after -in vain resisting it for a few moments, I hurried -away, having just enough self-respect to -glance at my watch and mutter something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> -about a forgotten engagement. But worst of -all was a walk taken with my closest friend on -a murky November day. We started in good -spirits, when in a moment the accursed foe was -upon me; I hardly spoke except for fitful -questions. Our way led us to a level crossing, -beside a belt of woodland, where a huge luggage -train was jolting and bumping backwards -and forewards. We hung upon the -gate; and then, and then only, came upon me -in a flash an almost irresistible temptation to -lay my head beneath the ponderous wheels, and -end it all; I could only pray in silence, and -hurry from the spot in speechless agitation. -What wonder if I heard on the following day -that my friend complained that I was altering -for the worse—that I had become so sullen and -morose that it was no use talking to me.</p> - -<p>Gradually, very gradually, the aching frost -of the soul broke up and thawed; little trifling -encouraging incidents—a small success or two, -an article accepted by a magazine, a friendship, -an athletic victory, raised me step by -step out of the gloom. One benefit, even at -the time, it brought me—an acute sensitiveness -to beauty both of sight and sound. I used -to steal at even-song into the dark nave of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> -King’s Chapel, and the sight of the screen, the -flood of subdued light overflowing from the -choir, the carven angels with their gilded trumpets, -penetrated into the soul with an exquisite -sweetness; and still more the music—whether -the low prelude with the whispering pedals, -the severe monotone breaking into freshets of -harmony, the swing and richness of the chants, -or the elaborate beauty of some familiar magnificat -or anthem—all fell like showers upon -the arid sense. The music at King’s had one -characteristic that I have never heard elsewhere; -the properties of the building are such -that the echo lingers without blurring the successive -chords—not “loth to die,” I used to -think, as Wordsworth says, but sinking as it -were from consciousness to dream, and from -dream to death.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Brotherhood of Sorrow</span></div> - -<p>One further gain—the greater—was that -my suffering did not, I think, withdraw me -wholly into myself and fence me from the -world; rather it gave me a sense of the brotherhood -of grief. I was one with all the -agonies that lie silent in the shadow of life; -and though my suffering had no tangible -cause, yet I was initiated into the fellowship -of those who <em>bear</em>. I <em>understood</em>;—weak,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span> -faithless, and faulty as I was, I was no longer -in the complacent isolation of the strong, the -successful, the selfish, and even in my darkest -hour I had strength to thank God for that.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p> - -<h2>32</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Oct. 21, 1898.</i></p> - -<p>I have been reading some of my old diaries -to-day; and I am tempted to try and disentangle, -as far as I can, the <i lang="fr">motif</i> that seems -to me to underlie my simple life.</p> - -<p>One question above all others has constantly -recurred to my mind; and the answer to it is -the sum of my slender philosophy.</p> - -<p>The question then is this: is a simple, useful, -dignified, happy life possible to most of us -without the stimulus of affairs, of power, of -fame? I answer unhesitatingly that such a -life is possible. The tendency of the age is to -measure success by publicity, not to think -highly of any person or any work unless it -receives “recognition,” to think it essential to -happiness <i lang="la">monstrari digito</i>, to be in the swim, -to be a personage.</p> - -<p>I admit at once the temptation; to such -successful persons comes the consciousness of -influence, the feeling of power, the anxious -civilities of the undistinguished, the radiance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> -of self-respect, the atmosphere of flattering, -subtle deference, the seduction of which not -even the most independent and noble characters -can escape. Indeed, many an influential -man of simple character and unpretending -virtue, who rates such conveniences of life at -their true value, and does not pursue them as -an end, would be disagreeably conscious of the -lack of these <i lang="fr">petits soins</i> if he adopted an unpopular -cause or for any reason forfeited the -influence which begets them.</p> - -<p>A friend of mine came to see me the other -day fresh from a visit to a great house. His -host was a man of high cabinet rank, the inheritor -of an ample fortune and a historic -name, who has been held by his nearest friends -to cling to political life longer than prudence -would warrant. My friend told me that he -had been left alone one evening with his host, -who had, half humorously, half seriously, indulged -in a lengthy tirade against the pressure -of social duties and unproductive drudgery -that his high position involved. “If they -would only let me alone!” he said; “I think -it very hard that in the evening of my days -I cannot order my life to suit my tastes. I -have served the public long enough....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> -I would read—how I would read—and when -I was bored I would sleep in my chair.”</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Success</span></div> - -<p>“And yet,” my friend said, commenting on -these unguarded statements, “I believe he is -the only person of his intimate circle who does -not know that he would be hopelessly bored—that -the things he decries are the very breath -of life to him. There is absolutely no reason -why he should not at once and forever realise -his fancied ideal—and if his wife and children -do not urge him to do so, it is only because -they know that he would be absolutely miserable.” -And this is true of many lives.</p> - -<p>If the “recognition,” of which I have spoken -above, were only accorded to the really eminent, -it would be a somewhat different matter; -but nine-tenths of the persons who receive -it are nothing more than phantoms, who have -set themselves to pursue the glory, without the -services that ought to earn it. A great many -people have a strong taste for power without -work, for dignity without responsibility; and -it is quite possible to attain consideration if -you set yourself resolutely to pursue it.</p> - -<p>The temptation comes in a yet more subtle -form to men of a really high-minded type, -whose chief preoccupation is earnest work and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> -the secluded pursuit of some high ideal. Such -people, though they do not wish to fetter themselves -with the empty social duties that assail -the eminent, yet are tempted to wish to have -the refusal of them, and to be secretly dissatisfied -if they do not receive this testimonial -to the value of their work. The temptation -is not so vulgar as it seems. Every one who -is ambitious wishes to be effective. A man -does not write books or paint pictures or make -speeches simply to amuse himself, to fill his -time; and they are few who can genuinely -write, as the late Mark Pattison wrote of a -period of his life, that his ideal was at one -time “defiled and polluted by literary ambition.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, if there is to be any real attempt -to win the inner peace of the spirit, -such ambition must be not sternly but serenely -resisted. Not until a man can pass by -the rewards of fame <i lang="la">oculis irretortis</i>—“nor -cast one longing, lingering look behind”—is -the victory won.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Pure Ambition</span></div> - -<p>It may be urged, in my case, that the obscurity -for which I crave was never likely to -be denied me. True; but at the same time -ambition in its pettiest and most childish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> -forms has been and is a real temptation to me: -the ambition to dominate and dazzle my immediate -circle, to stimulate curiosity about myself, -to be considered, if not a successful man, -at least a man who might have succeeded if -he had cared to try—all the temptations which -are depicted in so masterly and merciless a -way by that acute psychologist Mr. Henry -James in the character of Gilbert Osmond in -the <cite>Portrait of a Lady</cite>—to all of these I plead -guilty. Had I not been gifted with sufficient -sensitiveness to see how singularly offensive -and pitiful such pretences are in the case of -others, I doubt if I should not have succumbed—if -indeed I have not somewhat succumbed—to -them.</p> - -<p>Indeed, to some morbid natures such pretences -are vital—nay, self-respect would be -impossible without them. I know a lady who, -like Mrs. Wittiterly, is really kept alive by -the excitement of being an invalid. If she -had not been so ill she would have died years -ago. I know a worthy gentleman who lives -in London and spends his time in hurrying -from house to house lamenting how little time -he can get to do what he really enjoys—to -read or think. Another has come to my mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> -who lives in a charming house in the country, -and by dint of inviting a few second-rate literary -and artistic people to his house and entertaining -them royally, believes himself to be -at the very centre of literary and artistic life, -and essential to its continuance. These are -harmless lives, not unhappy, not useless; -based, it is true, upon a false conception of -the relative importance of their own existence, -but then is there one of us—the most -hard-working, influential, useful person in the -world—who does not exaggerate his own importance? -Does any one realise how little essential -he is, or how easily his post is filled—indeed, -how many people there are who believe -that they could do the same thing better if -they only had the chance.</p> - -<p>A life to be happy must be compounded in -due degree of activity and pleasure, using the -word in its best sense. There must be sufficient -activity to take off the perilous and -acrid humours of the mind which, left to themselves, -poison the sources of life, and enough -pleasure to make the prospect of life palatable.</p> - -<p>The first necessity is to get rid, as life goes -on, of all conventional pleasures. By the age<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> -of forty a man should know what he enjoys, -and not continue doing things intended to be -pleasurable, either because he deludes himself -into thinking that he enjoys them, or because -he likes others to think that he enjoys -them. I know now that I do not care for casual -country-house visiting, for dancing, for -garden parties, for cricket matches, and many -another form of social distraction, but that the -pleasures that remain and grow are the pleasures -derived from books, from the sights and -sounds of nature, from sympathetic conversation, -from music, and from active physical exercise -in the open air. It is my belief that a -man is happiest who is so far employed that he -has to scheme to secure a certain share of such -pleasures. My own life unhappily is so ordered -that it is the other way—that I have to -scheme to secure sufficient activities to make -such pleasure wholesome. But I am stern -with myself. At times when I find the zest -of simple home pleasures deserting me, I have -sufficient self-control deliberately to spend a -week in London, which I detest, or to pay a -duty-visit where I am so acutely and sharply -bored by a dull society—<i lang="la">castigatio mea matutina<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> -est</i>—that I return with delicious enthusiasm -to my own trivial round.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Our Own Importance</span></div> - -<p>I do not flatter myself that I hold any very -important place in the world’s economy. But -I believe that I have humbly contributed somewhat -to the happiness of others, and I find that -the reward for thwarted, wasted ambitions -has come in the shape of a daily increasing -joy in quiet things and tender simplicities. I -need not reiterate the fact that I draw from -Nature, ever more and more, the most unfailing -and the purest joy; and if I have forfeited -some of the deepest and most thrilling emotions -of the human heart, it is but what thousands -are compelled to do; and it is something -to find that the heart can be sweet and tranquil -without them. The only worth of these pages -must rest in the fact that the life which I have -tried to depict is made up of elements which -are within the reach of all or nearly all human -beings. And though I cannot claim to have -invented a religious system, or to have originated -any new or startling theory of existence, -yet I have proved by experiment that a life beset -by many disadvantages, and deprived of -most of the stimulus that to some would seem -essential, need not drift into being discontented -or evil or cold or hard.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> - -<h2>33</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Oct. 22, 1898.</i></p> - -<p>That is, so to speak, the outside of my life, the -front that is turned to the world. May I for -a brief moment open the doors that lead to the -secret rooms of the spirit?</p> - -<p>The greater part of mankind trouble themselves -little enough about the eternal questions: -what we are, and what we shall be hereafter. -Life to the strong, energetic, the full-blooded -gives innumerable opportunities of forgetting. -It is easy to swim with the stream, to take no -thought of the hills which feed the quiet -source of it, or the sea to which it runs; for -such as these it is enough to live. But all -whose minds are restless, whose imagination is -constructive, who have to face some dreary -and aching present, and would so gladly take -refuge in the future and nestle in the arms of -faith, if they could but find her—for these the -obstinate question must come. Like the wind -of heaven it rises. We may shut it out, trim -the lamp, pile the fire, and lose ourselves in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> -pleasant and complacent activities; but in the -intervals of our work, when we drop the book -or lay down the pen, the gust rises shrill and -sharp round the eaves, the gale buffets in the -chimney, and we cannot drown the echo in our -hearts.</p> - -<p>This is the question:—</p> - -<p>Is our life a mere fortuitous and evanescent -thing? Is consciousness a mere symptom of -matter under certain conditions? Do we begin -and end? Are the intense emotions and -attachments, the joys and sorrows of life, the -agonies of loss, the hungering love with which -we surround the faces, the voices, the forms of -those we love, the chords which vibrate in us at -the thought of vanished days, and places we -have loved—the old house, the family groups -assembled, the light upon the quiet fields at -evening, the red sunset behind the elms—all -those purest, sweetest, most poignant memories—are -these all unsubstantial phenomena -like the rainbow or the dawn, subjective, -transitory, moving as the wayfarer moves?</p> - -<p>Who can tell us?</p> - -<p>Some would cast themselves upon the Gospel—but -to me it seems that Jesus spoke of -these things rarely, dimly, in parables—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> -that though He takes for granted the continuity -of existence, He deliberately withheld the -knowledge of the conditions under which it -continues. He spoke, it is true, in the story -of Dives and Lazarus, of a future state, of -the bosom of Abraham where the spirit rested -like a tired child upon his father’s knee—of -the great gulf that could not be crossed except -by the voices and gestures of the spirits—but -will any one maintain that He was not -using the forms of current allegory, and that -He intended this parable as an eschatological -solution? Again He spoke of the final judgment -in a pastoral image.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Identity</span></div> - -<p>Enough, some faithful souls may say, upon -which to rest the hope of the preservation of -human identity. Alas! I must confess with a -sigh, it is not enough for me. I see the mass -of His teaching directed to life, and the issues -of the moment; I seem to see Him turn His -back again and again on the future, and wave -His followers away. Is it conceivable that if -He could have said, in words unmistakable and -precise, “You have before you, when the weary -body closes its eyes on the world, an existence -in which perception is as strong or stronger, -identity as clearly defined, memory as real,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> -though as swift as when you lived—and this -too unaccompanied by any of the languors or -failures or traitorous inheritance of the poor -corporal frame,”—is it conceivable, I say, that -if He could have said this, He would have held -His peace, and spoken only through dark -hints, dim allegories, shadowy imaginings. -Could a message of peace more strong, more -vital, more tremendous have been given to the -world? To have satisfied the riddles of the -sages, the dream of philosophers, the hopes of -the ardent—to have allayed the fears of the -timid the heaviness of the despairing; to have -dried the mourner’s tears—all in a moment. -And He did not!</p> - -<p>What then <em>can</em> we believe? I can answer -but for myself.</p> - -<p>I believe with my whole heart and soul in the -indestructibility of life and spirit. Even -<em>matter</em> to my mind seems indestructible—and -matter is, I hold, less real than the motions -and activities of the spirit.</p> - -<p>It has sometimes seemed to me that matter -may afford us the missing analogy: when the -body dies, it sinks softly and resistlessly into -the earth, and is carried on the wings of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> -wind, in the silent speeding fountains, to rise -again in ceaseless interchange of form.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Individuality</span></div> - -<p>Could it be so with life and spirit? As the -fountain casts the jet high into the air over -the glimmering basin, and the drops separate -themselves for a prismatic instant—when their -separate identity seems unquestioned—and -then rejoin the parent wave, could not life and -spirit slip back as it were into some vast reservoir -of life, perhaps to linger there awhile, to -lose by peaceful self-surrender, happy intermingling, -by cool and tranquil fusion the dust, -the stain, the ghastly taint of suffering and -sin? I know not, but I think it may be so.</p> - -<p>But if I could affirm the other—that the -spirit passes onwards through realms undreamed -of, in gentle unstained communion, -not only with those whom one has loved, but -with all whom one ever would have loved, lost -in sweet wonder at the infinite tenderness and -graciousness of God—would it not in one single -instant give me the peace I cannot find, -and make life into a radiant antechamber leading -to a vision of rapturous delight?</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p> - -<h2>34</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Sep. 18, 1900.</i></p> - -<p>How can I write what has befallen me? the -double disaster that has cut like a knife into -my life. Was one, I asked myself, the result -of the other, sent to me to show that I ought to -have been content with what I had, that I -ought not to have stretched out my hand to the -fruit that hung too high above me. I am too -feeble in mind and body to do more than -briefly record the incidents that have struck me -down. I feel like a shipwrecked sailor who, -flung on an unhospitable shore, had with infinite -labour and desperate toil dragged a few -necessaries out of the floating fragments of -the wreck, and piled them carefully and patiently -on a ledge out of the reach of the tide, -only to find after a night of sudden storm the -little store scattered and himself swimming -faintly in a raging sea—that sea which the -evening before had sunk into so sweet, so caressing -a repose, and now like a grey monster -aroused to sudden fury, howls and beats for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> -leagues against the stony promontories and the -barren beaches.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">New Friends</span></div> - -<p>I had been in very tranquil spirits and -strong health all the summer; my maladies had -ceased to trouble me, and for weeks they were -out of my thoughts. I had found a quiet -zest in the little duties that make up my simple -life. I had made, too, a new friend. A -pleasant cottage about half a mile from -Golden End had been taken by the widow of -a clergyman with small but sufficient means, -who settled there with her daughter, the latter -being about twenty-four. I went somewhat -reluctantly with my mother to call upon them -and offer neighbourly assistance. I found -myself at once in the presence of two refined, -cultivated, congenial people. Mrs. Waring, I -saw, was not only a well-read woman, interested -in books and art, but she had seen something -of society, and had a shrewd and humorous -view of men and things. Miss Waring -was like her mother; but I soon found that -to her mother’s kindly and brisk intellect she -added a peculiar and noble insight—that critical -power, if I may call it so, which sees what -is beautiful and true in life, and strips it of -adventitious and superficial disguises in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> -same way that one with a high appreciation -of literature moves instinctively to what is gracious -and lofty, and is never misled by talent -or unobservant of genius. The society of -these two became to me in a few weeks a real -and precious possession. I began to see how -limited and self-centred my life had begun to -be. They did not, so to speak, provide me -with new sensations and new material so much -as put the whole of life in a new light. I -found in the mother a wise and practical counsellor, -with a singular grasp of detail, with -whom I could discuss any new book I had read -or any article that had struck me; but with -Miss Waring it was different. I can only say -that her wise and simple heart cast a new light -upon the most familiar thoughts. I found -myself understood, helped, lifted, in a way -that both humiliated and inspired me. Moreover, -I was privileged to be admitted into near -relations with one who seemed to show, without -the least consciousness of it, the best and -highest possibilities that lie in human nature. -I cannot guess or define the secret. I only -know that it dawned upon me gradually that -here was a human spirit fed like a spring from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> -the purest rains that fall on some purple -mountain-head.</p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">The Moment</span></div> - -<p>By what soft and unsuspected degrees my -feeling of congenial friendship grew into a -deeper devotion I cannot now trace. It -must now in my miserable loneliness be enough -to say that so it was. Only a few days ago—and -yet the day seems already to belong to a -remote past, and to be separated from these -last dark hours by a great gulf, misty, not to -be passed,—I realised that a new power had -come into my life—the heavenly power that -makes all things new. I had gone down to -the cottage in a hot, breathless sunlight afternoon. -I had long passed the formality of -ringing to announce my entrance. There -was no one in the little drawing-room, which -was cool and dark, with shuttered windows. I -went out upon the lawn. Miss Waring was -sitting in a chair under a beech tree reading, -and at the sight of me she rose, laid down her -book, and came smiling across the grass. -There is a subtle, viewless message of the -spirit which flashes between kindred souls, in -front of and beyond the power of look or -speech, and at the same moment that I understood -I felt she understood too. I could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> -not then at once put into words my hopes; but -it hardly seemed necessary. We sat together, -we spoke a little, but were mostly silent in -some secret interchange of spirit. That afternoon -my heart climbed, as it were, a great -height, and saw from a Pisgah top the familiar -land at its feet, all lit with a holy radiance, -and then turning, saw, in golden gleams and -purple haze, the margins of an unknown sea -stretching out beyond the sunset to the very -limits of the world.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span></p> - -<h2>35</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Sep. 19, 1900.</i></p> - -<p>That night, in a kind of rapturous peace, I -faced the new hope. Even then, in that august -hour, I reflected whether I could, with -my broken life and faded dreams, link a spirit -so fair to mine. I can truthfully say that I -was full to the brim of the intensest gratitude, -the tenderest service; but I thought was it -just, was it right, with little or nothing to offer, -to seek to make so large a claim upon so -beautiful a soul? I did not doubt that I could -win it, and that love would be lavished in fullest -measure to me. But I strove with all my -might to see whether such a hope was not on -my part a piece of supreme and shameful selfishness. -I probed the very depths of my being, -and decided that I might dare; that God -had given me this precious, this adorable gift, -and that I might consecrate my life and heart -to love and be worthy of it if I could.</p> - -<p>So I sank to sleep, and woke to the shock of -a rapture such as I did not believe this world<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> -could hold. It was a still warm day of late -summer, but a diviner radiance lay over garden, -field, and wood for me. I determined I -would not speak to my mother till after I had -received my answer.</p> - -<p>After breakfast I went out to the garden—the -flowers seemed to smile and nod their heads -at me, leaning with a kind of tender brilliance -to greet me; in a thick bush I heard the flute-notes -of my favourite thrush—the brisk chirruping -of the sparrows came from the ivied -gable.</p> - -<p>What was it?... what was the strange, -rending, numbing shock that ran so suddenly -through me, making me in a moment doubtful, -as it seemed, even of my own identity—again -it came—again. I raised my eyes, it seemed -as if I had never seen the garden, the house, -the trees before. Then came a pang of such -grim horror that I felt as though stabbed with -a sword. I seemed, if that is possible, almost -to smell and taste pain. I staggered a few -steps back to the garden entrance—I remember -crying out faintly, and my voice seemed -strange to me—there was a face at the door—and -then a blackness closed round me and I -knew no more.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p> - -<h2>36</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Sep. 20, 1900.</i></p> - -<p>I woke at last, swimming upwards, like a -diver out of a deep sea, from some dark abyss -of weakness. I opened my eyes—I saw that -I was in a downstairs room, where it seemed -that a bed must have been improvised; but at -first I was too weak even to inquire with myself -what had happened. My mother sate by -me, with a look on her face that I had never -seen; but I could not care. I seemed to have -passed a ford, and to see life from the other -side; to have shut a door upon it, and to be -looking at it from the dark window. I neither -cared nor hoped nor felt. I only wished to lie -undisturbed—not to be spoken to or noticed, -only to lie.</p> - -<p>I revived a little, and the faint flow of life -brought back with it, as upon a creeping tide, -a regret that I had opened my eyes upon the -world again—that was my first thought. I -had been so near the dark passage—the one -terrible thing that lies in front of all living<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> -things—why had I not been permitted to cross -it once and for all; why was I recalled to hope, -to suffering, to fear? Then, as I grew -stronger, came a fuller regret for the good, -peaceful days. I had asked, I thought, so little -of life, and that little had been denied. -Then as I grew stronger still, there came the -thought of the great treasure that had been -within my grasp, and my spirit faintly cried -out against the fierce injustice of the doom. -But I soon fell into a kind of dimness of -thought, from which even now I can hardly -extricate myself—a numbness of heart, an indifference -to all but the fact that from moment -to moment I am free from pain.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p> - -<h2>37</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Sep. 21, 1900.</i></p> - -<p>I am climbing, climbing, hour by hour, slowly -and cautiously, out of the darkness, as a man -climbs up some dizzy crag, never turning his -head—yet not back to life! I shall not achieve -that.</p> - -<p>How strange it would seem to others that I -can care to write thus—it seems strange even -to myself. If ever, in life, I looked on to -these twilight hours, with the end coming slowly -nearer, I thought I should lie in a kind of -stupor of mind and body, indifferent to everything. -I am indifferent, with the indifference -of one in whom desire seems to be dead; but -my mind is, or seems, almost preternaturally -clear; and the old habit, of trying to analyse, -to describe, anything that I see or realise distinctly -is too strong for me. I have asked for -pencil and paper; they demur, but yield; and -so I write a little, which relieves the occasional -physical restlessness I feel; it induces a power -of tranquil reverie, and the hours pass, I hardly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> -know how. The light changes; the morning -freshness becomes the grave and solid afternoon, -and so dies into twilight; till out of the -dark alleys steals the gentle evening, dark-eyed -and with the evening star tangled in her -hair, full of shy sweet virginal thoughts and -mysteries ... and then the night, and the -day again.</p> - -<p>Do I grieve, do I repine, do I fear? No, I -can truthfully say, I do not. I hardly seem -to feel. Almost the only feeling left me is -the old childlike trustfulness in mother and -nurse. I do not seem to need to tell them anything. -One or other sits near me. I feel my -mother’s eyes dwell upon me, till I look up -and smile; but between our very minds there -runs, as it were, an airy bridge, on which the -swift thoughts, the messengers of love, speed -to and fro. I seem, in the loss of all the superstructure -and fabric of life, to have nothing -left to tie me to the world, but this sense -of unity with my mother—that inseparable, -elemental tie that nothing can break. And -she, I know, feels this too; and it gives her, -though she could not describe it, a strange elation -in the midst of her sorrow, the joy that a -man is born into the world, and that I am hers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">A Mother’s Heart</span></div> - -<p>With the beloved nurse it is the same in a -sense; but here it is not the deep inextricable -bond of blood, but the bond of perfect love. -I lose myself in wonder in thinking of -it; that one who is hired—that is the -strange basis of the relationship—for a simple -task, should become absolutely identified -with love, with those whom she serves. I -do not believe that Susan has a single thought -or desire in the world that is not centred -on my mother or myself. The tie between -us is simply indissoluble. And I feel -that if we wandered, we three spirits, disconsolate -and separate, through the trackless solitudes -of heaven, she would <em>somehow</em> find her -way to my side.</p> - -<p>I have noticed that since my illness began -she has slipped into the use of little nursery -phrases which I have not heard for years; I -have become “Master Henry” again, and am -told to “look slippy” about taking my medicine. -This would have moved me in other -days with a sense of pathos; it is not so now, -though the knowledge that these two beloved, -sweet-minded, loving women suffer, is the one -shadow over my tranquillity. If I could only -explain to them that my sadness for their sorrow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> -is drowned in my wonder at the strangeness -that any one should ever sorrow at all for -anything!</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> - -<h2>38</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Sep. 22, 1900.</i></p> - -<p>To-day I am calmer, and the hours have been -passing in a long reverie; I have been thinking -quietly over the past years. Sometimes, -as I lay with eyes closed, the old life came so -near me that it almost seemed as if men and -women and children, some of them dead and -gone, had sate by me and spoken to me; little -scenes and groups out of early years that I -thought I had forgotten suddenly shaped -themselves. It is as if my will had abdicated -its sway, and the mind, like one who is to remove -from a house in which he had long dwelt, -is turning over old stores, finding old relics -long laid aside in cupboards and lumber-rooms, -and seeing them without sorrow, only -lingering with a kind of tender remoteness -over the sweet and fragrant associations of the -days that are dead.</p> - -<p>I have never doubted that I am to die, and -to-day it seems as though I cared little when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> -the parting comes; death does not seem to me -now like a sharp close to life, the yawning of -a dark pit; but, as in an allegory, I seem to see -a little dim figure, leaving a valley full of sunlight -and life, and going upwards into misty -and shapeless hills. I used to wonder whether -death was an end, an extinction—<em>now</em> that -seems impossible—my life and thought seem -so strong, so independent of the frail physical -accompaniments of the body; but even if it is -an end, the thought does not afflict me. I am -in the Father’s hands. It is He that hath -made us.</p> - -<hr /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p> - -<h2>39</h2> - -<p class="right"><i>Sep. 24, 1900.</i></p> - -<p>I have had an interview with her. I hardly -know what we said—very little—she understood, -and it was very peaceful in her presence. -I tried to tell her not to be sorry; for -indeed the one thing that seems to me inconceivable -is that any one should grieve. I lie -like a boat upon a quiet tide, drifting out to -sea—the sea to which we must all drift. I am -thankful for my life and all its sweetness; the -shadows have gone, and it seems to me now -as though all the happiness came from God, -and all the shadow was of my own making. -And the strangest thought of all is that the -darkest shadow has always been this very passing -which now seems to me the most natural -thing in the world—indeed the only true thing.</p> - -<p>None the less am I thankful for this great -and crowning gift of love—the one thing that -I had missed. I do not now even want to use -it, to enjoy it—it is there, and that is enough. -In her presence it seemed to me that Love<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> -stood side by side with Death, two shining sisters. -But yesterday I murmured over having -been given, as it were, so sweet a cup to taste, -and then having the cup dashed from my lips. -To-day I see that Love was the crown of my -poor life, and I thank God with all the -strength of my spirit for putting it into my -hand as His last and best gift.</p> - -<p>And I thanked her too for deigning to love -me; and even while I did so, the thought -broke to pieces, as it were, and escaped from -the feeble words in which I veiled it, like a -moth bursting from a cocoon. For were we -not each other’s before the world was made? -And the thought of myself and herself fled -from me, and we were one spirit, thinking the -same thoughts, sustained by the same strength. -One more word I said, and bade her believe -that I said it with undimmed and unblunted -mind, that she must live, and cast abroad by -handfuls the love she would have garnered for -me; that the sorrow that lay heavy on her -heart must be fruitful, not a devastating sorrow; -and that however much alone she might -seem, that I should be there, like one who -kneels without a closed door ... and so we -said farewell.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p> - -<div class="sidenote"><span class="smcap">Nearly Home</span></div> - -<p>I lie now in my own room—it is evening; -through the open window I can see the dark-stemmed -trees, the pigeon-cotes, the shadowy -shoulder of the barn, the soft ridges beyond, -the little wood-end that I saw once in the early -dawn and thought so beautiful. When I saw -it before it seemed to me like the gate of the -unknown country; will my hovering spirit -pass that way? I have lived my little life—and -my heart goes out to all of every tribe -and nation under the sun who are still in the -body. I would tell them with my last breath -that there is comfort to the end—that there is -nothing worth fretting over or being heavy-hearted -about it; that the Father’s arm is -strong, and that his Heart is very wide.</p> - -<p class="titlepage">THE END.</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The House of Quiet, by Arthur Christopher Benson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF QUIET *** - -***** This file should be named 60783-h.htm or 60783-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/7/8/60783/ - -Produced by Susan Skinner, Julie Barkley and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by Cornell University Digital Collections) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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