diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/64692-0.txt | 7264 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/64692-0.zip | bin | 162215 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/64692-h.zip | bin | 351008 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/64692-h/64692-h.htm | 9157 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/64692-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 118078 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/64692-h/images/deco1.jpg | bin | 23829 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/64692-h/images/deco2.jpg | bin | 23758 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/64692-h/images/deco3.jpg | bin | 28956 -> 0 bytes |
11 files changed, 17 insertions, 16421 deletions
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..3efd318 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64692 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64692) diff --git a/old/64692-0.txt b/old/64692-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1ba26d0..0000000 --- a/old/64692-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7264 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Australian Essays, by Francis W. L. Adams - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Australian Essays - -Author: Francis W. L. Adams - -Release Date: March 04, 2021 [eBook #64692] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Nick Wall and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS *** - - - - - - _TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE_ - - AUSTRALIAN - ESSAYS. - - BY - FRANCIS W. L. ADAMS. - _AUTHOR OF - “LEICESTER, AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.”_ - - Contents: - - PREFACE. - MELBOURNE AND HER CIVILIZATION. - THE POETRY OF ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. - THE SALVATION ARMY. - SYDNEY AND HER CIVILIZATION. - CULTURE. - “DAWNWARDS:” A DIALOGUE. - - PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY - WILLIAM INGLIS & CO., 37, 38, & 39 FLINDERS STREET EAST, - MELBOURNE. - - LONDON: GRIFFITH, FARRAN & CO. - - 1886. - - - - -AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS. - - - - -_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ - - -LEICESTER, AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. (REDWAY, Publisher, York Street, Covent -Garden, London; 6_s_.) - -POEMS. (ELLIOT STOCK, Publisher, Paternoster Row, London; 5_s._) - -THE BRUCES, A Novel. (_Shortly_). - -MODERN ENGLISH POETS. (_Shortly_). - -VOYAGE ON THE ADELAIDE. (_Shortly_). - - - - - AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS. - - BY - FRANCIS W. L. ADAMS. - _AUTHOR OF - “LEICESTER, AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.”_ - - Melbourne: - WILLIAM INGLIS & CO., FLINDERS STREET EAST. - LONDON PUBLISHERS: GRIFFITH, FARRAN & CO. - - MDCCCLXXXVI. - - MELBOURNE: - WILLIAM INGLIS AND CO., PRINTERS, - FLINDERS STREET EAST. - - - - -_TO MATTHEW ARNOLD IN ENGLAND._ - - - ‘_Master, with this I send you, as a boy_ - _that watches from below some cross-bow bird_ - _swoop on his quarry carried up aloft,_ - _and cries a cry of victory to his flight_ - _with sheer joy of achievement—So to you_ - _I send my voice across the sundering sea,_ - _weak, lost within the winds and surfy waves,_ - _but with all glad acknowledgment fulfilled_ - _and honour to you and to sovran Truth!_’ - - _January, 1886._ - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE. - - PREFACE ix. - - MELBOURNE AND HER CIVILIZATION 1 - - THE POETRY OF ADAM LINDSAY GORDON 11 - - THE SALVATION ARMY 27 - - SYDNEY AND HER CIVILIZATION 50 - - CULTURE 73 - - “DAWNWARDS,” A DIALOGUE - - INTRODUCTION 90 - - I. 97 - - II. 105 - - III. 114 - - IV. 122 - - V. 138 - - VI. 146 - - - - -PREFACE. - - -It would be absurd to suppose that it will not seem clear, to whatever -readers this little book may find here, that one of the principal -characters of the Dialogue is a man for whom we all, I think, feel more -interest, admiration, and respect than any other among us. That this -is so in reality, I must beg to deny, and I hope that, when I state -that I neither have myself, nor know anyone who has, the honour of -his acquaintance—nay, that I have never even _seen_ him—I hope that I -shall stand acquitted of all charges of personality. As for the other -characters, there will too, I daresay, be found people ready to declare -who are the originals, and to explain everything which is inconsistent -with their theory by ascribing it to designed mystification on the part -of the Author. For this, it seems, is an occupation like another. The -Author believes that so much of a man’s life as is public belongs to -the public, and is at the fair use of the public’s literary analysts, -_videlicet_ the critics, and that it is by no means an unfair use, to -take such a life and freely present it in that individual form which -it actually has to us in our moments of imagination and reflection. It -seems, then, to him foolish, in considering, (to take it in the form of -a well-known example), a book like D’Israeli’s “Lothair” or “Endymion,” -to be trying to identify the characters with actual men. D’Israeli simply -uses as much of actual men and actual events as he requires for his -criticism of the time he is portraying, and is careless of the rest. I -see here no attempt at mystification. I simply see an artist picking out -the choicest materials he has to hand. - -As regards both the Dialogue and the Essays, I would like to point out -that they are professedly didactic, and, as such, are of course cast -into the form which I believe most calculated to achieve their object. -I am sure that I have neither the intention nor the wish to impugn the -competency of the australian Press to deal with things australian. I am -myself a member, a very humble member of it, and am quite ready to do -myself the sincere pleasure of praising it. At the same time I cannot -blind myself to the fact that its criticism is not (let us say) ideal. -The “business of criticism,” says the first of living critics, “is simply -_to know the best that is known and thought in the world, and by in its -turn making this known, to create a current of true and fresh ideas_.” -Well now, I cannot, I say, look upon this australian Press, of which I -am so humble a member, as the creator of such a current; and, (I will -make a clean breast of it at once!), bright and charming as I have always -found him in the “Echoes of the Week” and places of like resort, I have -viewed the triumphal approach of Mr. Sala to us, and his even more -triumphal progress among us, with (as someone will presently be saying -of me)—“with a jaundiced eye.” And why? The truth, the real truth, is, -(May I be forgiven for saying so?), that I do not believe that even Mr. -Sala can help us australian pressmen, (since I dare to place myself in a -company which includes such stupendous personages as “The Vagabond” and -the Editor of the Melbourne _Herald_), to create that “current of true -and fresh ideas” to which we have alluded. Truth, alas, is the private -property of no man—not even of Mr. George Augustus Sala. And I confess -to finding myself at the point of wishing that, even for mere variety’s -sake, we should hear more than we do of the ideas of such personages as -Goethe, Emerson, Renan, Arnold, and so on: writers, of course, familiar -to us all, and whom I, at any rate, must still continue to consider -as not wholly exhausted. They may not have the depth of thought, the -accuracy of detail, the exquisite tact of expression which distinguish -the genial _littérateur_, and make his work, as one of my fellow pressmen -said the other day, “epoch-making,” but I really do still continue—I -_must_ still continue—to think that, despite all these disadvantages, -they are still capable of helping us a little to that critical haven -where our souls would be—to the source of “a current of true and fresh -ideas.” - - _September, 1885._ - - - - -AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS. - - - - -MELBOURNE, AND HER CIVILIZATION, AS THEY STRIKE AN ENGLISHMAN. - - -It is difficult to speak of Melbourne fitly. The judgment of neither -native nor foreigner can escape the influence of the phenomenal aspect -of the city. Not fifty years ago its first child, Batman’s, was born; -not forty, it was a city; a little over thirty, it was the metropolis -of a colony; and now (as the inscription on Batman’s grave tells us) -“_Circumspice!_” To natives their Melbourne is, and is only, “the -magnificent city, classed by Sir George Bowen as the ninth in the world,” -“one of the wonders of the world.” They cannot criticise, they can only -praise it. To a foreigner, however, who, with all respect and admiration -for the excellencies of the Melbourne of to-day as compared with the -Melbourne of half-a-century ago, has travelled and seen and read, and -cares very little for glorifying the _amour-propre_ of this class or of -that, and very much for really arriving at some more or less accurate -idea of the significance of this city and its civilization; to such a -man, I say, the native melodies in the style of “Rule Britannia” which he -hears everywhere and at all times are distasteful. Nay, he may possibly -have at last to guard himself against the opposite extreme, and hold off -depreciation with the one hand as he does laudation with the other! - -The first thing, I think, that strikes a man who knows the three great -modern cities of the world—London, Paris, New York—and is walking -observingly about Melbourne is, that Melbourne is made up of curious -elements. There is something of London in her, something of Paris, -something of New York, and something of her own. Here is an attraction to -start with. Melbourne has, what might be called, the _metropolitan tone_. -The look on the faces of her inhabitants is the _metropolitan look_. -These people live quickly: such as life presents itself to them, they -know it: as far as they can see, they have no prejudices. “I was born in -Melbourne,” said the wife of a small bootmaker to me once, “I was born in -Melbourne, and I went to Tasmania for a bit, but I soon came back again. -_I like to be in a place where they go ahead._” The wife of a small -bootmaker, you see, has the _metropolitan tone_, the _metropolitan look_ -about her; she sees that there is a greater pleasure in life than sitting -under your vine and your fig-tree; she likes to be in a place where they -go ahead. And she is a type of her city. Melbourne likes to “go ahead.” -Look at her public buildings, her New Law Courts not finished yet, her -Town Hall, her Hospital, her Library, her Houses of Parliament, and -above all her Banks! Nay, and she has become desirous of a fleet and has -established a “Naval Torpedo Corps” with seven electricians. All this is -well, very well. Melbourne, I say, lives quickly: such as life presents -itself to her, she knows it: as far as she can see, she has no prejudices. - -_As far as she can see._—The limitation is important. The real question -is, _how_ far can she see? how far does her civilization answer the -requirements of a really fine civilization? what scope in it is there (as -Mr. Arnold would say) for the satisfaction of the claims of conduct, of -intellect and knowledge, of beauty and manners? Now in order the better -to answer this question, let us think for a moment what are the chief -elements that have operated and are still operating in this Melbourne and -her civilization. - -This is an English colony: it springs, as its poet Gordon (of whom there -will presently be something to be remarked) says, in large capitals, it -springs from “_the Anglo-Saxon race ... the Norman blood_.” Well, if -there is one quality which distinguishes this race, this blood, it is -its determined strength. Wherever we have gone, whatever we have done, -we have gone and we have done with all our heart and soul. We have made -small, if any, attempt to conciliate others. Either they have had to -give way before, or adapt themselves to us. India, America, Australia, -they all bear witness to our determined, our pitiless strength. What -is the state of the weaker nations that opposed us there? In America -and Australia they are perishing off the face of the earth; even in New -Zealand, where the aborigines are a really fine and noble race, we are, -it seems, swiftly destroying them. In India, whose climate is too extreme -for us ever to make it a colony in the sense that America and Australia -are colonies; in India, since we could neither make the aborigines give -way, nor make them adapt themselves to us, we have simply let them alone. -They do not understand us, nor we them. Of late, it is true, an interest -in them, in their religion and literature, has been springing up, but -what a strange aspect do we, the lords of India for some hundred and -thirty years, present! “In my own experience among Englishmen,” says an -Indian scholar writing to the _Times_ in 1874, “I have found no general -indifference to India, but I have found a Cimmerian darkness about the -manners and habits of my countrymen, an almost poetical description -of our customs, and a conception no less wild and startling than the -vagaries of Mandeville and Marco Polo concerning our religion.” Do we -want any further testimony than this to the determined, the pitiless -strength of “the Anglo-Saxon race ... the Norman blood?” - -Well, and how does all this concern Australia in general and Melbourne -in particular? It concerns them in this way, that the civilization of -Australia, of Melbourne, is an Anglo-Saxon civilization, a civilization -of the Norman blood, and that, with all the good attendant on such a -civilization, there is also all the evil. All? Well, I will not say all, -for that would be to contradict one of the first and chief statements -I made about her, namely that “as far as she can see Melbourne has no -prejudices,” a statement which I could not make of England. “_This our -native or adopted land_,” says an intelligent Australian critic, the -late Mr. Marcus Clarke, “_has no past, no story. No poet speaks to us._” -“_No_,” we might add, “_and (thus far happily for you) neither, as far -as you can see, does any direct preacher of prejudice_.” And here, as I -take it, we have put our finger upon what is at once the strength and the -weakness of this civilization. - -Let us consider it for a moment. The Australians have no prejudice about -an endowed Church, as we English have, and hence they have, what we have -not, religious liberty. As far as I can make out, there is no reason why -the wife of a clergyman of the Church of England should in this colony -look down upon the wife of a dissenting minister as her social inferior, -and this is, on the whole, I think, well, for it tends to break up the -notion of caste that exists between the two sects; it tends, I mean, to -their mutual benefit, to the interchange of the church’s sense of “the -beauty of holiness” with the chapel’s sense of the passion of holiness. -Here, then, you are better off than we. On the other hand, you have no -prejudice, as we at last have, against Protection, and consequently you -go on benefiting a class at the expense of the community in a manner that -can only, I think, be defined as short-sighted and foolish. Here we are -better off than you. Again, however, you have not the prejudice that we -have against the intervention of the State. You have nationalized your -railways, and are attempting, as much as possible, to nationalize your -land.[1] You are beginning to see that a land tax, at any given rate of -annual value, would be (as Mr. Fawcett puts it) “a valuable national -resource, which might be utilized in rendering unnecessary the imposition -of many taxes which will otherwise have to be imposed.” Here you are -better off than we, better off both in fortune and general speculation. -Again, you have not yet arrived at Federalism, and what a waste of time -and all time’s products is implied in the want of central unity! Now the -first and third of these instances show the strength that is in this -civilization, and the second shows a portion of the weakness, at present -only a small portion, but, unless vigorous measures are resorted to and -soon, this Protection will become the great evil that it is in America. -There is just the same cry there as here: “Protect the native industries -until they are strong enough to stand alone”—as if an industry that has -once been protected will ever care to stand alone again until it is -compelled to! as if a class benefited at the expense of the community -will ever give up its benefit until the community takes it away again! - -On one of the first afternoons I spent in Melbourne, I remember strolling -into a well-known book-mart, the book-mart “at the sign of the rainbow.” -I was interested both in the books and the people who were looking at -or buying them. Here I found, almost at the London prices (for we get -our twopence or threepence in the shilling on books now in London), -all, or almost all, of the average London books of the day. The popular -scientific, theological, and even literary books were to hand, somewhat -cast into the shade, it is true, by a profusion of cheap English novels -and journals, but still they were to hand. And who were the people that -were buying them? The people of the dominant class, the middle-class. I -began to enquire at what rate the popular, scientific, and even literary -books were selling. Fairly, was the answer. “And how do Gordon’s poems -sell?” “_Oh they sell well_,” was the answer, “_he’s the only poet we’ve -turned out_.” - -This pleased me, it made me think that the “go-ahead” element in -Victorian and Melbourne life had gone ahead in this direction also. If, -in a similar book-mart in Falmouth (say), I had asked how the poems of -Charles Kingsley were selling, it is a question whether much more than -the name would have been recognized. And yet the middle-class here is as, -and perhaps more, badly—more appallingly badly—off for a higher education -than the English provincial middle class is. Whence comes it, then, that -a poet like Gordon with the cheer and charge of our chivalry in him, with -his sad “trust and only trust,” and his - - “weary longings and yearnings - for the mystical better things:” - -Whence comes it that he is a popular poet here? Let him answer us English -for himself and Melbourne: - - “You are slow, very slow, in discerning - that book-lore and wisdom are twain:” - -Yes, indeed, to Melbourne, such as life presents itself to her, she -knows it, and, what is more, she knows that she knows it, and her -self-knowledge gives her a contempt for the pedantry of the old world. -Walk about in her streets, look at her private buildings, these banks -of hers, for instance, and you will see this. They _mean_ something, -they _express_ something: they do not (as Mr. Arnold said of our British -Belgravian architecture) “only express the impotence of the artist to -express anything.” They express a certain sense of movement, of progress, -of conscious power. They say: “Some thirty years ago the first gold -nuggets made their entry into William Street. Well, many more nuggets -have followed, and wealth of other sorts has followed the nuggets, and we -express that wealth—we express movement, progress, conscious power.—_Is -that, now, what your English banks express?_” And we can only say that -it is not, that our English banks express something quite different; -something, if deeper, slower; if stronger, more clumsy. - -But the matter does not end here. When we took the instance of the books -and the people “at the sign of the rainbow,” we took also the abode -itself of the rainbow; when we took the best of the private buildings, we -took also the others. Many of them are hideous enough, we know; this is -what Americans, English, and Australians have in common, this inevitable -brand of their civilization, of their determined, their pitiless -strength. The same horrible “pot hat,” “frock coat,” and the rest, are to -be found in London, in Calcutta, in New York, in Melbourne. - -Let us sum up. “The Anglo-Saxon race, the Norman blood:” a colony made -of this: a city into whose hands wealth and its power is suddenly -phenomenally cast: a general sense of movement, of progress, of conscious -power. This, I say, is Melbourne—Melbourne with its fine public buildings -and tendency towards banality, with its hideous houses and tendency -towards anarchy. And Melbourne is, after all, the Melbournians. Alas, -then, how will this city and its civilization stand the test of a -really fine city and fine civilization? how far will they answer the -requirements of such a civilization? what scope is there in them for the -satisfaction of the claims of conduct, of intellect and knowledge, of -beauty, and manners? - -Of the first I have only to say that, so far as I can see, its claims -are satisfied, satisfied as well as in a large city, and in a city of -the above-mentioned composition, they can be. But of the second, of the -claims of intellect and knowledge, what enormous room for improvement -there is! What a splendid field for culture lies in this middle-class -that makes a popular poet of Adam Lindsay Gordon! It tempts one to -prophesy that, given a higher education for this middle-class, and -fifty—forty—thirty years to work it through a generation, and it will -leave the English middle-class as far behind in intellect and knowledge -as, at the present moment, it is left behind by the middle-class, or -rather the one great educated upper-class, of France. - -There is still the other claim, that of beauty and manners. And it is -here that your Australian, your Melbourne civilization is, I think, -most wanting, is most weak; it is here that one feels the terrible need -of “a past, a story, a poet to speak to you.” With the Library are a -sculpture gallery and a picture gallery. What an arrangement in them -both! In the sculpture gallery “are to be seen,” we are told, “admirably -executed casts of ancient and modern sculpture, from the best European -sources, copies of the Elgin marbles from the British Museum, and other -productions from the European Continent.” Yes, and Summers stands side by -side with Michaelangelo! And poor busts of Moore and Goethe come between -Antinous and the Louvre Apollo the Lizard slayer! But this, it may be -said, is after all only an affair of an individual, the arranger. Not -altogether so. If an audience thinks that a thing is done badly, they -express their opinion, and the failure has to vanish. And how large a -portion of the audience of Melbourne city, pray, is of opinion that quite -half of its architecture is a failure, is hideous, is worthy only, as -architecture, of abhorrence? how many are shocked by the atrocity of the -Medical College building at the University? how many feel that Bourke -Street, taken as a whole, is simply an insult to good taste? - -“Yes, all this,” it is said, “may be true, as abstract theory, but it is -at present quite out of the sphere of practical application. You would -talk of Federalism, and here is our good ex-Premier of New South Wales, -Sir Henry Parkes, making it the subject of a farewell denunciation. ‘I -venture to say now,’ says Sir Henry Parkes, ‘here amongst you what I -said when I had an opportunity in London, what I ventured to say to Lord -Derby himself, that this federation scheme must prove a failure.’ You -talk of Free-trade and here is what an intelligent writer in the _Argus_ -says _apropos_ of ‘the promised tariff negotiations with Tasmania.’ ‘In -America,’ he says, ‘there is no difficulty in inducing the States to see -that, whatever may be their policy as regards the outside world, they -should interchange as between each other in order that they may stand on -as broad a base as possible, but we can only speculate on the existence -of such a national spirit here.’—These facts, my good sir,” it is said, -“as indicative of the amount of opposition that the nation feels to the -ideas of Free-trade and Federalism, are not encouraging.”—They are not, -let us admit it at once, but there are others which are; others, some -of which we have been considering, and, above and beyond everything, -there is one invaluable and in the end irresistible ally of these -ideas: there is _the Tendency of the Age_—_the Time-Spirit_, as Goethe -calls it. Things move more quickly now than they used to do: ideas, -the modern ideas, are permeating the masses swiftly and thoroughly and -universally. We cannot tell, we can only speculate as to what another -fifty—forty—thirty years will actually bring forth. - -Free-trade—Federalism—Higher Education, they all go together. The -necessities of life are cheap here, wonderfully cheap; a man can get a -dinner here for sixpence that he could not get in England for twice or -thrice the amount. “There are not,” says the _Australasian Schoolmaster_, -the organ of the State Schools, “there are not many under-fed children in -the Australian [as there are in the English] schools.” But the luxuries -of life (and let us remember that what we call the luxuries of life -are, after all, necessities; they are the things which go to make up -our civilization, the things which make us feel that there is a greater -pleasure in life than sitting under your vine and your fig-tree, whatever -Mr. George may have to say to the contrary)—the luxuries of life, I say, -are dear here, very dear, owing to, what I must be permitted to call, an -exorbitant tariff, and, consequently, the money that would be spent in -fostering a higher ideal of life, in preparing the way for a national -higher education, is spent on these luxuries, and the claims of intellect -and knowledge, and of beauty and manners, have to suffer for it. Here -is your Mr. Marcus Clarke, for instance, talking grimly, not to say -bitterly, of “the capacity of this city to foster poetic instinct,” of -his “astonishment that such work” as Gordon’s “was ever produced here.” -He is astonished, you see, that the claims of intellect and knowledge, -and of beauty and manners are enough satisfied in this city to produce a -talent of this sort; he is astonished, because he does not see that there -is an element in this city which, in its way, is making for at any rate -the intellect and knowledge—an element which is a product, not of England -but of Australia; a general sense of movement, of progress, of conscious -power. - -Free-trade—Federalism—Higher Education, they all, I say, go together; -but if one is more important than the other, then it is the last. -Improvement, real improvement, must always be from within outwards, -not from without inwards. All abiding good comes, as it has been well -said, by evolution not by revolution. “Our chief, our gravest want in -this country at present,” says Arnold, “our _unum necessarium_, is a -middle-class, homogeneous, intelligent, civilized, brought up in good -public schools, and on the first plane.” How true is this of Australia -too, of Melbourne! There are State schools for the lower-class, but what -is there for the great upper educated class of the nation? The voluntary -schools, the “private adventure schools.” And what sort of education do -_they_ supply either in England or here? “The voluntary schools,” says -a happy shallow man in some Publishers’ circular I lit on the other -day, “the voluntary schools of the country” [of England] “have reached -the highest degree of efficiency.” This, to those who have taken the -trouble to study the question, not to say to have considerable absolute -experience in the English voluntary schools—this is intelligence as -surprising as it ought to be gratifying. To such men, the idea they had -arrived at of the English voluntary schools was somewhat different; their -idea being that these schools were, both socially and intellectually, -the most inadequate that fall to the lot of any middle class among the -civilized nations of Europe. “Comprehend,” says Arnold to us Englishmen, -and he might as well be saying it to you Australians, “comprehend that -middle-class education—the higher education, as we have put it, of the -great upper educated class—is a great democratic reform, of the truest, -surest, safest description.” - -“But there are many difficulties to be overcome—so many, that we -doubt these abstract theories to be at present within the sphere of -practical application. There is such a mass of opposition to the idea of -Federalism. And, as for the idea of Free-trade, we can only speculate on -the existence of a national spirit here. The thinking public is quite -content with its State schools for the lower class, and cares little or -nothing about State schools and a higher education for the upper class. -They are much more interested in the religious questions of the day—the -Catholic attitude, the conflict between Mr. Strong and his Presbytery -on the subject of Religious Liberalism or Latitudinarianism, as you may -please to call it, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”—All this is so, let -us admit it at once, but it does not discourage us. We know, or think -we know (which is, after all, almost the same thing), that these three -questions—Free-trade, Federalism, Higher Education—are the three great, -the three vital questions for Australia, for Melbourne. We know that, -sooner or later, they will have to be properly considered and decided -upon, and that, if Melbourne is to keep the place which she now holds -as the leading city, intellectually and commercially, of Australia, -they will have to be decided upon in that way which conforms with “the -intelligible law of things,” with the _Tendency of the Age_, with -the _Time-Spirit_. For this is the one invaluable and, in the end, -irresistible ally of Progress—of Progress onward and upward. - - _December, 1884._ - -NOTE.—No one, speaking of Free-trade and Federalism in Australia, can -omit a tribute of thanks to the _Argus_ and the _Federal Australian_ for -what they have respectively done for the two causes. The cause of Higher -Education, however, still waits for a champion in the Press. - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE POETRY OF ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. - - -“In the whole range of English literature,” says an Australian critic -reviewing the complete edition of Gordon’s poems, “in the whole range -of English literature there have been few poets possessed of a finer -lyrical faculty than Adam Lindsay Gordon.... ‘Ashtaroth,’” continues our -critic now warm at his work, “‘Ashtaroth’ is worthy to rank with any of -Tennyson’s songs, and is far more musical than the best of Browning’s.” -Then there is “the beauty of his ballad poetry, such as ‘Fauconshawe’ and -‘Rippling Water,’ which are perfect of their style;” and so on in the -same strain, more or less, until the reader is surprised that our critic -ends up with no further claim for his poet than that he “deserves to be -ranked with the genuine poets of his generation.” One does not propose -to criticise, verbally, criticism of this sort: it would be unkind to do -so, and, above all, it would be useless. This is a native melody in the -style of “Rule Britannia:” “Australia, and especially Victoria, is great -and therefore her poet must be great also. Let us say that Melbourne is -the equal of any English city save London, and Gordon the equal of any -English poet save Shakspere and Milton!” - -Now let us hear what another Australian critic, one who cares more about -finding out the real deep true significance of Gordon and his poetry -than of glorifying the _amour-propre_ of this class or of that: let -us hear what Mr. Marcus Clarke has to say. “Written as they were” (as -Gordon’s poems were) “at odd times in leisure moments of a stirring -and adventurous life, it is not to be wondered at if they are unequal -and unfinished. The astonishment of those who knew the man, and can -gauge the capacity of this city to foster poetic instinct, is, that -such work was ever produced here at all.”—What a different tone is -this from that of our first and enthusiastic critic! “_Unequal and -unfinished_”—“_astonishment that such work was ever produced here at -all!_” But this is not all that Mr. Clarke has to say about Gordon’s -poetry: he has also to notice what influence was at work in it, and -(most important of all!) what is its real deep true significance. He -talks of Gordon “owning nothing but a love for horsemanship and a head -full of Browning and Shelley,” and follows this up by saying that -“the influence of Browning and of Swinburne” (who, as we all know, -has been, creatively and demonstratively, the chief prophet in his -generation of the poet who, he likes to think, is ‘beloved above all -other poets, being beyond all other poets—in one word, and the only -proper word,—divine’)—“the influence of Browning and of Swinburne upon -the writer’s taste is plain. There is plainly visible also, however, a -keen sense of natural beauty and a manly admiration for healthy living.” -Well, and the conclusion of the whole matter? “The student of these -unpretending volumes will be repaid for his labour. _He will find in them -something very like the beginnings of a national school of Australian -poetry._” - -Let us hasten to offer up our small tribute of praise and thanks to Mr. -Clarke for his critical sagacity here, and let us venture to hope that -the “Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon” may go down to posterity accompanied -always by this small “Preface” of Mr. Clarke, who both “knew the man” and -was yet the first to appreciate this aspect of his work. - -What, however, Mr. Clarke has to say about the facts of Gordon’s life -is, at best, inaccurate. It is Mr. Sutherland to whom our gratitude is -due here, gratitude for having discovered for us all the details of the -poet’s life which it is necessary for us to know.[2] - -What, then, remains for any other critic to do? There remains to him, -as it seems to me, the task of doing what Mr. Clarke tells us he did -not propose to do, “of criticising these volumes,” and also of trying, -as befits one who comes later, and to whom, therefore, the events of -the past have fallen into that symmetry and proper proportion that the -events of the present can scarcely ever fall into: of trying, I say, to -bring out more clearly (one aspect of which he has done little more than -indicate), the real, deep, true significance of the poet’s work; in a -word, of trying to understand, instead of being “astonished” at it. - -The first thing to notice about Gordon’s poetry is, that it is almost -all in regular and rymed rhythms. There is not a line of blank verse in -it. Now, a “fine faculty” for regular and rymed rhythms is by no means -a synonym for a “fine lyrical faculty.” Shelley, our greatest master -in poetry of pure melody, has a “fine faculty” for regular and rymed -rhythms, but has also a fine faculty for irregular rhythms: lines in -which the regular rhythm is broken, in order that a more subtle melody -may be expressed, are frequent in him. In Mr. Swinburne such lines are -rare—he has a fine faculty for regular and rymed rhythms, but his faculty -for irregular rhythms is (let us say) less fine. Gordon, who is the -disciple of this first side of Mr. Swinburne’s technical talent, who, in -his turn, is a disciple of the first side of Shelley’s—Gordon, I say, is -in this respect to Mr. Swinburne what Mr. Swinburne is to Shelley. - -Mr. Hammersley, one of the few survivors of that peculiar phase of -colonial and Victorian feeling which produced the poetry of Gordon, and -who “may say he knew him intimately” —tells us[3] how he “was often -amused to hear him quote from the poets, and his recitations used to make -me laugh outright. One day I said, ‘Hang it, Gordon, you can write good -poetry, but you can’t read.’” What was the matter with his “reading,” -then? He used to “read” in “a sing-song fashion.” Mr. Woods, too, tells -us[4] that “Gordon had an odd way of reciting poetry, and his delivery -was monotonous; but,” he adds, “his way of emphasising the beautiful -portions of what he recited was charming from its earnestness.” Gordon’s -criticism on his own verses was: “They don’t _ring_ so badly after all, -old fellow, do they?” He had no faculty for irregular rhythms. He cannot, -then, be said to possess a “fine lyrical faculty;” he possessed a fine -faculty for regular and rymed rhythms. (As for his rymes, as rymes, they -are as a rule excellent, although there is often too little of the “poet -or prophet,” as he says, in them, and too much of the “jingler of rymes,” -the dealer in “verse-jingle chimes.”) Since, however, this faculty of -his is a fine faculty, it must not be described as (in the usual and -bad sense of the word) imitative. There are, I think, passages in him -that Byron might have written (“To my Sister”), that Lord Tennyson might -have written (“The Road to Avernus,” scene x.), that Mr. Swinburne might -have written (“A Dedication”), and the latter are frequent. In no other -poets, save Wordsworth and the earlier works of Mr. Arnold, do I find -precisely this same sort of (shall I say) parallelism of feeling and -expression on certain subjects that I do in Mr. Swinburne and Gordon. But -it is, I think, very open to question whether Gordon would have grown, -as Mr. Arnold has, into a purely distinctive style of his own. Gordon -is terribly lacking in variety: to live with a close study of him for -several days is one of the most trying of critical tasks. “My rymes,” he -asks— - - “My rymes, are they stale? If my metre - is varied, one chime rings through all; - one chime—though I sing more or sing less, - I have but one string to my lute.” - -I doubt, I say, whether under any circumstances Gordon would have -produced, as Mr. Hammersley thought, “poems worthy to be ranked with some -of the masterpieces of the English language.” He had not patience enough, -he had not clear-sightedness enough! “A more dare-devil rider,” says Mr. -Hammersley, “never crossed a horse.... As a steeplechase rider he was, of -course, in the very first rank, and his name is indelibly associated with -many of the most famous chases run in Victoria, although in my opinion, -and I think in that of many good judges too, he was deficient in what -is termed ‘good hands,’ and when it came to a finish was far behind a -Mount or a Watson.” (And, considering his shortsightedness, which Mr. -Woods designates as “painful,” this is not to be wondered at). It is the -same with his poetry. All in his poetry that is good has been done at -a rush; the rest is inferior, poor, and sometimes quite worthless. He -has little, if any, sense of real artistic workmanship either in whole -or in parts: “he is deficient in what is termed ‘good hands.’” Take, -for instance, his dramatic lyric, “Ashtaroth.” It is worth reading. -There are two beautiful songs in it, “On the Current,” and “Oh! days -and years departed.” There are a few fine passages, a few fine dramatic -touches, in it, and one splendid outburst of Orion’s (“I hate thee not, -thy grievous plight”), but the poem, taken as a whole is, I say, worth -reading. Many of the speeches are weak, and some are not poetry at all, -but rymed prose, and bad at that. A sustained effort, such as a piece -like this requires, was impossible to him. I say nothing of the ludicrous -attempt at an adaptation of Faust, Mephistopheles and Margarete, which -is the basis of the poem: I merely remark that, judged by its own poor -standard of judgment, it is quite a failure. Perhaps some day we shall -have a selection from the poet’s work, from which what is worthless will -be eliminated, in order that all our attention may be fixed on what is -good, and perhaps the selector will have the courage to dismiss all this -poem, save some dozen or so of extracts, into the gulf of oblivion or -an appendix. Encumbered as Gordon at present is with such an amount of -worthless work, there is a danger that much of what is good may perish -also. - -All his poetry that is good, I say, has been done at a rush. The dramatic -touches in it are as frequent as they are fine. Take, for instance, this -from the “Rhyme of Joyous Guard.”—Lancelot, old, worn-out, feeling that -“there is nothing good for him under the sun but to perish as” (his -bright past) “has perished,” is thinking of the close of his career -and Arthur’s: of the discovery of his amour with Guinevere, his siege -in Joyous Guard, his encounters with “brave Gawain,” whom he virtually -slew, and then “the crime of Modred,” and “the king by the knave’s hand -stricken”— - - “And the once-loved knight, was he there to save - that knightly king who that knighthood gave? - _Ah, Christ! will he greet me as knight or knave_ - _in the day when the dust shall quicken?_” - -This is splendid! And, as I have said, it by no means stands alone. As -a set-off against this excellence of his, is the defect of prolixity. -Byron had it, but Byron was an unsurpassed improviser, not an artist. -Like, too, his technical master of the “Poems and Ballads” when he gets -hold of a regular or rymed rhythm that pleases him, Gordon will go on -making it “ring,” listening as the “verse-jingle chimes,” till we are all -quite weary of it. He is regardless of what Goethe calls “the æsthetic -whole.” Indeed, it may justly be said that few, very few, of his poems -are “æsthetic wholes” at all, but only passages. - -So much, then, for the outward form of his poetry. We have now to -consider what is the significance to us of his life and work, of his -personality, and of his “criticism of life.” - -In the first place, let us begin by stating that Gordon _has_ a -personality. Mr. Hammersley tells us how “at times Gordon was the -strangest, most weird, mysterious man I ever saw, and I could not help -feeling almost afraid of him, and yet there was a fascination about him -that made me like to see him.” There was the fascination of his converse. -“He was one of the few men I have known in the colonies,” asseverates -Mr. Hammersley, “that never made me tire of listening to him.” And there -was the fascination of his individuality: “His wild haunting eye,” “a -look something like what is termed the evil eye.” (This reminds one -of what Mr. Clarke has to say about “the dominant note of Australian -scenery: Weird Melancholy.”) Mr. Woods’ whole article bears witness -to this personal fascination of Gordon’s. Well, it is the same in his -poetry: I mean, that it is the same as Mr. Hammersley _means_. There is -attraction in Gordon. We want to go to see anything that he has had to do -with. We seek out his grave and brood over it.[5] He is the Australian -fellow to Baudelaire and James Thomson, the last martyrs, let us hope, -to our terrible period of transition from the Old World into the New, -from Mediævalism into Modernity. There is attraction in Gordon. We should -like to have seen and known the original of Laurence Raby, of Maurice, -of the man of the “Sea-spray and Smoke-Drift,” and “Bush Ballads and -Galloping Rhymes.” He is an individuality, and a modern and a colonial -individuality. He looks at life as it is, not as it is represented. - - “In thy grandeur, oh sea! we acknowledge, - in thy fairness, oh earth! we confess, - hidden truths that are taught in no college, - hidden songs that no parchment express.” - -And, as for the pedants of the Old World, why! (as we know) - - “They are slow, very slow, in discerning - that book-lore and wisdom are twain.” - -Here, then, is the first charm in Gordon, and his work; they are -modern, they represent the main-current of the age, not some side-water -or back-water, that are perhaps nice enough in their way, but -still—side-waters or back-waters, and _only_ side-waters or back-waters. - -Gordon and his work are modern, but not wholly modern; he belongs, as I -have said, to a period of transition. Like Mary Magdalene, he feels that -“they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him.” -He has lost the Old, and he has not won the New Faith. He is a poet of -the twilight and the dawn. “On this earth so rough,” he says, - - “on this earth so rough, we know quite enough, - _and, I sometimes fancy, a little too much_,” - -and so, we have to suffer! Burns, Byron, Leopardi, Heine, Musset, -Baudelaire, Clough, Thomson—greater and lesser, this is true of them all! -Their early life is embittered by it, their later life made desperate. -“Years back,” says Gordon, - - “Years back I believed a little, - and as I believed I spoke.” - -Years back he could utter prayer, years back when he was a child. He -cannot utter it now: “For prayer must die since hope is dead.” _Now_ he -can only wonder - - “Is there nothing real but confusion? - is nothing certain but death? - is nothing fair, save illusion? - is nothing good that has breath?...” - -“I can hardly vouch,” he says, again, - - “I can hardly vouch - for the truth of what little I see.... - On earth there’s little worth a sigh, - and nothing worth a tear.” - -But ah, - - “the restless throbbings and burnings - that hope unsatisfied brings, - the weary longings and yearnings - for the mystical better things.... - There are others toiling and straining - ’neath burdens graver than mine— - They are weary, yet uncomplaining— - I know it, yet I repine. - I know it, how time will ravage, - how time will level, and yet - I long with a longing savage, - I regret with a fierce regret....” - -We are sorely tired, “we, with our bodies thus weakly, with hearts hard -and dangerous.” - - “We have suffered and striven - till we have grown reckless of pain, - though feeble of heart, and of brain.” - -Who has expressed the malady of our time better? “Our burdens are heavy, -our natures weak,” he says again. We cannot escape from them: - - “Round about one fiery centre - wayward thoughts like moths revolve;” - -We cannot write a description of a horse-race without letting them come -in, without calling our description by a name expressive of them—“_Ex -fumo dare lucem:_” - - “_Till the good is brought forth from evil,_ - _as day is brought forth from night._— - Vain dreams! for our fathers cherished - high hopes in the days that were; - and these men wondered and perished, - nor better than these we fare; - And our due at least is their due, - they fought against odds and fell; - “_En avant les enfants perdus!_” - We fight against odds as well.” - -_Enfant perdu_: so the dying Heine calls himself. _Enfants perdus_, that -is what they were! The storms of our terrible period of transition raged -about them: “they could not wait their passing,” as Arnold says— - - “they could not wait their passing, they are dead.” - -“I am slow,” says Gordon, - - “I am slow in learning, and swift in - forgetting, and I have grown - so weary with long sand-sifting! - T’wards the mist, where the breakers moan - the rudderless bark is drifting, - through the shoals of the quick-sands shifting— - In the end shall the night-rack lifting, - discover the shores unknown?” - -The idea of killing himself seems to have been with him from almost the -first. It was not “bitter” to him: “man in his blindness” taught so; but, -to him that - - “mystic hour - when the wings of the shadowy angel lower,” - -was not without its charm. “When I first heard the sad news,” Mr. -Hammersley tells us, “I was not the least surprised. I really expected -that what did happen would happen.” We all know Gordon’s poem, “De Te.” -The last two verses of it are the best criticism that we have to offer -“of him,” “found dead in the heather, near his home, with a bullet from -his own rifle in his brain:” - - “No man may shirk the allotted work, - the deed to do, the death to die; - at least I think so—neither Turk, - nor Jew, nor infidel am I— - And yet I wonder when I try - to solve one question, may or must, - and shall I solve it by-and-bye, - beyond the dark, beneath the dust? - _I trust so, and I only trust._ - - “Aye what they will, such trifles kill. - Comrade, for one good deed of yours, - your history shall not help to fill - the mouths of many brainless boors. - It may be death absolves or cures - the sin of life. ’Twere hazardous - to assert so. If the sin endures, - say only, ‘_God, who has judged him thus,_ - _be merciful to him, and us:_’” - -And his work, his “criticism of life?” Is there nothing in it but -this “_trust and only trust_?” There is more, much more! “There is -plainly visible,” says Mr. Clarke, “a keen sense of natural beauty, -and a manly admiration for healthy living ... a very clear perception -of the loveliness of duty and of labour.” Let us see if this, too, is -so, or if any qualification of this remark is needed; and, if so, what -qualification. - -Gordon’s life and work were a failure. He himself would, I am sure, have -been the first to admit it and have assigned the cause, and rightly, to -bad luck in general and certain failings in himself in particular. Is it -not bad luck to be born into an age that makes of its poets its martyrs? -Gordon struggled and schemed. He was a livery-stable keeper, a landowner, -a member of assembly, a keeper of racehorses, and a failure in all. -It was only as jockey and stockrider that he was a success—that is to -say, an object of admiration to others and of happiness to himself. “He -sometimes,” says Mr. Woods, “compared the lot of a bushman with that of -other states of mankind, saying that it was in many ways preferable to -any one,” and for himself he was right. Let us not lament his failure in -what he was not meant to be a success. Gordon, happy in life and love, -might well have become at best a _dilettante_, at worst a materialized -blockhead, he has so little patience, so little clear-sightedness! -Perhaps it is, after all, better as it is. The axe cuts down the sandal -tree, and the tree sheds forth its perfume. - - “Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought.” - -We love a poet more for what he has suffered than what he has done, and -yet ultimately, if we will only see it, what he suffers and what he does -are the same. As boys we love our Byron and our Shelley; as men our -Goethe and our Shakspere. Gordon, I say, as poet and failure is better -than prose-man and success. But see now what he has to say about this -life in which he failed so. - -Firstly, there is all the doubt and bewilderment of a period of -transition: - - “We are children lost in the wood.” - -“Lord,” prays this woman that loves Laurence Raby, - - “Lord, lead us out of this tangled wild, - where the wise and the prudent have been beguiled, - and only the babes have stood.” - -Meantime, - - “Onward! onward! still we wander, - nearer draws the goal; - Half the riddle’s read, we ponder - vainly on the whole.... - Onward! onward! toiling ever, - weary steps and slow; - doubting oft, despairing never, - to the goal we go!” - -To what goal? Well, - - “The chances are I go where most men go.” - -Let us leave the rest with God—God whose “dealings with us” are -unfathomable, God who is “fathomless.” Thus he achieves his resignation. -But he never blinds himself to things; he never answers “the painful -riddle of the earth” by “stopping up his mouth with a clod” (as Heine -says). This world is a - - “world of rapine and wrong, - where the weak and the timid seem lawful prey - for the resolute and the strong.” - -Sometimes there rises in him the - - “wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs he never can right,” - -for the brothers, and ah for the sisters, he cannot help. But sometimes, -also, he bursts forth into “a song of gladness, a pæan of joyous might.” -Both are in him: the wail for the lost Lord and the thanksgiving to God -for his “GLORIOUS OXYGEN.” (The capitals are his own.) With the first, we -have done: let us look at the second and see what he has to show us of -living and loving, of action and women, and then see what he has to show -us of life as a whole, “the conclusion of the whole matter.” - -I have said elsewhere that there is in Gordon the cheer and charge of our -chivalry. There is. He was well worthy of a place in the charge of our -cavalry at Waterloo, or Balaclava. There is in him that “magnificence” -which now, alas, as the Frenchman truly said, “is not war.” These men -“glory in daring that dies or prevails.” And when, as at Balaclava, they -die, their poet exclaims (in capitals)— - - “not in vain, - as a type of our chivalry!” - -What exclamations of rapture such a sight draws from him! - - “Oh! the moments of yonder maddening ride, - long years of life outvie!... - God send me an ending as fair as his, - who died in his stirrups there!...” - -Here is a race:— - - “They came with the rush of the southern surf, - on the bar of the storm-girt bay; - and like muffled drums on the sounding turf - their hoof-strokes echo away.” - -I know no poetry that describes the rush of horsemen quite as Gordon -does. Take this description of the Balaclava charge from his “Lay of the -Last Charger.” - - “Now we were close to them, every horse striding - madly;—St. Luce pass’t with never a groan;— - Sadly my master look’d round—he was riding— - on the boy’s right, with a line of his own. - - “Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket, - while from his wrist the sword swung by a chain, - swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket, - kiss’t it (I think) and replaced it again. - - “Burst, while his fingers reclined on the haft, - jarring concussion and earth-shaking din, - Horse counter’d horse, and I reel’d, _but he laugh’t,_ - _down went his man, cloven clean to the chin_!” - -Lord Tennyson has watched his charge through Mr. Russell’s field-glass, -and we follow his view of it, but Gordon has ridden it and takes us with -him. Old and miserable, the friend of the man who had ridden this “Last -Charger,” offers up the same prayer as the man who had “visioned it in -the smoke:” - - “Would to God I had died with your master, old man,” - -for— - - “he was never more happy in life than in death.” - -What I find so admirable in Gordon, and in almost all his characters is, -that they are _men_, I mean _men_ as opposed to dreamers or students. -His Lancelot _is_ Lancelot, the knight who has lived and loved largely. -Tennyson’s is not. I must confess that I really think that “The Rhyme -of Joyous Guard” is worth all the other “Idylls of the King,” save -“Lancelot and Elaine,” and “The Passing of Arthur,” put together. I mean -that I really think it has more real deep true significance. Take this -conclusion, the last prayer of Lancelot, old and passed from the world: - - “If ever I smote as a man should smite, - if I struck one stroke that seem’d good in Thy sight, - by Thy loving mercy prevailing, - Lord! let her stand in the light of Thy face, - cloth’d with Thy love, and crown’d with Thy grace, - when I gnash my teeth in the terrible place - that is fill’d with weeping and wailing.” - -This is splendid! His men, I say, are _men_, men such as we find in -Byron. Orion (Satan) says that - - “The angel Michael was once my foe; - _He had a little the best of our strife,_ - _yet he never could deal so stark a blow._” - -The lover in “No Name,” thinking of meeting “the slayer of the soul” he -loved, says: - - “And I know that if, here or there, alone, - I found him fairly, and face to face, - _having slain his body, I would slay my own,_ - _that my soul to Satan his soul might chase_:” - -a remark in the strain of Heathcliff. Most of his lovers love -passionately and sensuously, and only passionately and sensuously: The -poet “revels in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed girl:” if one -thing is harder to forgive to a successful rival than another it is that - - “he has held her long in his arms, - and has kissed her over and over again:” - -his chief regret over a dear dead girl is - - “for the red that never was fairly kiss’d— - for the white that never was fairly press’d:” - -and, when he leaves his love for ever, he is in anguish at the thought -that - - “’twill, doubtless, be another’s lot - those very lips to press:” - -a remark in the more morbid strain of Keats to Fanny Brawne. - -When Lancelot first kisses Guinevere, he, the mighty knight, “well nigh -swoons.” Love, with Gordon’s lovers, “consumes their hearts with a fiery -drought.” “Laurence,” says Estelle to her lover, - - “Laurence, you kiss me too hard:” - -and the man of “Britomarte” is at hand with the appropriate criticism that - - “men at the bottom are merely brutes.” - -But we must not think that _all_ Gordon’s lovers love in this way, any -more than that all his men merely charge and cheer. The battle is over. - - “And what then? The colours reversed, the drums muffled, - the black nodding plumes, the dead march and the pall, - the stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled, - the slow sacred music that floats over all.” - -This is beautiful, and no less beautiful is the tenderness of his love. - - “A grim grey coast, and a sea-board ghastly, - and shores trod seldom by feet of men— - where the batter’d hulk and the broken mast lie, - they have lain embedded these long years ten. - _Love! when we wandered here together,_ - _hand in hand through the sparkling weather,_ - _from the heights and hollows of fern and heather,_ - _God surely loved us a little then._” - -Nor is it rare to find passages in him - - “with the song like the song of a maiden, - with the scent like the scent of a flower.” - -For “dark and true and tender is the north” with all its storm and stress. - -Poor “sick stock-rider” and poet, with his wild eyes and wild words, -and that “shyness and reserve which kept him locked up, as it were, in -himself!” Our proud, passionate heart “out-wore its breast” as “the -sword outwears its sheath,” and so we “took our rest,” but not before we -had won our resignation and known, or almost known, the truth, even as -Empedocles did, and yet died because “he was come too late”—or too soon— - - “and the world hath the day, and must break thee, - not thou the world.” - -Gordon won his resignation, and knew, or almost knew, the truth. The -“criticism of life” that we find in the first two scenes of “The Road -to Avernus” is almost ripe: pessimistic, it is true, but almost ripe. -Laurence has lost his love, (and Laurence, let us remember, is the lover -that “kisses too hard!”) Does he despair in the strain of “Rolla,” or -“bluster,” and take refuge in the breast of “the wondrous mother age,” -and the “vision of the world” in the strain of the man of “Locksley -Hall?” No, he has lost his love, and the loss is bitter, but - - “such has been, and such shall still be, here as there, in sun or star. - These things are to be and will be; those things were to be and are.” - -“As it was so,” he says again, - - “as it was so in the beginning, - it shall be so in the end.” - -There is the feeling here of a man who is striving to see things as they -are. He will not blind himself to things: he will not answer “the painful -riddle of the earth” by “stopping up his mouth with a clod.” He will have -true faith, or no faith. Fate rules us, he sees: - - “Man thinks, discarding the beaten track, - that the sins of his youth are slain, - when he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back - to his old pet sins again.... - Some flashes like faint sparks from heaven, - come rarely with rushing of wings; - We are conscious at times, we have striven, - though seldom, to grasp better things; - These pass, leaving hearts that have faltered, - good angels with faces estranged, - and the skin of the Æthiop unalter’d, - and the spots of the leopard unchanged.” - -And yet life, life as life, independent of living and loving, of activity -and women, is not altogether hopeless: - - “Doubtless all are bad, yet few are - cruel, false, and dissolute.” - -He never gets any farther than this. He sees, or almost sees, truth, as -Moses saw Canaan, and then he fails. He has not had patience enough, -not clear-sightedness enough! He cannot enter the Promised Land. “In -defiance of pain and terror he has pressed resolutely across the howling -deserts of Infidelity;” but he has not the strength left to do more -than reach “the new, firm lands of Faith beyond.” He has loved life, -living and loving, activity and women, and he has not feared to look -into the reality of things, man and Nature and God, their sunshine and -their shadow, their life and their death, and there is no hesitation in -his message to us—“Onward! Onward!”—But that is all. He knows nothing -of _how_ we are to go onward, or to _where_. He has had enough to do to -get himself as far as he has got, to achieve what he has achieved. His -life and work are a failure. We cannot for a moment think of calling -him a great poet: his claim on our interest as a poet is that he is one -of the poets, one of the martyrs, of our terrible period of transition, -and that in him is to be found “something very like the beginnings of a -national school of Australian poetry.” Of this second aspect of him—of -how he is representative of what I have taken to be the distinctive marks -of this Australian, this Melbourne civilisation, its general sense of -movement, of progress, of conscious power: of this aspect of him I have -spoken elsewhere, too, and there seems no need to do more here than to -repeat the assertion. But, for my part, I cannot lay the stress on either -this aspect of him, or the other which makes him “the poet of Australian -scenery,” that I do on the first aspect of him. Gordon’s life and work -are a failure, but they are a failure with enough redeeming points to -raise them from local, or even colonial, into general interest. As our -first and enthusiastic critic puts it: “he deserves to be ranked with -the genuine poets of his generation,” and I feel sure that he ultimately -will be. For he is representative not only of Australian, but of -modern feeling: he tells not only of Australia from the fifties to the -seventies, but of our terrible period of transition from the Old World -into the New, from Mediævalism into Modernity. - -Poor “sick stock-rider” and poet, with his wild eyes and wild words—Our -proud, passionate heart “outwore its breast,” as “the sword outwears -its sheath,” and so we “took our rest.” “Sleep!” says Mr. Swinburne, in -the most beautiful and satisfactory of his poems, “Ave atque Vale,” the -lament over another of the martyrs—the author of “Les Fleurs du Mal:”— - - “Sleep; and, if life were bitter to thee, pardon, - if sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; - and to give thanks is good, and to forgive ... - Content thee, howsoe’er, whose days are done; - There lies not any troublous thing before, - nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, - for whom all winds are quiet as the sun, - all waters as the shore.” - - _January, 1885._ - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE SALVATION ARMY. - - -I. - -When a man speaks of Modern Europe, he is generally taken to mean the -Europe of steam and electricity. As a matter of fact, Modern Europe -really dates back to about the middle of the last century, when certain -ideas which we call “modern” first began to be promulgated. And these -ideas were not, as in this expression “Modern Europe” it is tacitly -supposed, merely scientific; they were not only concerned with steam and -electricity; they were social. And thus, when we use the expression, -if we are to use it, in this particular sense, we should remember that -it means, not only that the whole world is netted with railways and -telegraphs, but also that, speaking generally, the European races are -no longer governed by kings or aristocracies, but by middle-classes or, -as some prefer to put it, by peoples. And this, as I take it, is far -the more important fact of the two. I will go further, and say that it -is the most important fact of our civilization—nay, that it _is_ our -civilization, and that, therefore, whoever would seek to understand the -meaning of any movement, great or small, which is taking place in our -civilization, must seek it here, and here only! Our civilization is our -government by the Middle-class or, as some prefer to put it, by the -People. But that these individuals who prefer to put it so are, let us -say, if not mistaken, at any rate inaccurate, is precisely what I want -in this little article to try to show, and in as striking a manner as I -can, so that, not only may I try to do something towards making clear -to us the real deep true significance of a much misunderstood movement, -but also that of a much more misunderstood power—the Middle-class of the -European races. I do not propose to go through my subject thoroughly: to -do so would require more time and more space than any editor could afford -me. I shall merely touch on one phase of the great spiritual movement -which is at present permeating the European races, and then turn to -consider another phase of it—a phase which is of peculiar interest to us -of England, America, and Australia. - - -II. - -In Europe there is but one country that still suffers the despotism of -an aristocracy, and that country is Russia. The modern ideas, the modern -social ideas, have taken all this time to pass from France, Germany, -and England into Russia, and have seized on what, for lack of a better -word, I might call, its nascent middle-class. The results have been, and -still are, wonderful and terrible. A group of men (for they are little -more) has suddenly realised that the immense mass of the People is being -despotised over in the interest of a group in reality little larger than -itself. All, I will not say freedom, but possibilities of freedom are -resolutely withheld. Russia at present has not the guaranteed protection -of its men’s and women’s liberties which the English of the fourteenth, -the thirteenth, the twelfth, the eleventh, the tenth centuries had! -This to-day is a state of things which cannot continue. The group of -men who see and feel this, not clearly and quietly as we outsiders can, -but intensely and passionately, is waging a duel to the death with the -other group, with the despotism, for the bare principles of freedom. -On the one hand are knowledge and light, on the other ignorance and -darkness, the modern against the ancient spirit. But, thanks to the -fact that there are men whose whole interest is to resist the one and -support the other to the last, the light has become lightning and not -only irradiates but strikes. It is considered by some a question whether -this despotism, armed with all resources of wealth and military power, -will be able to stamp out this group before the immense mass of the -People is awakened to the meaning of it all. Others, however, merely -consider whether the Russian government will be destroyed by a revolution -or constitutionalized by a reform. We English, you see, consider it all -clearly and quietly as mere outsiders, and so, as regards the _aspect_ of -the problem, we are; but not, not as regards the problem itself! These -modern ideas, these social ideas, are working not only in Russia, where -the abuses which surround them make them burn so fiercely, but more or -less all over Europe, and in England rather more than less. Ireland, -we all see, smoulders with them. And why, pray? Because England and -Ireland are always snarling at one another, “it being their nature to?” -Not so. It is because that aspect of the problem which is presented to -Great Britain generally is a little more pressing in Ireland than in -England or Scotland. The trouble in Ireland is not national but social. -The strife is not between Irish and English: it is between peasants and -landlords. Unhappily many landlords are English: unhappily many peasants -believe that the English as a nation support the landlords as a class. -Hence whatever Irish hatred of England there may be; but the trouble is -not, I repeat, national, it is social. It is the People rising against -the Middle-class. - -Well, this movement, whether it be in Russia, in England, in Germany, -in France, in America, we are all pretty well agreed to call the -Socialistic movement. It represents the effort of the People after social -improvement. It took its rise not from _within_ the people, but from -_without_. The French, English, and German Socialists were originally -groups of men who suddenly realized that the immense mass of the People -was being despotized over in the interest of the Middle-class. Each -country has its peculiar aspect of this fact, but the fact is the same -in each. In France the Middle-class made and supported the Empire, and, -having stamped out the People’s wild attempt at power in ’71, made and -supports the Republic. In Germany—dismembered Germany—the problem was -pushed back before the apparently greater one of national unity, but now -it arises again and demands solution. In England the landed proprietors, -and still more the capitalists, are beginning to have qualms; but the -real struggle does not lie between them and the Socialists: they are but -overgrown individuals of a class. There will be no more Tories and no -more Conservatives: the future lies in the struggle between Liberals and -Socialists, the Middle-class and the People. - -This Socialistic movement, then, took its rise not from _within_ the -People but from _without_, and not in connection with Religion, the -great ally of the powers that were, the Middle-class, but on the whole -antagonistic to it. This movement took its rise in men of intellect who -had little or no care for Religion, and its tendency is intellectual and -careless of Religion. The Middle-class has shown nothing but dislike to -this movement: the Middle-class has understood enough of the ideas of -this movement to know that they are subversive of its own superiority. -As for the People, they have understood little or nothing. Socialists -tell them, what is indeed the truth, that they are the masters: -that to-morrow, if they pleased, they could send a parliament up to -Westminster that should dictate what terms they pleased to “their lords -and masters, the landowners and the capitalists.” The People does not -happily believe it. They are so hopeless: they have been deceived so -often by those who said they would help them. (Bill here, you see, with -a wife and six children, all living in a den that the Zoological people -would consider unfit for a hyena—Bill cannot be made to understand how -the question comes home to _him_!) Besides which, let us say it at once -and insist upon it, the People is the most long-suffering of all things: -it desires to despoil no man, it only desires the happiness which mere -food, clothing, and a house will give it. - -In this state of affairs—the powerlessness of the Socialists to bring -home to the People the great idea of social improvement—lie the causes of -the religious movement whose best-known and best representative is the -Salvation Army. - - -III. - -Consider it—first generally and then particularly. - -In Russia the People has religion and no freedom. In England the People -has freedom and no religion. (In both, let us add, the People has misery -unspeakable). The one question presses for solution in the one country, -the other in the other. The two most piteous spectacles in Europe are -the religious People of Russia, and the free People of England. The -Aristocracy which governs the one, the Middle-class which governs the -other, both are equally indifferent to the People. Add to the fact of -the utter want of religion of the English People (it is understood that -by People I mean the masses), the fact of their utter want of, I will -not say the comforts, but the necessities of life, and you have a field -for revolution such as nowhere else, I believe, presents itself save -in Russia herself.—I speak in the present, as if the problem presented -itself to me to-day just as it did years ago, and I am delighted to -notice that at last the English Middle-class is awakening to the fact of -the misery of the People, and also of the danger of letting that misery -continue. But it is quite a mistake to suppose that either the one or the -other is mitigated, not to say ended, or that it will be so for years to -come. - -Religion in England—and Religion has, inaptly enough, become a -synonym for Christianity, in which general sense of the term I use it -here—Religion in England, just like everything else, is conducted in -the interest of the Middle-class. Go into the London back-streets on -a sunday morning. You will find the men leaning against the walls, the -women at the doors, the children in the gutters. The public-houses, -you observe, are closed: the Middle-class does not like that the -People should be drinking beer and spirits while they themselves are -indulging in religious worship. Enter the church or the chapel. What are -the services like? We all know them—a performance on the part of the -choir, or a discreet, sibilant, half-articulate murmur on the part of -the congregation. The clergyman or minister reads out a portion of the -wonderful and beautiful history of Jesus in a fine meaningless monotone, -and “here endeth the second lesson.” But of the passion and the peace -of the Galilean story, what does _he_ know? He has forgotten or never -known Jesus, but he can tell you plenty about Christ. Listen to the -sermons. What do they treat of? Matters that are likely to interest the -men and women outside there? The sermons are empty of Jesus and full -of Christ—empty of the truth of the Master and full of the dogmas of -the Pupils. Theology, theological dogmas, Catholic or Protestant, are -perhaps interesting to men and women who are well to do, and like to -have something to argue about; but what does poverty care for them? The -man who has eaten a good breakfast and is waiting for a good dinner may -care to have it shown to him, that he and his fellows are the one body -of Christians that is absolutely and entirely orthodox; but the man with -an empty belly, and little or no prospect of filling it, may perhaps be -forgiven for not caring a jot whether these are blasts of true or false -doctrine, or not. The matter does not affect him: he stops outside. So -should we. - -Now, I would not for a moment imply that there are not priests, -clergymen, and ministers who have done, and are doing, fine and noble -work among the People. There are many such. But what I do say is, that, -speaking generally, the church and the chapel have both utterly failed -to seriously affect the mass of the People, and that they have done -so for the reasons I have given above.—“In the year 1865,” says Mr. -Booth in one of the Salvation Army pamphlets, “Mr. Booth was led, by -the Providence of God, by no plan or idea of his own, to the East of -London, where the appalling fact that the enormous bulk of the population -were totally ignorant and deficient of real religion, and altogether -uninfluenced by the existing religious organizations, so impressed him -that he determined to devote his life to _making_ these people _hear_ -and _know_ God, and thus save them from the abyss of misery in which they -were plunged, and rescue them from the damnation that was before them. -The Salvation Army is the result.” _The Salvation Army is the result._ He -simply states the fact. It was “by no plan or idea of his own.” He has, -so far as I know, never explained more than the phenomena of it.[6] I -have talked with one of his sons on the subject, and all he has to tell -me in explanation of 859 corps or stations, 2041 paid officials, and -_War Cry_ newspapers with a weekly circulation of 550,000, is _how_, as -he takes it, the Salvationists “get at” the People; but he knows, and -probably cares, absolutely nothing about the _why_. “The grate was set,” -I say, “You were the match, and behold the fire!” “It is the Lord,” he -says, and I do not think of contradicting him. It is not natural that a -man who takes part in a movement should know more than the _how_ of it, -should know the _why_. If he did, he would not be as unhesitating as he -is in his belief that his movement is so good. To achieve little we must -aim at much. He who lives passionately in the present must leave the dead -to bury their dead and the babes unborn to consider their suckling: he -must create, he has not time to criticise. At the same time how important -it is that there should be not only doers but watchers; not only creators -but critics; not only those who concern themselves with the _how_ but -also those who concern themselves with the _why_, for the _why_ unlocks -the gates of both the past and the future: it tells us not only the -_whence_ but also the _whither_. - -Now, as I have said, in a certain state of affairs which we have noticed -lies _this why_, and there, if we can only look well enough, we shall -find it. The Salvation Army is, like everything else an organism. It -has its seed, and all its stages of development up to its maturity and -down into its decay, when it, too, like everything else, will go to form -nutriment for other organisms, just as others have for its own. - -Now, nothing will help us more in our search after this _why_ than a -knowledge of the _how_, and, since this knowledge is, at any rate among -the governing classes, wonderfully limited, I propose giving a short -account of how the Salvation Army and its work has struck me personally. -It seems almost needless to state that I am an unprejudiced observer. -The Salvation Army, as the Salvation Army, is literally nothing to me: -my only interest in it lies in the influence which it exerts, whether -for good or evil, on the People. I have no cause to plead. If anyone can -point out mistakes of mine, or even demonstrate to me that my whole view -of this matter is an illusion, no one, I am sure, will be more pleased -and grateful than myself. Those are our real benefactors who demonstrate -to us an illusion and open the way to a better view of things. - - -IV. - -I propose, I said, giving a short account of how the Salvation Army and -its work has struck me personally. When I was in England I studied it, -as I study all movements that are going on around me, with more or less -care. Since I have been in Australia I have done the same, and, as I have -found the differences between the English and Australian Salvation Armies -to be immaterial ones, and as I am now addressing an Australian audience, -I shall speak of the Salvation Army as I have seen it here, so that he -who cares may go and see for himself whether I am correct or incorrect in -my view of it. This, too, will enable him more easily, if he desires it, -to point out my mistakes and even demonstrate to me that my whole view is -an illusion, and make me his pleased and grateful debtor for life. First, -however, let me just notice what these differences between the English -and Australian Salvation Armies are. In one word the Australian is less -exaggerative. The People in Australia breathes free: it does not feel -the weight of the two great divisions of the Middle-class that is above -it, the well-to-do and the gentlemen. Workmen here do not go slouching -down the streets, as they do in England, crushed under the sense of -their inferiority. This is a true republic, the truest, as I take it, -in the world. In England the average man feels that he is an inferior: -in America he feels that he is a superior: in Australia he feels that -he is an equal. This is indeed delightful. It is the first thing that -strikes a new arrival in this country, and although Australia’s sins—sins -against true civilization, I mean—are as many as they are heinous, still -a multitude of them, as it seems to me, is covered by this—namely, that -here the People is neither servile nor insolent, but only shows its -respect of itself by its respect of others. Nowhere else but in France is -there, I think, anything quite like it. - -There is, then, naturally less exaggerativeness in the Australian than -the English Salvation Army. When a man is, as they say, “saved” there, -it is from a far deeper “abyss of misery” than it is here. The very -atmosphere of England is heavy with the degradation of the People. For a -man to become, no longer passively, but actively aware of this, is almost -overwhelming, and so is his feeling when he believes that he has escaped -from it. Hence those wild words and acts of the Salvationists which have -offended so many. Add to this the excitement caused by a large gathering, -religious emulation, etc., etc., and the matter is a simple one. - -Now let us go to a Salvationist popular service, and see their manner of -work there. The hall is crowded. The great bulk of the congregation is -made up of the upper stratum of the People, servants, small shopkeepers, -etc. There are also a not inconsiderable number of the lower stratum of -the People, labourers. Many outsiders have come from curiosity. On the -stage or platform are a certain number of the regular paid officials in -their uniforms, and of “hallelujah lasses” in their straight dresses -and poke-bonnets. Considering these men and women attentively, what -most strikes us is that the generality are, as Jeffrey said lightly of -Carlyle, “terribly in earnest.” Some have the business-like air of all -officials, religious or otherwise: some have a somewhat disgusted air, -as if they were rather wearying of it all, now that the novelty has worn -off. But the generality of them are, there is no doubt of it, “terribly -in earnest.” Presently the head officials enter, and the service is -opened with a hymn. The Salvationists sing well: I remember that, at the -first Salvationist service at which I was present, this singing of theirs -was something like a revelation to me. It was not its “go,” as we say, -that affected me: it was its depth and sweetness. It comes from the heart -and goes to the heart. This is the only language the People can either -use or understand. - -Just beside me a little boy of four or five, standing between his -father’s knees with shut eyes and waving arm, is shouting and bawling -out the words of the hymn, so that he may attract attention and be an -“edification.” It is painful. (Later on during a prayer he lies along -the floor on his stomach and eats a green apple and pinches a bigger -boy’s legs. Myself, I prefer him like that.) During the prayers there -are frequent interruptions, chiefly from the platform, of “Hallelujah,” -“Praise God,” and so on, for the most part in a business-like fashion, -quite formal. A man cannot repeat the same words and acts for long with -impunity.—These, and things like these, are the inevitable accompaniments -of all services, religious or otherwise. We take them for granted, and -pass on. - -Presently a man is brought forward to give his testimony. He begins by -saying that he never thought to address such a gathering as this, that he -is a poor ignorant man, and so on, but that he trusts in Jesus to help -him through alright. He tells his tale. It is a tale for ever old and for -ever new. He was a drunkard, he was debauched, a blasphemer. He used his -wife and children ill, he paid no heed to the clergyman and the minister. -Then a Salvationist came to him and told him about Jesus. And that -converted him, and now, etc., etc., etc. His excitement grows: his voice -rises to a high-pitched monotone. He implores, he begs, he entreats, he -abjures. “Come to Jesus, come to Jesus! It’s only him can make you happy! -You don’t know how he loves you!—O dear people,” he bursts out at length, -“I could _die_ for you, if you would only come to him!” In the end, it is -painful: the high-pitched monotone oppresses us, and we are glad when he -has ended. - -Another follows, but with little or no variety. Then a girl speaks, -“happy Janet” (say). She has just the same tale to tell: it is all Jesus, -nothing but Jesus! “To think,” I heard one of these girls say, hushed -and awed, “to think that the Son of God loved us so that he suffered all -this for _us_! To think of the thorns wounding his beautiful brow!” and -her voice broke.—Janet cannot say too much about the suffering of Jesus, -because it was because he loved us all so, that he suffered. Then she -tells how she had a brother, and the brother thought he was old enough to -be by hisself, and do for hisself, and he went away, away to Màn-chester, -and they were all very sad about it, e-specially mother. And the days -and the weeks and the months went by, and they never heard anythink -about him, and they went out and up and down the town, hoping he might -come back and they might see him again, for he might be ashamed, they -thought, to come into the house. And sometimes mother’d come to wake her -up early in the morning, and say: “Come, Janet, let’s go out and look for -Tom: maybe we’ll find him _this_ morning.” And they used to go out and -look for him in the early morning, and they couldn’t find him. But at -last he _did_ come back, and O, dear people, how thin he was! Yes, he’d -had enough of it! He found he couldn’t do for hisself after all, so he -came back to mother and us, and we loved him more than ever.—And O, dear -people, that’s the way with _us_ and Jesus. We think we’re old enough -to be by ourselves and to do for ourselves. But we ar’n’t: we’re never -old enough to do without Jesus! He’s always loving us and strengthening -us and giving us peace. So come to him; don’t wait any longer but come -to him! Don’t think you’re too wicked. No one’s too wicked for Jesus: -he suffered for us and he died for us, for _you_ and _me_, and he loves -us more than all the others do, and we can’t tell how glad it makes him -when we come to him! Here, as in the singing, it is not the “go,” the -excitement, which affects us most, it is the depth and sweetness. It -comes from the heart and goes to the heart. It is the only language the -People can either use or understand. - -_Jesus!_—It is always Jesus, I say, never or very rarely Christ. These -Salvationists feel and know their Master. With them he lives: with -us he exists. And Jesus is to them as some one dowered with all the -possibilities of mortal happiness who yet renounced everything from his -great love for the People, and suffered and died for them a cruel death. -Herein is the secret of the sempiternal influence of Jesus: he is the -great Lover. I do not for a moment think that these Salvationists have -any connected scheme of the character or life of Jesus. They cannot -argue about him, they would say: they know that he _lives_. They lay -little or no stress on the risen Jesus, the Christ. Their concern is -with the living Jesus, him who loved the flowers and the children and -the publicans and the harlots, him who showed his love by his life and -above all by his cruel death. This Jesus was not a philanthropist: he -was better, he was a lover. “He, who might have been a great king, -actually preferred to come and suffer and die a cruel death because -he loved us so!” This love, this pity seems to them unique, godlike. -“_To think of the thorns wounding his beautiful brow._” Hence the power -of Jesus to awaken in men a sense of sin, and, still more, a hope of -salvation. “Why,” they ask, “did this wonderful beautiful Jesus suffer -all this?—_why?_” Then comes the answer. “_Because he saw that I was a -sinner and he loved and pitied me so, that he suffered all this for my -sake._” It is an overwhelming fact. Once get a man to see it and his life -is revolutionised: he believes in Love. - -Napoleon, we remember, was puzzled by this sempiternal influence of -Jesus. He remarked that he himself understood how to awaken in his -own behalf the enthusiasm of men, but he was alive, whereas Jesus was -dead. “_O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and -stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered -thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her -wings, but ye would not!_” Yearning love like this was a mystery to -our wonderful destructive Emperor: he would have called it foolish. -And to many others beside him this sempiternal influence of Jesus has -been, is, and will be the same. Here is our good Man of Science, the -immortal dunce who dates knowledge from “Social Statics” and the “Origin -of Species,” who thinks Jesus was a very fine character, you know, but -full of superstition and delusion. And here is our most irrational of -Rationalists who has a pathetic faith in the method of the late lamented -Bishop Colenso, a method which consists in the profound consideration -of the geometry of the empyrean and the colour of mathematical figures. -And lastly, here is our dear blatant Secularist whose discourse so -pleasantly shows us how a man who was a blockhead as a Christian can be -doubly a blockhead as a Secularist.—Here, I say, are these three types, -or let us take them as individuals. Here is our good friend Mr. Caffyn, -who was writing such brilliant letters to the _Argus_ the other day, -letters which show a nice acquaintance with the books of Dr. Maudsley and -the rudiments of modern physiology; and here is the late lamented Sir -Richard Hanson of Adelaide, whose mantle is just now descending on Mr. -Justice Williams; and, lastly, here is our loquacious friend at the Hall -of Science, Mr. Joseph Symes. All these gather around the poor ignorant -labourer who is “saved,” and demonstrate to him his foolishness in -believing in such an outworn piece of nonsense as Christianity. “As for -this Jesus of yours, my good man,” they say after their several fashions, -“he was a very fine character, you know, but—_he was only a man just like -you or me_!” To whom the poor ignorant labourer answers with a smile: -“Whether he be a fine character or not, I know not: one thing I know, -that, _whereas I was blind, now I see_.” Come away, Mr. Caffyn: come -away, ghost of Sir Richard: come away, Mr. Symes. It is quite useless -to talk with a besotted Christo-maniac like this. Why, he absolutely -believes that he has a spiritual experience of which you are ignorant, -and can afford to smile at you! After this, the deluge!—Gentlemen, hadn’t -you better go home to dinner, and leave the poor devil alone? - -To return to the meeting, which is not yet concluded.—When the -testimonies are all given, those who feel that they have been leading a -life of sin are exhorted to come forward and profess. The hall empties. -Ten or twelve, men and women, young men and girls, come forward and -kneel down at a bench in front of the platform. Some are inclined to be -hysterical. The Salvationists, men and women, come and talk to them, -leaning against them, their arms round their shoulders, exhorting and -encouraging. This, you see, is Religious Socialism. No one can love -Jesus, “the divine Communist” (as Heine calls him), with impunity. If you -love, and to love is to know, Jesus, you must get others to love and to -know him, and your desire to get others fills you with the same yearning -love for them that Jesus has for you: “_O dear people, I could ~die~ for -you, if you would only come to him_!” - -Then, when no more will come forward, the service concludes with each of -those who is “saved,” speaking before them all—saying what has come to -him to make him repent, and expressing his firm determination to lead -a better life. The first step has now been taken—the man by his public -confession is compromised. He cannot now so easily fall back. He is known -to his fellows, who will exhort and encourage him. He has every incentive -to date a new life from to-day, not to put it off over and over again to -“to-morrow.” - -What, is all this, then, a trap? Yes, if you care to call it so. Men, -to whom the “saved” and the “unsaved” life, the bliss of heaven and the -anguish of hell, is a passionate reality, speak of it passionately to -the ignorant or the careless, and then (like true guilefully guileless -religionists) take advantage of the moment of realization which they have -aroused in a soul, to compromise that soul before the world to lead a new -life of continual realization. You see, these Salvationists are of the -men and women of the People and they know the men and women, not only -of the People, but of each and every class of us: they know how frail -is unaided resolution, and they act on their knowledge. Do not think, -though, that they believe that weakness of will is to be found only -among the People. Far from it! They attack Respectability, they attack -the hypocrisy of the Middle-class, as fearlessly as they attack the open -sin of the People. Our good clergymen and ministers, for whom I have, in -many respects, so much admiration, are afraid to attack the Middle-class: -the Middle-class is the payer of pew-rents. Alas, alas, ye cannot serve -God and Mammon! It is really a great nuisance; but ye cannot! Now these -Salvationists do not happen to have pews: so they need not stand hat -in hand before Respectability. They can say boldly that the Publican -is as good as the Pharisee: that hypocrisy is no better, if it is not -far worse, than open sin. Look, to it, my in-so-many-respects-admirable -clergymen and ministers, you are not masters here but pupils! - - -V. - -I am not going to discuss the question of Salvationist ritual. Brass -bands and concertinas give but a poor idea of “the beauty of holiness:” -a dissenting chapel does the same. Banners and handkerchiefs and so -on are apt to be tawdry: so are dressed statues, standards, incense, -and the rest. But who, considering the hideousness of Protestantism -and the tawdriness of Catholicism, would therefore call Protestantism -hideous and Catholicism tawdry? Certainly not I who am so sincere an -admirer of them both. Neither, then, considering what we hear called the -Christy-Minstrelism and Music-Hallism of the Salvation Army, must we -think that, when we have called their meetings Christy Minstrels or Music -Halls, we have quite disposed of them. Alas, my dear Middle-class, cannot -you see that the People is what you, who govern the People, have made -it? Might I, a humble unit of your millions, suggest to you that it is -just because, what you call, your Upper Ten Thousand is hideous that you -are more hideous? and that it is just because you, my dear Middle-class, -are more hideous that the People is most hideous? Will it be many ages, -I wonder, before you can be got to see this?—to see that you had better -take the mote out of your own eye before you are so enthusiastic about -taking the beams out of the eyes of your neighbours? - -If, however, anyone wants to see what Mr. Booth himself has to say -in defence of his “Colours, Bands of Music, Processions, and other -sensational methods employed” (as he says), I would refer him to a -little penny pamphlet called “All about the Salvation Army,” which -can be got at the Salvation Army Head-quarters in Russell Street. For -myself, I have nothing to do with this side of the question: I profess -that I consider most church-bells are as bad as most brass-bands, and am -profoundly indifferent as to whether they are, as Mr. Booth would like -to know, “unscriptural” or not. I am of opinion that the admirers of -church-bells and brass-bands had better fight it out among themselves. - -I have as good as said that what makes the outer strength of the -Salvationists is their realization of Jesus as liver and lover. Love, -yearning love, is undoubtedly the chief characteristic of Jesus. But, -just as the sun gives forth not only heat but light, so did he. His -life was love: his death was peace. “_My peace I leave with you._” And -it is just here, just in their realization of “the mildness and sweet -reasonableness” of Jesus that the Salvationists are apt to be lacking: -and it is just here that the Church of England more than any other -Christian sect is, as it seems to me, so strong. The _Hymns Ancient and -Modern_ are, on the whole, the best song-book extant of this “mildness -and sweet reasonableness.” We must not, however, think that this -demand for the peace as well as the love of Jesus is not recognised -by the Salvationists: it is, but I cannot think that it is recognised -adequately. As soon as a man is “saved” and has “professed,” there are -open to him, what they call, the Holiness Meetings. These are the answer -to the demand for peace. But they differ only particularly from the other -meetings. They are smaller, and hence quieter, than the others; but there -is, so to speak, too much heat and too little light in them. Here is the -weak point in the Salvationist movement, just as it is the strong point -in (I always take the best example our Christianity can give us) the -Church of England. Here it is the turn of the Salvationists to be not -masters, but pupils. Let us hope that they will see this, and not only -teach, but also (which is so much more difficult) be ready to learn from, -us. - - -VI. - -There are still two parts of the work of the Salvationists to -consider—their work with the inmates of the prisons, and their work with -the inmates of the brothels. Here again we have everything to learn -from them, from them the true disciples of “the divine Communist.” The -former work they have made a speciality of, and they are rapidly making -the latter. I doubt very much that our churches and chapels (I am not -speaking now of the Catholics, whose work is almost exclusively among the -Irish, and the Irish are of a race that, save in the matter of agrarian -crime and a curious cruelty to dumb animals, is truly admirable for the -honesty of its men and the chastity of its women): I doubt very much, -I say, that our churches and chapels will ever get much at either the -criminals or the prostitutes. Our clergymen, who are so gentlemanly, and -our ministers who are so respectable, can neither speak nor understand -much the language of the People, the language of the heart. The clergymen -are shocked by the foulness, the ministers by the ferocity, of the -People. Both feel that they are condescending—the one from the height of -refinement, the other from the height of righteousness. The people has no -love for condescension of this sort. There are few words that stink more -in its nostrils than that of charity, and indeed charity, when it means a -gift from a superior to an inferior, is hateful enough. It is a popular -delusion with the “charitable” that street beggars and the inmates of -the workhouses are the People. Far otherwise is it, O “charitable” ones: -these are not independent animals, they are parasites: they are (if you -will pardon me saying so) your spiritual lice; so please make the best of -them, since it is not only on account of, but _on_, you that they live. - -Well, now, wherein is it that these fanatical ignorant Salvationists _do_ -get at the People? One of them answers us at once: “_No one’s too wicked -for Jesus, and so no one’s too wicked for me who am the simple follower -of Jesus._ If _he_ could do with publicans and harlots, why cannot I?” -They say, as Walt Whitman says to “a common prostitute,” - - “Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you, - Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle - for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.” - -This, you see, is Religious Socialism. It proclaims the spiritual -equality of all men. The _spiritual_ equality, let us notice; it will -have nothing to do with the social equality. “_My kingdom is not of -this world.... Give unto Cæsar the things which be Cæsar’s, and to God -the things which be God’s._” “Honour all men,” says Peter, “love the -brotherhood, fear God, honour the king.” And more: Religious Socialism -has a tendency to be careless of the dogmas of the creeds. “Is the Army -hostile,” asks Mr. Booth, “to the existing evangelical denominations? -Just the contrary. Numbers of its converts go to swell the membership -of the churches. More than 400 persons, converted and trained in its -ranks, have been engaged by other different religious organisations -as Evangelists, Ministers,” etc., etc., etc. We notice that he says -“_evangelical_ denominations?” The Catholics, of course, from (who shall -I say?) Augustine to Pascal and Newman, are poor belated idolaters, only -slightly better than the heathen. This, you see, is where Mr. Booth, -like Mr. Spurgeon and the rest, so pleasantly shows us what nonsense an -earnest short-sighted man is capable of believing and brandishing about -the world with a godless blatancy. Personally, I cannot make myself angry -with any of them for it. For what would an earnest man be without his -faults? without, as D’Israeli puts it, a single redeeming vice? - -In Melbourne there is a tendency now to let the Salvation Army have its -own way unmolested with the criminals and the prostitutes. “It can’t -do any harm,” people say, “and it may do good, and really, you know, -the—the Social Evil wants looking to.” Nay, more: having made this -nice expression “Social Evil,” we are at last plucking up courage to -acknowledge that it exists, and that it is not necessarily a sign of -filthy-mindedness to wish to discuss it. We speak of it now in papers -which come under the eye of those dear creatures about whose stainless -purity of mind we are all so anxious (even that Puritanic print, the -_Melbourne Bulletin_ is anxious, and the _Sydney Bulletin_, also, for -all I know to the contrary)—“our wives and daughters.” Why, possibly -there are those among us who will live to see the day when the expression -“fearful sinner,” as applied to some poor girl driven out into the -miseries of the streets, will be confined to the utterance of our good -friends of the Scotch Presbytery, and other few such like. Then, it will -be amusing: at present, it is only detestable. - - -VII. - -Now let us go to the Barracks of the Prison Brigade, and see what has -to be seen there. The officials (all, I believe, old criminals) and the -men that they have just got hold of, are gathered for a sort of home -service. Man after man, boy after boy, rises to give his “experience.” -The “experiences” can be pretty easily imagined. Then there are hymns, -choruses, addresses by the higher officials present. All, or almost -all here, there is no doubt of it, are “terribly in earnest.” The -interruptions, “Hallelujah,” “Praise God,” and so on, are all earnest. -One boy with a maimed face gets up and says: “I was miserable in the -streets, I’m very happy now. God bless the Major,” and sits down again. -For me, I confess that, over and over again, I have not known whether -to answer the word and acts of these men, or shall I say children, with -smiles or tears. Now and then I have answered them with both. - -Afterwards we are shown the bedrooms, observing that we do not want -to see them. I have seen many bedrooms that were delightful, and many -keepers thereof whose hearts were as clean and hard as the floors. -Also I have seen bedrooms that were poor and crowded, and the keepers -thereof whose hearts were as rich as love and as soft as pity. I prefer -the latter, myself, if I must choose between them, but tastes of course -are different. Then the boy with the maimed face is brought in, to tell -his tale and show his wounded leg. The People like you to look at their -wounds and sores and casualties generally. It is painful. It is like the -young ladies of the Middle-class who like you to look at their drawings -and paintings, or listen to their playing and singing. I do not know -which habit is the more painful of the two—perhaps, on the whole, the -latter. The first only hurts my senses: the second hurts my soul. It -makes me lose hope in my ideas for the future of the Middle-class: it -makes me think it is doomed to the hideousness of clap-trap for ever. It -is like a visit to the sculpture at the Melbourne Public Library. - -They show us the rooms and bring us the boy, you notice, in that -practical English spirit which is intent on making it clear that their -cry is proportionate to their wool, a fact of which we are not altogether -ignorant. Hence our carelessness about more than a glance at the rooms, -or a short talk with the boy with the maimed face. I think I could tell -him as much about himself as he can tell me. I have known him many times -before. - -It is pleasing to notice here how much they insist on the new life, how -comparatively little stress they lay on the “conversion,” on the being -“saved.” Also, that the Salvationists know how to laugh. It is only men -who keep their religion for a fine heavy diet on sunday who cannot pray -at one moment and laugh at another. If my religion is a part of _me_, it -is also clearly a part of my laughter. - -Now let us go the rounds of the opium dens and brothels round about -Little Bourke Street. We walk, my Salvationist and I, into any house that -we wish. No one opposes us: only once in the whole evening are we spoken -to other than respectfully. “_You see_,” says the mistress of the most -facially contorted Chinee I have yet seen, “_You see, the Salvationists -helps the girls, that’s why we likes ’em!_” Here we are in a den, a girl -lying on one side of the bed (the Chinese beds are like large alcoves. -In the middle is the opium-tray, containing the pipe, a lamp, etc.), a -Chinee on the other, getting her pipe ready for her. We sit and chat -with her. She tells us about herself simply enough, showing no signs -of wishing to alter her condition. Then the other girl comes in, and -we chat with her. My Salvationist recognises her: she was at Bella’s -funeral. (Bella was a girl who fell down dead in the brothel opposite, -and the Army buried her. All “the girls” about clubbed together, hired -cabs, and went to the funeral.) “O yes,” says the girl to him, “you said -the service for Bella.” She too tells us about herself simply enough. -Her mother is at Ballarat.—“Does she know you’re here?”—“O yes, she -knows.”—“Does she think you’re in service?”—“O no, _she_ knows what I’m -doing;” and so on. Presently I go into the other room and talk pigeon -English with the remarkable spectacled Chinee, who is like a venerable -old ape. Why will the English girls come and live with the Chinese? The -answer is simple: the Chinese both pay them well and are kind to them. -These girls are not bruised on the face and arms as most of the others -are. - -You perceive now how the Salvationists work here? They are the “friends” -of the girls: they “help” them. Find out from a girl if she is miserable: -find out if she would sooner go back to a respectable life. Go everywhere -fearlessly: Find out if any girl is being detained against her wishes. Be -gentle with them as with equals. Make them feel that you care for them -for their own sakes. Work upon their feelings—speak of their home, their -mother, their father, their brothers, their sisters. Offer them a new -start. Then, the moment that of their own free will they are ready to -come, put them into a cab and drive straight away with them to the Home. -Here they come under the influence of the women officials of the Army, -(some of whom, however, also do visiting work), the same system being -pursued with them as with the men. They are not made to feel that they -are dealing with people more loftily refined or more loftily righteous -than themselves. They are not made to feel that they are “fearful -sinners.” They are made to feel that sin is fearful and that they have -sinned fearfully, but that they have every hope before them, hope of a -new life before God and man. As for the women officials of the Salvation -Army, I will say this, that in no body of female religionists, except -the Catholic Sisters, have I found so many sweet true women. I have also -known Anglican Sisters who were well worthy of a place beside them. -Such women are the essence of Christianity. They are the true children -of Mary Magdalene and Monica, of the love and of the affection of the -soul. Preference for any one of these three classes, there can be none. -I cannot exalt true love above true affection any more than I can exalt -heat above light: their joy is equal. But in one respect the Salvationist -women have an advantage over the others, just as the Salvationist men -have over the celibate priests—in just that, in the fact that they need -not be celibates. Many of these Salvationist girls and women are the -sweethearts or wives of their fellow-workers. This, I think, is as it -should be. He who neglects or despises that great law of Nature and God, -passion, will be assuredly punished for it. To make a large body of men -and women celibates is to put a premium on immorality and hypocrisy. This -great rock the Salvation Army has avoided, and herein it has done most -wisely. Here, where Rome is weak, it is strong. We must not, however, -think that there is nothing to be said in behalf of celibacy: there is -much, very much. If we were all men like Francis of Assissi or Vincent -de Paul, it would be perfect; but unfortunately we are not. At the same -time, he who has seen the work of Catholic priests and of Protestant -clergymen or ministers in times of plague and pest must feel how great -a clog to perfect courage are those hostages a man has given to fate in -wife and children. On the other hand, observe that times of pest and -plague are comparatively rare, and that every great idea when put into -practice is but a mixed good. What we have to do is to choose that which -has least evil, or shall we say most good, and this can, we feel sure, be -only chosen in conformity with all of those few great primeval laws which -are the guides of life, which are the direct words of Nature and of God. - - -VIII. - -So much, then, for the _how_ of the Salvation Army. Let us now consider -if it has helped us to the _why_—nay, if it has not absolutely told us -the _why_! Did we not instinctively catch at something we saw two or -three times rising before us as with small but teleological significance -in it? Did we not feel, as we uttered that expression with which this -something inspired us, that here was the _why_ in propria persona? -_Religious Socialism._ - -In this state of affairs—the powerlessness of the Socialists to bring -home to the People the great idea of social improvement: in the misery -unspeakable of the People; in the atmosphere heavy with the degradation -of the People—what is it that the People has done? _It has evolved a -movement_, _no longer from_ without, _but from_ within _itself_. _It has -sought for consolation for its unspeakable wretchedness in the perennial -spring of Religion, of the yearning love of Jesus. It has, at the touch -of the first match that came to it, blazed up into the flaming fire of -Religious Socialism._ - -In the early part of the thirteenth century the People did the same, the -People of Italy. But what a heaven lies between the man who led _that_ -movement and the man that is leading this! O my eloquent Rationalists, O -my loquacious Secularists, both of you whom I esteem so much—how ready -are you to talk of the degradation which that gigantic superstition and -delusion, Christianity, wrought upon the People! Whenever are you tired -of brandishing “starry Galileo” and scattering the scattered dust of -poor old Copernicus in the face of Catholicism, making it to tremble and -sneeze fearfully? Does it never occur to you that that divine Goddess -Scientia, whom you worship with such noble devotion, has wrought a -far deeper degradation on the people than Catholicism ever did? Have -you never seen, crouching under the shadow of your railways and your -telegraphs and all your improved machinery, the unspeakable wretchedness -of London, of Birmingham, of Manchester, of Glasgow? And now that this -People, whose lives your Goddess has made of such a sort that they will -not stand too favourable a comparison with those of dogs—now that this -People, in its passionate searching after some consolation, however -slight, of whatever sort, seizes on this creature of superstition and -delusion, this Jesus who is _only a man, just like you or me_, and -whom you have so triumphantly proved so, and makes him the text for -this flaming fire of Religious Socialism—has it never struck you, O my -eloquent Rationalists, O my loquacious Secularists, what an appalling -difference there is between Salvation Army banners, handkerchiefs, -brass-bands, and concertinas, and the “green boughs, flags, music, and -songs of gladness” that came forth from the Umbrian towns and villages -to welcome Francis of Assissi? have you never felt that there is any -essential difference between the perpetual Revivalist hymn of “My Jesus -to know and to feel his blood flow,” and the “Canticle of the Creatures?” -But, above all, have you never felt that it is more to that divine -Goddess Scientia, whom you worship with such noble devotion, than to -anything else that this appalling difference is due? - -And you, O my Middle-class, of whom I am so humble a unit, did it -ever occur to you that it is rather a foolish thing to paint a boy’s -face black and then be shocked at it? If the People, its foulness and -its ferocity, makes you shiver and shudder, who pray made it foul and -fierce but you who govern it?—What do you say? “It was no business of -yours?” That was what Cain said, but respectable Christians like you -are not surely going to take that eminent casuist as your mouth-piece? -If you were Atheists or Agnostics, now, worshippers of “the struggle -for existence and survival of the fittest,” of course that would be -another matter, but you are Christians, respectable Christians who -always wear black coats on Sundays, and object to having the Library and -Picture-Gallery open. - -Well, there! I cannot make myself angry with you, my dear Middle-class. -I admire your good qualities too much for that—too much indeed, as I -often tell myself; for who shall say but that my belief in your ultimate -regeneration and new birth unto a really glorious place in a true -civilization be not, after all, but infatuation? Here is Carlyle, whom -we all love and admire so, trying to be our benefactor by demonstrating -to us our illusions on this matter, and telling us, ever since 1830, of -the “steady approach of democracy with revolution (probably explosive) -and a finis incomputable to man; steady decay of all morality, political, -social, individual; this once noble England getting more and more -ignoble, and untrue in every fibre of it, till the gold (Goethe’s -composite king) will all be eaten out, and noble England will have to -collapse in shapeless ruin, whether for ever or not none of us can -know.” Really there are hours when I am made quite to suffer by thinking -of what is going to happen to my dear Middle-class when the People rise -unanimously against it,—“roaring million-headed unreflecting, darkly -suffering, darkly sinning ‘Demos’” (as Carlyle says again), “come to call -its old superiors to account at its maddest of tribunals.” It will, I -fear, be little good for the Mr. Caffyns of those times to write letters -to the _Argus_ of those times, explaining the physiological aspects of -the movement. On such an occasion in Paris, in 1793, Mr. Caffyns went up -into the arms of La Guillotine for much less heinous offences than that, -and who would be left capable of recording whether, in this case, they -went up “with a tripping movement” (as Mr. Caffyn tells us the fanatical -“Hallelujah lasses” go), or whether they marched, as perhaps Mr. Caffyn -himself marches to church or chapel every Sunday morning, to the -edification of all beholders? But let us not think of such an appalling -spectacle. Mr. Caffyn is still with us, and the _Argus_ is still with us, -and perhaps some morning we shall have some more brilliant letters on the -physiological aspects of Mr. Caffyn’s friends, the hallelujah lasses. - -I cannot, I say, make myself angry with you, my dear Middle-class of -England (and you might plausibly suggest that it would not matter much if -I did), and how then shall I even frown at this Middle-class of Victoria, -about whom (if Carlyle is right) I am more infatuate still? Does not -the People breathe free in Australia? Are we not liberated here from -that charming “Upper Ten Thousand” which monopolises the best of the bad -education England has to offer, the Public Schools and the Universities? -Is there not a hope that, now that the primary education of the People is -progressing so satisfactorily, some of our young rising politicians, (or -even some of the old ones), may bring home to us the fact that we want -equally—nay, far more!—a secondary education for the Middle-class? so -that Victoria may step forward as a competitor with the most universally -civilized nation in the world, France, and teach England the unspeakable -glory and advantage of (we should call it) an Upper-class, “homogeneous, -intelligent, civilized, brought up in good public schools” (and not, -as now, in more or less good, or more or less bad, denominational, and -“private adventure” schools) “and on the first plane.” - -If only this Upper-class of Victoria and of Australia generally could be -brought to see it! If only it would confess its sins, many and heinous, -against true civilization and be “converted” and lead a new life! -Nothing, I think, strikes an Englishman more, coming out here, than the -brightness and intelligence of the Victorian girls! (“Our daughters,” you -know.) And how heart-rending to discover that all this brightness and -intelligence is wasted on the mere accidents and incidents of every-day -existence! Two-shilling novels are her idea of literature: “Some day” and -“Ehren on the Rhine” her idea of music: the coloured illustrations of the -illustrated papers, her idea of art. And her brother is in a worse state! -The tortoise English girl is, after all, better than the Australian hare, -and the young male bull-dog than the kangaroo. - -Everything cries out for the education, for the civilization, of the -Upper-class, the ruling class. Educate it, civilize it, let it know what -Truth is and what Beauty is, and abolish the bells and the brass-bands -for ever! If the Upper-class is beautiful, its beauty will react on -the Lower-class. Give us public schools for the Upper-class, as there -are public schools for the Lower-class. Fight tooth and nail against -any attempts after an “Upper Ten Thousand,” whether it be of land or -of wealth. Keep clearly before us the ideal of an Upper-class that -is _homogeneous_. Let us have the man of business as cultured as the -professional man, and the professional man as cultured as the man of -means. Let us be a true Republic, offering every opportunity to the -intelligence of the Lower-class to attain to the culture of the Upper. -Let us not have ten thousand aristocrats, but ten hundred thousand, -ever more and more, and never less and less! On the other hand, let us -learn from the People the great lesson which they have to teach us—the -lesson of the language of the heart. Let us learn from them the softness -of pity, yea and the richness of love. Let us give them our _Social -Socialism_ and let us take their _Religious_; for, in the perfect -marriage of light and heat, is the perfect day, the true civilization, -the beauty of the truth of Nature and of God. - - _February, 1885._ - - - - -SYDNEY AND HER CIVILIZATION, AS THEY STRIKE AN ENGLISHMAN. - - -It was in 1770 that Cook entered the bay to which he gave the name of -Botany: in ’88 that Philip landed in Port Jackson with his convict -settlement: in 1849 that the settlers refused to receive any more -convicts: and in ’56 that the settlement was acknowledged as a colony -and dowered with a constitution. These few facts have a very different -significance to those which correspond to them in the history of -Melbourne. The epithet phenomenal cannot be applied to the former in the -same sense as to the latter; nor yet, let us hasten to add, the epithet -premature. English people, who carry to a quite quaint degree their -modern representative poet’s dislike of - - “Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay,” - -find Melbourne “too American,” as they say, and reserve all their praise -for “picturesque Sydney” and the harbour about whose description Mr. -Trollope went (as we are all never likely to be able, at any rate in -Sydney, to forget) into diffuse despair. “The business thoroughfares,” -says a simple English traveller, “as well as the shops themselves, have a -far more English appearance than those of the capital of Victoria,” and -shuns all comment as superfluous. Let us not think of contradicting him. -That elemental characteristic of the British architect, “the impotence -to express anything,” is in no danger of disappearing in Sydney, nor -yet, let us again hasten to add, in Melbourne; but, if it be possible to -distinguish the matter thus, I should say that in Sydney he had found his -happy hunting-grounds, whereas in Melbourne he was just beginning to feel -that there was a rival about. - -No, it is just where Sydney is _un_-English that she has charm. I do -not now refer to her natural position, nor to her age—age which will -tone down, and perhaps some day almost mellow, the masterpieces of even -the British architect. I refer to those buildings in the town, few and -far between enough, it is true, in which the Sydney perception of its -individual life has striven to express itself. The Sydney perception of -its individual life is not strong. As a local guide-book puts it more -particularly, “in the nomenclature of the streets Sydney shows intense -loyalty, and the lover of history will be delighted by the associations -which some of the names will summon to his memory. For instance, his -historical predilections will be gratified in noticing that the principal -street is named after George the Third, during whose reign the colony -was founded.” Of course, when the local guide-book tells us that a thing -is so, it _is_ so; and when it says that our predilections, historical -or otherwise, will be gratified and delighted, they _are_ gratified and -delighted. But these Sydney men and women, with their intense loyalty, -or rather what the writer in the local guide-books means thereby, have -not, what we called, the metropolitan look—have not the metropolitan -feeling. Mr. Marcus Clarke, in the cleverest and also the most fantastic -of his clever but often fantastic criticisms, “The Future Australian -Race,” says boldly: “It is more than likely that what should be the -Australian Empire will be cut in half by a line drawn through the centre -of the continent.... All beneath this line will be a Republic, having -the mean climate, and, in consequence, the development of Greece. The -intellectual capital of the Republic will be in Victoria; the fashionable -and luxurious capital on the shore of Sydney Harbour.” Then he adds that -“the Australians will be a fretful, clever, perverse, irritable race,” -showing us what, under all their superficial differences, the people of -Victoria and of New South Wales have, he thinks, in common. I do not -believe that the whole secret of the matter is here laid open before us. -Mr. Marcus Clarke had an admirable acuteness of perception, but he was -apt, having swiftly perceived one aspect of a thing, to write it down -at once as _the_ aspect without staying for a second or third look at -the thing itself. The consequence is that he rarely reaches the whole -secret of a thing: witness, for instance, his view of Christianity, -(but Mr. Arnold notices how even a critic of Sainte-Beuve’s calibre was -capable of illusion here), or of the significance of Gordon’s poetry, -which I have spoken of elsewhere; and it is lamentable to think how much -of this false tendency in him was due to the circumstance that he was a -man of letters, and an Australian man of letters. I do not believe, I -say, that, when he tells us that the really distinctive characteristic -of Sydney is (for “will be” is only “is” unmaterialized) fashion and -luxury, and Melbourne intellect, he has laid open before us the _whole_ -secret of the present tendencies of these cities, or yet when he sees -them united with the common characteristics of fretfulness, cleverness, -perverseness, irritability. But here, undoubtedly, is one aspect of the -matter expressed admirably. The men and women of Sydney do not live so -fast mentally as the men and women of Melbourne: they give more free play -to their emotional passions. As we say, they “take things easier.” They -cling to the past which Melbourne throws away: they consider the present, -which Melbourne has very little time for. Their attachment to “the old -country” is deeper; they have intense loyalty, as the writer in the local -guide-book says. They are much more possessed by the affairs of Melbourne -than Melbourne is about theirs. The _Sydney Morning Herald_ and the -_Sydney Mail_ do not hold the same position in Melbourne as the _Argus_ -and the _Australasian_ do in Sydney. The Sydney people are captious in -their criticism on the younger capital, just as Boston is on New York: -they talk about being “dragged at the chariot wheels of Victoria,” and -asseverate that they will not endure it. Melbourne people criticise -Sydney good-humouredly, and justly so, since in that aspect of them both, -which people seem to think is alone worth criticising, Melbourne is -undoubtedly far superior. Intellect in the modern world is the master: -emotion is the handmaid. Or, to put it in another way, our best average -work at present is being done in clear, nervous prose, while poetry is -praised and left to starve. Science is a better paymaster than Art, and -nearly all the best average intelligence of the world has turned to the -rising, and from the setting, sun. And Melbourne, I say, Melbourne with -her perception of movement, progress, conscious power, has out-stripped -this Sydney, whose perception of her individual life is so weak that all -she has to point to are her natural advantages, her age, and the meagre -fact that her “business thoroughfares, as well as the shops themselves, -have a far more English appearance than those of the capital of -Victoria.” And yet, undoubtedly, Sydney has—or so it seems to me—a rich -and rare possession of her own, and one which is worth as much as that of -Melbourne, even as emotion is worth as much as intellect, as poetry is -worth as much as prose. And there are, as we know, good judges who would -change the “as much” into “more.” I, however, who have no pretentions -to be a good judge, and am, as an acute English critic of mine so aptly -put it once, only “Whitman and water:” I must still cling to the belief -that perfection is to be found, and only to be found, in the _union_ of -these two qualities—of emotion and intellect, of poetry and prose. Or, as -I said the other day,[7] true science (which is essentially intellectual) -and true faith (which is essentially emotional) are to be, as they must -be, harmonies, eternal harmonies, the “perfect music” and “noble words” -of truth. - -Well now, let us try and find out a little more definitely wherein -these men and women of Sydney, these who have not the metropolitan -look, the metropolitan feeling, show themselves, at any rate to the -disinterested seeker after a really fine civilization, as the equals of -our intellectual men and women of Melbourne. (“Intellectual,” we are -agreed, is here used as meaning that spiritual quality which is opposed -to emotional). First of all, however, let us examine this phrase of ours, -metropolitan look, metropolitan feeling, for fear it should be nothing -but a phrase, a mere catchword, and, as such, worthy only the places -where sawdust is stored. - -Nothing is more certain than that our individual lives form, if not our -faces, the expression of them. Our eyes and all the facial muscles are -at the command of our natural inherited dispositions as modified by the -circumstances of our lives. The average man who spends his days in the -open air in companionship with the inanimate things about him, or in -the settled intercourse of country life, married or single, will have a -quite different look, a quite different _tone_, from the man whose days -are passed in the brisk interchange of words and thoughts of the life -of the city. And how much will this difference be accentuated by the -fact that the city is a seat of large and intense ideas, that the very -air is impregnated with the passionate thoughts, words, and acts of the -whole civilized world! It is in such men that we find the metropolitan -look, the metropolitan feeling. Their faces seem stripped of all useless -flesh like the body of an athlete: their eyes are quick and clear, ready -servants of the quick clear brain behind them. This is what we call the -average intelligent man, the labourer of the past, the partner of the -present, the master of the future! Put this man, however, into a state -of stress, intellectual or emotional, in his business or in his private -life, and that fine nervous face of his will become lean and rigid, those -quick clear eyes hard and naked. And, just as it is the pleasure of -our civilization to see this man in the first stage, so is it the pain -thereof to see him, alas too often, in the second. These are the most -dread spectres that haunt metropolises: their anguish wrings the heart -with an intensity, with an abidingness that the sight of mere misery -brutal and degraded does not and cannot inspire us. London and New York -swarm with such, and our miniature Australian intellectual capital, too, -knows them only too well. They press the stamp of their struggle into the -very brow of their city. It is they who bring home to us the lean and -rigid, the hard and naked side of the best life of their city. While it -is to their successful brothers that we owe what of us is phenomenal, it -is to them, the unsuccessful, that we owe what of us is premature. They -are the men who have formulated that exceeding bitter cry of “_Cruel -London_.” Yes, London is cruel in this sense of the word, and so, to -a less degree (In a hundred years shall we be able to say this?) is -Melbourne. I do not think anyone would call Sydney cruel. - -“Well,” retorts the metropolitan, “perhaps not; but, on the other hand, -the provincial look, the dull look of intellectual death, is far more -common with such towns than with us. For me, I would sooner have heaven -with hell than purgatory by itself.—Pah,” he says, “Sydney is the city of -smells and shopkeepers!” And I for my part, with all my admiration for -the intellect of the average intelligent metropolitan in general and the -Melbourne metropolitan in particular, should not think of contradicting -him here. My only wish here is, as I have said, to find out wherein -these people whom he calls, with such fine scorn, “provincials” and -“shopkeepers,” show themselves his equals, and whether they _do_ show -themselves his equals, or that I shall stand convicted of a delusion on -the subject. - -I believe much in first impressions (good ones, that is) provided only -that we bring, what I have called, a second and third look to bear on -the thing which has impressed us. And since I am graceless enough to -speak of my own little private beliefs, let me add that I often find -some difficulty in making my last impressions as good as my first, which -is provoking to anyone who has a dread and dislike of “impressionists” -and an attraction and affection towards “students.” Hence I find myself -quite ready, when in the latter humour, to call my first impressions -shallow and careless, and when in the former, to call my last impressions -dead-dark and pedantic, so that Mr. Marcus Clarke delights me not nor -(some laborious scholar of the Australasian future) neither, and all -is vanity and vexation of spirit! Let me, however, on this occasion -retail my first impressions with a trustful pen, for, as they were -unselfconscious and therefore unconnected with any theory on the subject -in hand, I believe they are really the best offering I have to make on -its altar. - -The first thing, then, that struck me on walking about Sydney one -afternoon, looking at the place and the people, was the appalling -strength of the British civilization. In Melbourne, for reasons spoken -of elsewhere, this fact is not so striking. Melbourne, I have said, has -something of London, Paris, New York, and of its own. The prevailing -characteristic of Sydney is its Britishness—the happy hunting grounds -of the British architect with his “impotence to express anything,” the -intense and gratifying and delightful loyalty of the nomenclature of the -streets, and the rest. Everywhere are the thumb marks and the great toe -marks of the six-fingered six-toed giant, Mr. Arnold’s life-long foe, the -British Philistine! I call this strength appalling; for observe that this -is a country lying in a band of some five or six degrees south of the -tropic of Capricorn, whereas England is a country lying in a band of some -twenty-five or six degrees north of the corresponding tropic of Cancer, -and yet here are the two peoples living lives almost identic! Rome -changed her Jupiter into Ammon when the Tiber flowed into the Nile: Woden -and the God of the Christians blended into one another; but the Jehovah -(or shall we say the Moloch?) of Puritanism, of Calvinism, is the same -in Sydney as in London, in Melbourne as in Edinburgh! There is nothing -like it, save in the history of that wonderful people which produced this -God that is “a jealous God.” And further. These people in Sydney have -clung, not only to the faith but to the very raiment of their giant. The -same gloomy dresses, cumbrous on the women, hideous on the men, that we -see in England! Now in Melbourne, where those dear “old-country” days, -wherein spring, summer, autumn, and winter alternate with a fifth -season excruciatingly peculiar to the place itself, are not infrequent; -in Melbourne, I say, an attachment to the very tricks of one of the -worst climates in the world might not be so unnatural; but in Sydney -such an attachment becomes positively monstrous. The same food, the same -overeating and overdrinking, and (observe how careful we are) at the same -hours! If there is one thing, I believe, that the people of Sydney really -grudge to Melbourne, it is her factories. If they could only make the -atmosphere of Sydney (they do their best, however, with their steamers -for the harbour) as supremely filthy as that of London, Birmingham, -Manchester, Glasgow, the people, the intensely loyal people of Sydney, -would be happy. As it is, they have reluctantly to concede a point in -favour of, what the newspapers call, “her younger rival.” And yet how can -I say this in the face of their eminently successful pollution of their -harbour and their very streets with their drainage? - -It is no wonder, then, we see, that, unlike Melbourne, Sydney’s -perception of her individual life is weak, miserably weak, all but -imperceptible. She has to point to her natural advantages and her age. -Now it is very nice to have a fine harbour, and Mr. Trollope is in his -grave and we may safely say that he had a profuse literary talent, like -many writers who lived before and many who will live after him; but the -chief point of interest in the harbour, at any rate to your disinterested -enquirer into the present and future social state of the owners, is, -_what effect does it, and the climate generally, have upon them?_ not -whether Mr. Trollope or anyone else “despairs of being able to convey to -any reader his own idea of the beauty” of either. Now we all know what -effect the “sabbath rest” has on the Middle class and People of England, -and we all know how zealously all those “pious and simple-minded” people -who, as Dr. Moorhouse puts it so well, live “entrenched in the old -fortifications of unintelligent orthodoxy,” are striving that that effect -should not be in any way lessened—striving, not only in London but in -Melbourne, and, so far, with considerable success in both. But here in -Sydney, where, at first sight, one would least expect it, they are more -liberal in these matters: their public institutions, Museums, Picture -Gallery, and so on, are thrown open to the public on sundays.[8] No -neighbouring town, so far as I know, partakes in the virtuous hatred of -Geelong to sunday boats. The harbour is plied by a large number of small -steamboats. The Middle-class and the People, thanks to the short hours -of work (hence in large part Australia’s excellence in sports) and the -saturday half-holiday, can disport themselves on its banks or where they -please. “Our harbour,” then, and _our parks_ too, are of more real use -than merely, as they say, to blow about; and so far, so good. Pleasure, -that light fair Pleasure which should find its natural home in every fine -climate, is undoubtedly drawing breath in the Sydney air. Mr. Marcus -Clarke’s acuteness of perception did not deceive him when he followed up -this pallid plant into the full-grown tree with its flower and fruit of -fashion and luxury. Yes, climate will ultimately work a transformation -upon even the six-fingered six-toed giant. Moloch’s fire will cease to -burn and brand: Jehovah’s jealousy will lose its harshness, and the sweet -bright love of the White Christ will brood over and temper the hearts -of this people to beauty and melody. Meantime, down there in Melbourne, -Pleasure when it opens its mouth to breathe, will also open it to bite: -the taint of cruelty will be upon it as it is upon all things purely -intellectual, all things in which emotion has no part. “Melbourne,” the -wise man of Sydney will say then, “Melbourne is the city of stew-pans -and stockbrokers. They know how to make money, but not how to spend it. -If they have pleasure, it borders on pain as lust does on love. All the -beauty they know is the beauty of light; heat is a stranger to them. -Their music lacks the minor keys. Years ago their one poet, Gordon, ran -away from the city, and took refuge in the bush: if he were alive now, he -would come to Sydney. No poet, no painter, no musician will be brought -forth out of Melbourne.—You will make fine logicians, you Melbournians, -and it does a man’s heart good to think of your cog-wheels; but believe -me that you know no more of life than that it is an existence, or -of death than that it is the stopping of a mouse-wheel.” Thus our -problematical “provincial,” returning fine pity for the fine scorn of our -problematical “metropolitan.” Or, to drop the symbolism, thus my first -impressions of the actual or inherent melody and beauty of the Sydney -life, as evolved from my last impressions of the leanness and rigidness, -the hardness and nakedness that is to be found so easily in life in -Melbourne. - -More than once that afternoon did this melody of beauty come back to me -wandering, like a sweet far-off chime. It is years since I heard that -chime, the chime of Pleasure light and fair, breathing around me—years -ago, in its imperial haunt of Paris. Other chimes have their several -melodies and beauties, melodies and beauties perhaps above compare with -this one, but this one is pre-eminent for sweetness, and sweetness is a -rich and rare offering to the soul. The afternoon was not a fine one, and -I had just been spending two months in peerless weather by the Riverina. -I had, then, no meteorological “pathetic fallacy,” as Mr. Ruskin says, -to help me to a thoughtless faith in the actual or inherent melody of -Sydney. On the contrary, the rain rained, and the wind blew, and the -bursts of sunshine were few and far between, so that the Genius of the -place had to speak out if he wished to be heard. And, as we have noticed, -he did speak out, and was heard, and was, and is, approved of. - -Pass now from the outer public world into the inner: pass from -the parks and streets into the Picture Gallery, and think of a -similar passage in Melbourne. It is quite useless to murmur here, -“_Melbourne_—_movement_—_progress_—_conscious power_;” the words only -pass into a dry tuneless jingle, like Gordon at his worst, wherein -nothing can be heard but, “_Leanness and rigidness_—_hardness and -nakedness_.” We see the throng of the virtuous wives of the Bourke Street -tradespeople and of “our wealthy lower orders” moving about in that badly -constructed room, with its badly chosen and badly hung pictures. We think -of the low, low ebb at which the intellect of the metropolis has left -its sense of melody and beauty. We wonder what Adelaide Ironsides, whom -Mr. Brunton Stephens has told us of in some charming verses,[9] would -have made of that people, of that city, whose capacity to foster poetic -instinct was “gauged” with such grimness by Mr. Clarke.[10] And then -we turn to this room, this people, and this city, and the fatuity of -their intense loyalty seems a venial offence beside the arid barrenness -of their intellectual neighbours. Such a construction (and, alas, not a -merely temporary but a quite everlasting one) as the Melbourne Picture -and Sculpture Galleries, such a choice, such an arrangement of pictures -and statues, would not satisfy these men and women of Sydney, as it -does the virtuous wives of the Bourke Street tradespeople and of “our -wealthy lower orders.” I do not say that the _Morning Herald_ would -burst out into correspondence on the subject, nor yet that that company -of eminent men who legislate for an ungrateful country would speak with -scorn or pity of these things. The chime of melody and beauty here is, -if sweet, far off. Pleasure light and fair is as yet but drawing breath. -The outer public life and the inner are but feeling their way to a -perception of an individuality, to an individuality that seeks after -that form of happiness whose chief expression is in melody and beauty. -But in Melbourne there is nothing, or scarcely anything, of this. If -no one would think of calling Sydney cruel, neither would anyone think -of calling Melbourne sweet. The average intelligent man in Melbourne -worships at the master-shrine alone: Intellect is his god, Intellect with -its speech of clear nervous prose and its poetry of vigorous, if rather -meretricious metres and “galloping rymes.” He has no, or very little, -care for Art as Art: that is an affair for women, and, as the only -organised female public opinion is that of the virtuous tradeswoman and -the wife of the wealthy lower orders, spiritual leanness and rigidness, -hardness and nakedness are the popular product of the day. - -Now there is, I will venture to say, not one social phenomenon, good or -evil, in Victoria and New South Wales that cannot be traced to these -their spiritual conditions which I have been trying to express. Let us -take, what I have called, the three vital questions of the day—Free -Trade—Federalism—Higher Education. New South Wales is in favour of Free -Trade. Her perception of her individual life is weak: she clings to the -past, she considers the present. Whereas Victoria—Victoria with her swarm -of intelligent labourers and men of business—strong in her reliance on -her intellect, resolutely turns to the future from which she thinks she -will be able to carve out all her desires. Like America, she wants no -help from without, she will brook no interference. She will not let her -mineral products lie idle as New South Wales does. She is impatient of -the true British characteristic, the slow patient evolution of things, the - - “broadening down - From precedent to precedent.” - -She believes in the modern scientific spirit, and in none other. “Let -us, then,” she says, in her heart, “let us, then, by all means, move -towards Federalism. Union is strength.” But the eager grasping nature of -her swarm of intelligent labourers will not let her see that the wisdom -of her penny tariffs is but the foolishness of the pounds to come. New -South Wales, on the other hand, is adverse to Federalism. She does not -understand this modern scientific spirit—she dreads it, is jealous of it, -and admires it! It is so self-reliant, so self-confident! And she, poor -thing, is too much under the sway of the ancient historical spirit to -perceive that there is also a modern historical spirit, and that it is -good and at her doors. Hence her changeableness, hence her irresolution -in the matter. Like her clever unscrupulous politician, Sir Henry Parkes, -yesterday she wanted Federalism, to-day she does not: she will not be -dragged at the chariot wheels of this dreadful modern scientific spirit -which she does not understand, with Victoria shouting and cracking a -stockwhip to urge on the horses faster and faster. Is she not the “Queen -of the Pacific?” did not Governor Philip tell her she would be “the -centre of the southern hemisphere—the brightest gem of the Southern -Ocean?” and who shall say he counted her chickens before they were -hatched? - -To the disinterested seeker, then, after a really fine civilization, -it is hard to say which is the more painful sight—Victoria, with her -resolute pursuit of a purely intellectual future, which must end in -arid barrenness, or New South Wales with her fatuous attachment to -the monstrous aspect of the past and present. Which, after all, is the -better or the worse, illusion or delusion? Is Victoria never going to -perceive that logicians and engineers are not the highest product of -civilization? Will New South Wales never shake off the British architect, -spiritual and material, and begin to evolve an individual life of her -own? Is Mr. Marcus Clarke right when he tells us that “in another hundred -years the average Australasian will be a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, -greedy, pushing, talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship. -His religion will be a form of Presbyterianism, his national policy a -democracy tempered by the rate of exchange. His wife will be a thin, -narrow woman, very fond of dress and idleness, caring little for her -children, but without sufficient brain-power to sin with zest.” Yes, this -is indeed the future of the two tendencies, which are represented by -the illuded progress of Victorian, the deluded stagnation of New South -Wales. “_The virtuous tradeswoman and the wife of the wealthy lower -orders, walking in the happy hunting-grounds of the British architect!_” -What a picture! It is a satisfaction to think that, if it is to be, we -shall never live to see it. But the question arises, “Is _it to be_?” -Has not this acute perceiver of ours been once more writing down one -aspect of the thing as _the_ aspect, without staying for a second or -third look at the thing itself? is not this a clever view of a part, -but a fantastic view of the whole? has not Mr. Clarke, in a word, been -leaving us this appalling picture of our future in much the same spirit -as the world-wounded Hamlet left his cruel dowry to Ophelia? This, we -are agreed, was indeed the future of the two tendencies, which are -represented by the illuded progress of Victoria, the deluded stagnation -of New South Wales; but we should add—_only if they are left to -themselves_. - -_Only if they are left to themselves_; and it is our hope, our trust that -they will not be. We hope, we believe, that these two countries will -learn from one another, each the lesson which the other will be competent -to teach: that Victoria will awake to the vital importance of giving her -Upper Class a Higher Education to correspond to the Elementary Education -that she is giving her Lower Class, and that this Higher Education may -be one filled with what we have called the modern historical spirit, -with culture, with literary Culture: that New South Wales, leading and -instructing Victoria here, having first learned from her example to -have the courage to evolve an individual life of her own, will in her -turn imbibe the modern scientific spirit, will imbibe what I may call -scientific Culture; and thus we shall be brought on to the day in which -the people of Victoria and New South Wales shall, from their superficial -differences, be united by common qualities better than those of -fretfulness, cleverness, perverseness, irritability: For in this people -lies the possibility of a really fine civilization, in the marriage in -them of emotion and intellect, of poetry and prose. - - “Is the goal so far away? - Far, how far no tongue can say. - _Let us dream our dream to-day._” - -One last word on the last of the three vital questions of the day—Higher -Education. When, on 1st April, Mr. Patterson, who presides over the -Victorian Education Department, went down to Malmsbury to lay a -foundation-stone for the Wesleyan denomination, and favoured us with -his views on this question, or rather on the education system as it -at present stands in Victoria, we had a hope (a faint hope) that he -would do something more than sing the praises of the denominational -schools in general, and the state schools (“those majestic monuments to -enlightenment,” as he says in his profuse political way, “that adorn -and bless even the remotest portions of this colony”)—the state schools -in particular. Our hope was destined to disappointment. Mr. Patterson -had something to say about “the only legitimate checks on the abuse -of political power when conferred upon the masses,” and about “the -unscrupulousness, as well as the boldness beyond reason” of that man who -“would deny that the rising Australians, for sobriety and unassuming -intelligence, would compare favourably with the old stock,” so that he -“was bound to record his conviction that the future of Australia would -be quite safe in the hands of the Australians.” He had also ready a -defence of the secular character of the teaching in the state schools, -and some nice little left-handed compliments for our good Wesleyans, _et -hoc genus omne_, but not a word, and apparently not a thought, for the -legitimate checks on “the abuses of _educational_ power when conferred” -on a middle-class as unprepared for rule as the worst education in the -world can make it. “The Australian public,” he says, “desires, above -all things, to ensure good citizenship.” The Australian public cares -little that, in the state schools which it has founded for that especial -purpose, dead dry intellectual knowledge is rampant—“that asinine feast -of sow-thistles and brambles,” as Milton disgustedly puts it, “which is -commonly set before our youth as all the food and entertainment of their -tenderest and most docile age”—“inanimate mechanical gerund-grinding,” -as Carlyle equally disgustedly called it—gerund-grinding and spiritual -cockatoo screeching. Nor yet does it care that, in the denominational -schools in which its own children are being brought up, the only -supplement to the dead dry educational knowledge of the gerund and the -cockatoo, is the merest flimsy smattering of Science caricatured and -Literature misunderstood. Let us not, however, despair because our -sucking colonial statesmen cannot see more than a few educational inches -in front of their noses. Have we not got Dr. Moorhouse, our good Bishop -of Melbourne, with us, “a mighty man with broad and sinewy hands?” And -does he not, on every available opportunity, batter against the brazen -walls of the gerund and the cockatoo, and bid them leave off grinding -and screeching, and listen to reason? And here, too, is our good Roman -Catholic Bishop of Sydney, Dr. Moran (whom we are all so sorry to think -of losing), expressing his “fears that the atmosphere of the public -schools is too chilly for a great many of our youth?” Perhaps one of -these mornings the Victorian public will wake up, tired of listening to -the chatter of the religious and secular dogmatists gathered together -like eagles over the carcase of “Religion without Superstition,” and -there may arise a curiosity and a care for Higher Education and High -Schools; and we will hope, then, that no one will be foolish enough to -say that they have been a very doubtful success in New South Wales and in -Sydney—in Sydney, the home-elect of the six-fingered and six-toed giant -of British Philistinism! And, perhaps, some day poor little Culture, -putting off the cumbrous armour with which the gerund and the cockatoo -want to load him, taking his sling in his hand and a few smooth stones -from the brook, may smite great Goliath in the forehead, and cut off his -head, and there be a signal rout of all the Philistines, even unto Gath -and Gaza and the utmost borders of the land. - - _May, 1885._ - -[NOTE.—I am tempted to republish here a letter, which I sent lately -to the _Sydney Morning Herald_ wherein one aspect of the secondary -education question was (more or less unconsciously) being discussed. -No one, so far as I am aware, thought the letter worth serious -consideration: at any rate no one thought it worth replying to, perhaps -the reasons for its insertion were simply those which the “able Editor” -assigned to me for the insertion of all his correspondence, namely that -it be not either too illiterate or too offensive for publication. Well, -I am sure that for my own part I am grateful for even so much toleration -as this, and shall strive, as becomes my humble position in this great -Australian press, to continue to deserve it.] - - A RUGBY FOR NEW SOUTH WALES. - - (_To the Editor of the Herald._) - - SIR,—In your issue of Saturday, May 9th, Mr. Edwin Bean, of All - Saints’ College, Bathurst, brought under serious consideration - the suggestion made by your correspondent “A. N.,” as regards - what he called “A Rugby for New South Wales.” Anything that - a schoolmaster of Mr. Bean’s talent and experience has to - say must be interesting to those of us (alas, too few!) to - whom the question of secondary education, whether in England - or Australia, is a care. He will understand, then, that when - I pass over, almost without notice, his criticisms on the - individual aspects of the “reproduction” here “of that which is - certainly best,” as he says, “in the English Public schools, - viz., what is called the Public school spirit”—that the only - reason of my doing so is the fear of encroaching too much on - your “valuable space.” For, interesting as these criticisms - are, the interest which lies in what I take to be the two - real points at question here is, I must think, greater: these - two points being (_1_), _the growing sense in all competent - judges of discontent with the present condition of middle-class - secondary education in Australia_; (_2_), _the means of - ameliorating this condition_. - - As regards the first point, I must here almost take it for - granted, in the face of the fact that, so far as I am aware, - there is not a single colonial politician who seems to realise - that if the education of the People, the rulers of the future, - is of vital importance to us all, the education of the Middle-, - or, as we should say now, the Upper-class, the rulers of the - present, is of importance at least quite as vital. The mass - of intelligent men here, then, or, as we are wont to say, the - intelligent public, naturally enough, holds the same opinion - about upper-class secondary education that their political - representatives do. “It is all right,” they say. “What are you - grumbling at in these ‘private adventure schools,’ as you - call them? They do well enough, we think, for us upper-class - people; and if you want your son to have a really first-rate - education, why, are there not plenty of fine Denominational - schools about—the King’s School, Newington, and so on, and our - splendid Grammar-school?” The only answer to “prophesyings” of - this sort is, that the Upper-class, as a class, are, whatever - they may think themselves, simply abominably educated; their - education is, even when judged by its own miserable standard, - superficial, incoherent, impalpable; and the sole necessary - proof of this is, that a good three-quarters of the knowledge - acquired by an average boy at an average private adventure - school is of no subsequent use whatever to him, either in the - culture of himself or in the prosecution of his business or - trade. As for the best Denominational schools where a secondary - education is to be obtained, if inadequate, at any rate much - superior to that of the private adventure schools, these are - out of the reach of the pockets of the average upper-class - people, who, even if they appreciate this misfortune (which, as - a rule, they do not), are unable to remedy it. - - Here, then, as it seems to me, lies the difficulty; and we - have now to look at the solution which the apparent tendency - of things is proffering to us. “If ‘A. N.,’” says Mr. Bean, - “had resided in Victoria, he would have learnt that the Public - schools (as they are there called) of Geelong and Melbourne - are already taking something of the position, and aspiring to - fulfil the functions, of the English public schools.... And,” - he goes on, “at Paramatta, Stanmore, Bathurst, Bowenfels, and - elsewhere, there are already boarding-schools, not private, but - belonging to Denominational corporations, which, if fostered - by private assistance, will eventually grow into something - resembling the Public schools of England.” Mr. Bean is, of - course, right. If things progress in the way in which they - are now progressing, if our colonial statesmen turn all their - attention, and as much of ours as we will give them, _to_ the - education of the People, and _from_ that of the Upper-class, - then, I say, more and more will the Upper-class be thrown into - the hands of schools which are mere private speculations, - which are really under no control but that of personal caprice - (and the personal caprice, great heavens! of what a stamp of - intellectual and spiritual man), which, accordingly, provide - an education, even when judged by its own miserable standard, - superficial, incoherent, impalpable. And these other schools, - I say, the best Denominational and Corporation schools, the - Australian Public schools of the future, will become more and - more the educational monopoly of the professional and wealthy - portion of the Upper-class, just as in England they have become - that of the aristocracy and these portions of the Middle-class. - These “_great schools_,” exclaims Mr. Bean justly of the - English Public schools—“_which have done so much to form the - character of the English gentleman_.” Of the English gentleman? - Yes, and alas! of the English middle-class man, that terrible - and pathetic being whom Mr. Arnold has taught us to know as - the British Philistine. “I declare,” says General Gordon, the - hero-elect of this very class, “I declare I think there is more - happiness among these miserable (Soudan) blacks, who have not a - meal from day to day, than among our middle-classes. The blacks - are glad of a little handful of maize, and live in the greatest - discomfort. They have not a strip to cover them; but you do not - see them grunting and groaning all day long as we see scores - and scores in England, with their wretched dinner-parties and - attempts at gaiety where all is hollow and miserable.” - - What a future for the Upper-class, the by far largest class - of Australia! What an appalling solution to an educational - difficulty is this:—_A small class made up of our squatters, - professional men, and wealthy tradesmen, forming a sort of - intellectual and spiritual aristocracy; our Upper-class not - only itself intellectually and spiritually dull and debased, - but debasing and dulling all the better spirits which, in - their social ascension, pass into it from the ranks of the - People._ The thought of such a future to those of us to whom - the progress onward and upward, whether of England or of - Australia, is a care, is appalling, heartrending, unendurable! - There is nothing that we could do, by the devotion of our - powers, energies, and means, that we should not, would not, - do to prevent it. And we should be, and are, encouraged in - our struggle against it by the reflection that the real deep - true spirit of the time is against all monopoly, practical and - physical, intellectual and spiritual—that once the Upper-class, - and after them the People, is aroused to the realisation of - the fact that there is a danger here of the formation of a new - aristocracy, an aristocracy which, with all its charm (let us - suppose) of social manners and of intellectual and spiritual - culture (and this is supposing a very great deal), means - nothing less than the materialisation, the dulling and the - debasing, of everything beneath it—when the Upper-class and the - People, I say, are aroused to the realisation of this, we may - be sure that they will not rest till they have prevented it. - - And how, it is asked, is such a future to be prevented? how - such a present to be ameliorated? By the formation, not of - Denominational and Corporation schools at a charge which places - them out of the reach of all save the richer among us, but by - the formation of Public State schools that provide a secondary - education as good, and, we will hope, better, than that of - these others, and at a charge that is within the reach of the - average upper-class people. “Yes, but,” at once is answered, - “such schools already exist in the High schools, and they have - not been a success.” I will not here contest, although I well - might, the first assertion; but I cannot, if I would, contest - the second. I began by noticing the cause of it, this general - satisfaction of “the intelligent public” with the educational - pabulum provided for its offspring. I deplore it; I hope for - the day of its removal to the gulf of oblivion. In the meantime - all that can be done is to strive to assist this “consummation - devoutly to be desired” earnestly and perpetually. - - One word more. No one is more in sympathy (if I may be pardoned - for speaking of such an unimportant entity) than _I_ am, with - the efforts of such men as “A. N.” and Mr. Edwin Bean to - reproduce, or try to reproduce, in Australia as far as may be, - “that which is certainly best in the English Public schools, - viz., what is called the Public school spirit.” I have not the - least prejudice against English Public schools, at one of the - oldest and most conservative of which I was myself educated, - and from which I almost entirely derived the circle of my - most valued friends; nor yet against the Denominational and - Corporation schools here. I have only to remark to Mr. Bean, - what I am sure he will at once admit, that if the danger of - State schools is the excessive interference of the State, - the danger—nay, the absolute abuse—of endowed Public schools - is that they become mere feeders of the universities; and in - England to such an appalling extent was this the case that - the State absolutely had to alter and narrow its Indian Civil - Service examinations in order to bring them within reach of the - Public schools, which were being quite left out in the cold! - Doubtless, then, the Australian endowed Public schools would - have their danger too, a danger which “even no less a thinker - than Herbert Spencer,” as Mr. Bean says, has not perhaps, in - the application to artificial civilization of the laws of the - natural “struggle for existence and survival of the fittest,” - quite comprehended. - - With all apologies to you for the amount of your “valuable - space” on which I have encroached in even this far too - perfunctory consideration of the matter in hand, - - I am, etc., - -There is no one whose opinion on this question of secondary education is -more worthy of our attention than that of Mr. Matthew Arnold. Our debt -of gratitude to him for the general advancement of the Idea of Culture, -not only at home, but everywhere where our language is spoken, is so -great that we have begun to accept it almost as an impersonal fact. The -work which he did long ago, and has never ceased to recapitulate, for -the cause of middle-class secondary education, can only be appreciated -by those whose attention has been turned to it more especially. This, -I hope, will hold me excused to him for quoting here from a letter of -his to me, some expressions of his, and the more so as they seem to -show something like a modification of the view he has so far publicly -enunciated. “I think,” he says, “I see signs that the education question -is likely to present itself at no distant date in this wise: ‘Shall -the majority give public money for any education except the education -necessary for every citizen?’ The education necessary for every citizen -will be somewhat extended in scope, but no account will be taken of the -higher culture hitherto deemed necessary for a leisured and governing -class, and to which so great a mass of endowment has been made to -contribute. On the Continent of Europe a great change will be produced -if this new view prevails, for the endowments have in general been -seized by the State, and the State has directly subsidised secondary and -superior instruction. In England it has not, but the endowments which -these instructions enjoyed have been left to them. Probably they will -not be taken away, but further public aid will hardly be given. Nor do -I think it will be given in the Colonies; and as there the endowment of -secondary and superior instruction is inconsiderable, these instructions -will be, as they are now, at a great disadvantage. The wealthiest people -will send their sons to be educated in England; private schools will, of -course, exist locally, but I do not think they will have influence enough -to create a class and a power out of those they train. Society will -thus be, on the whole, much more homogeneous than with the old nations -of Europe; but, as in the United States, this condition of things will -have its own dangers and drawbacks. The best way to meet them is for -individuals to keep up a love of genuine culture in themselves, and so to -create an even larger force in the nation to favour it.” Of the truth, -or very probable truth, of the educational future here drawn out, there -can, alas, be little question. M. Renan, whose work for France can well -be paralleled with that of Mr. Arnold for us, takes an even gloomier -view. We may count ourselves lucky, he says, if Democracy will consent, -not to encourage, but to tolerate independent study. Democracy, he says, -again, is the advent of universal mediocrity, of that most terrible of -mediocrities, the aggressive. “Great qualities,” cried Empedocles, facing -the same problem as we do, - - “Great qualities are trodden down, - and littleness united - is become invincible.” - -If this, then, is to be the case in Europe, what will it be in America, -and still more in Australia? Aristocracies may not be ideal, but they -have their use: they establish a certain high tone of social intercourse -which is certainly valuable as one element in a really fine civilization; -and, when they have passed away, it still lives as a tacit influence. -France to-day, for instance, is a republic, but her outward manners, -despite all that has happened, bear something of the mark of the Grand -Siècle. England, again, is swinging away with heavy speed from her -old ideal of Puritanism, and yet, as Mr. Arnold says so well, “the -seriousness, solemness, and devout energy of Puritanism are a prize once -won, never to be lost; they are a possession to our race for ever.” -But America? but Australia? America is not leavened by Puritanism as -England is, neither has she any hereditary tone of social intercourse -to be compared with that of England, not to say of France. America must -settle her own problem for herself, despite all the outer influence which -is brought to bear on her: two hundred miles out from the Amazon mouth -the water is still fresh, but it is salt at last. But consider this -Australia where the Puritanism only began to operate when its sincerity -was souring into cant, where the tone of social intercourse flourishes -in the hands of those who attain to it as the imitation of an imitation! -What can be so disastrous for Australia as the thrusting into power of -a class of this sort, to be followed by a class which is to the first -as the first is to its prototype in England? How this future presents -itself has already been considered here. Mr. Marcus Clarke’s picture -of it stands like a perpetual nightmare. What hope, then, remains to -us except in that very “higher culture hitherto deemed necessary for -a leisured and governing class,” which Mr. Arnold tells us our local -private schools will not have influence enough to create as “a class and -a power?” Is the only aristocracy possible to us to be, not a broad one -like that of Athens, but a narrow one like that of Rome? We all know the -picture Juvenal has painted of the decadence of this last, and Johnson’s -application of it to the London of his time is not a memory altogether -pleasant. “The lustre of a capital,” says M. Renan, with his eye on -that of his own country, “springs from a vast provincial dung-heap, -where millions of men lead an obscure life, in order to bring forth some -brilliant butterflies which come to burn themselves in the light.” And -if for capital we substitute plutocracy, and for butterflies creatures -of a nature less savoury, we see something like the sort of future with -which we are threatened here. Political life at present in Europe can -scarcely be called noble, but here in Australia it is positively so base -that there is a danger of its becoming the monopoly of men whose verbose -incompetence is only equalled by their jovial corruption. The Plutocracy, -such as it is, is being thrown in upon itself. Its present generation, -it is true, is content to work—and, indeed, can find its only happiness -in work; but this will not be so with the next, and still less with -the third, generation. The desire to enjoy will grow into a lust, and -this lust will spread. The end of this we know, and there will not lack -writers to look back upon the present, even as so many of us look forward -to the future, with a sort of eager envy. Well, and what is to be done to -prevent this, if it is to be prevented? To cease from trying to obtain a -secondary education for the Upper-class? to obtain Australian Rugbies, -not only for the Plutocracy, but for the Upper-class, and for any one of -the People that has the care to climb up to them and the best education -which his age and country can afford him? to create a class and power -that shall, in their turn, create a really fine civilization?—are we to -cease from all direct struggle for this, and meet the present crisis by -simply trying “to keep up the love of genuine culture in ourselves, and -so to create an ever larger force in the nation to favour it?” I cannot -believe that this is so; I cannot even believe that, good way as it is, -it is “the best way.” We have all been reading lately what Mr. Arnold had -to say in favour of this indirect method, this creation of a Remnant that -should at last become a power, and I am sure I should be the last person -to say a word against it. All I have to say is, that I have too much -belief in the power of institutions (a power “the benefits of which,” Mr. -Arnold has just been telling us, “he had not properly appreciated” before -his trip to America) to neglect anything that could bring them to the -side of Culture. I appreciate the indirect method, and I believe that, -in the long run, it is the method which gives permanent solidity, but I -cannot blind myself to the immense importance of the direct method. If -it is necessary to conduct a river into a city, the pipes must first be -made, and care taken that they are not too small. The French Revolution -was a violent attempt and a premature one, and yet, such as it was, it -brought a greater volume of happiness into France than the abortive -attempt that we made in England. _We_ have still to face the problem of -the happiness of the few and the debasement of the many, and I cannot see -that it is an easier problem to resolve than that which is presenting -itself to the French just at present. I still, then, must continue to -believe that it is not wise in England, and how much more in America, -and how much more in Australia, to refrain from the direct struggle for -a higher education for our Upper-class. Our aim is not for the few but -for the many, and not for elementary Culture for the many, but for the -possibilities of a really fine Culture. We have, too, our distrust of -Remnants. We dread their tendency to take to lotus-eating. They are apt -to care so little for the propagation of either their species or their -Culture. - - “Let us alone! What pleasure can we have - to war with evil? Is there any peace - in ever climbing up the climbing wave?” - -It is with difficulty, with great and perpetual difficulty, that a Goethe -can keep his duty to his art and his duty to his neighbour at the perfect -poise. It is so hard to keep your duty to yourself from running into your -duty to your selfishness. Light, and the love of light, and the love -of bringing light to others, is after all impossible without a certain -admixture of heat. Let us, then, still continue to nourish our enthusiasm -for a direct purpose, which shall be the future to that great mass of -average human beings who are thoughtlessly moulded by whatever they find -is strong enough to mould them. Let us be jealous of individuals. “_Non -Angli, sed angeli._” - - “_Leave not a human soul_ - _to grow old in darkness and pain!_” - - _October, 1885._ - -[Illustration] - - - - -CULTURE. - - -Everyone nowadays has something to say about Culture. Even the -politicians have heard of it, and some morning we may read in our -newspapers that one of them is of opinion that there is some meaning in -the term. Naturally enough we have all of us for some time been groping -after the thing itself. The Time-Spirit is like a skilful driver of -sheep. He may have considerable trouble with his flock, but, thanks -to his unruffled intelligence and the ceaseless exertions of his dog -Genius, he brings them all in in time for the market. It is now almost a -century since the Idea of Culture took definite shape in the mind of a -single man, and ever since then the number of its followers has kept on -increasing, until at last everyone, as I remarked, has now something to -say about it. If, however, one enquires of people, not what they _think_ -of Culture, (For everyone from the Vatican Œcumenical Council[11] to -the author of “In Memoriam”[12] is agreed as to the advantage of it), -but what culture _is_, one may go far for a satisfactory answer. Women -are growing dissatisfied with the sphere of their work. What is it that -they need? “More breadth of culture,” answers the Prince of Tennyson’s -Princess readily enough, “more breadth of culture!” And it will be said -that it is easy to see that what the Prince means is, that women should -have thrown open to them the education that has so far been the monopoly -of men. But is this Culture? is this the whole truth about it?—simply the -giving to the many—to women, to the Middle-class and to the People—what -is the education of the few? would that man in whose mind the Idea of -Culture first took definite shape have been satisfied with the sight -of ubiquitous Harrows and Etons and Grammar Schools of Melbourne and -Geelong? There can be no doubt but that such a sight would have pleased, -but it certainly would not have satisfied him. “Schools,” he would -have said, “are of high importance, but what is taught in them is of -importance still higher.” - -And so we come back again to our question as to what Culture _is_ with a -sense that the ready answers to it are only half answers. Now everyone -has heard of Goethe, and everyone has read some of his writings—“Faust,” -at any rate—and, as it is to Goethe that we owe the Idea of Culture (as -indeed most things that are really good in the sphere of modern thought), -it would be best to at once quote his own words on the matter, and see -if we cannot find a definition, or at any rate a description, of Culture -that shall satisfy us. Poetry, however, does not exactly lend itself to -definitions of such things as this, or even to descriptions. In Faust -himself the idea may be more or less, as they say, incarnated, but we -plain practical people, who like things put as much in black and white -as may be, have some difficulty in these matters, and would far rather -hear of them in simple English prose which means what it says and says -what it means, than in poetry (and particularly German poetry) which -seems to us to do exactly the reverse. Well, then, let us turn away from -this parabolic Goethe for a little, and see if we cannot find someone who -shall be his expounder to us. And who else should this be, at any rate -in this case, than he whom the newspapers like to call the Apostle of -Culture, Mr. Matthew Arnold? Let us go to Mr. Matthew Arnold, and say: -“Sir, you are constantly talking about Culture, and you have said many -uncomplimentary things to us all about our want of it. Now would you be -so kind as to tell us precisely what you _mean_ by it? And we warn you -that we are plain practical people who like things put as much in black -and white as may be, and that we have a decidedly poor opinion of your -efforts to make us believe that ‘the Eternal not ourselves that makes for -righteousness’ is the same thing as our ‘loving and intelligent Governor -of the Universe,’ and that it makes no difference to us when we eat our -Christmas goose and plum-pudding whether we believe that we do so because -those shepherds and those Three Kings _did_ come that day to Christ in -the Bethlehem manger, to the accompaniment of an angelic concert, or did -not. We want, Sir, a definition of this Culture of yours, or, if you -cannot give us that (But, really now, you are so clever at definitions -that we shall be quite disappointed if you cannot!), then you must give -us a good description of it, so that we may be able to arrive at a proper -decision about it.” Then an expression of bland patience would cross -Mr. Arnold’s countenance, as he sat in his study chair, listening with -that “native modesty” of which he has told us all, to the words of our -curious foreman; and, after a short pause, he would perhaps answer: -“Gentlemen, I am much honoured by this deputation and inquiry. Long ago -in some remarks of mine on translating Homer.... But I will refer you to -a more recent period. A new and revised edition of a little book of mine -called ‘Literature and Dogma’ has just been issued in a cheap form by -Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. You will find that in the Preface to it the -following words occur, which I venture to think may, on investigation, -be found to answer the question with which I am now honoured. But, as -you possibly may not remember it, (for I cannot expect you, any more -than myself, to be always studying my works), I will quote it to you. -‘_Culture_,’ I said (Culture in italics)—‘_Culture_, knowing the best -that has been thought and known in the world.’ I can give no better -definition than this. ‘True Culture,’ I say again, ‘true Culture implies -not only knowledge, but right tact and justness of judgment, forming -themselves by and with judgment.’ Or, yet again: ‘Culture is _reading_’ -(Reading in italics), ‘but reading with a purpose to guide it, and with -system.’”—And with this, and a renewal of compliments on both sides, our -jury bows itself out, and presently the sound of the closing hall-door -mounts up to the silent chamber. - - “But an awful pleasure bland - spreading o’er the Poet’s face, - when the sound climbs near his seat, - the encircled library sees; - as he lets his lax right hand - which the lightnings doth embrace - sink upon his mighty knees.” - -This, then, it seems, is Culture—_knowing the best that has been thought -and known in the world—not only knowledge, but right tact and justness of -judgment, forming themselves by and with judgment_—reading, _but reading -with a purpose to guide it, and with system_. And is not this something -like what Goethe meant in that enigmatic sentence of his, which we have -heard so often quoted by people who understood it as much as we did: -“Vom Halben zu entwöhnen; Im Ganzen, Guten, Schönen resolut zu leben.” -“I resolved to wean myself from halves, and to live for the Whole, the -Good, the Beautiful.” But even now, even now that we know what it is (And -after all, we say, what much more is it than saying that we ought to try -for the best article, and not rest content with anything but the best -article?), wherein are we, we plain practical people with our attachment -to black and white, helped to the attainment of it? Culture, we are told, -is reading, but reading with a purpose to guide it and with system. The -purpose, it is presumed, is attainment, but what is the system? We are -to have knowledge, and not only knowledge but right tact and justness of -judgment, forming themselves by and with judgment. All very nice, we say, -but how are we to get them? You say to a man who hobbles, “Run:” he is -quite as capable of saying it as you are. Either show him how to run, or -hold your tongue!—unless it be that he thinks he _is_ running, and even -then it seems useless enough to undeceive him without you can teach him -how to do what he now thinks he is. What, then, is this system of which -you speak? what is the receipt for it? is it a system possible to _us_? - -Well, I really have not the courage to go and face Mr. Arnold again. -Handlers of the lightnings like he is can be so disagreeable when they -please. Where is the joy of figuring in some ludicrous or contemptible -attitude in their writings for the next few hundred years or so? It is -all very well to say that we shall all of us be in our graves presently, -and all equally ignorant of what our descendants may think of us, but the -truth is no one likes to be held up to the nations as a fool or a knave, -and especially if he be both. I see nothing for it but to let the oracle -alone. I for one will have nothing to do with stirring up Phoibos again. -I have done so more than once already, and am too grateful for a whole -hide to tempt the arrows further. We must be our own Oidipous. At most -we can reverently finger the Sibylline leaves, and see if anything of -“pleasant to the eye and good for food” can be extracted therefrom. - -To begin with, however, does it not seem best to say at once that, after -all, there is no receipt for not saying and doing foolish things except -not to be foolish? No system in the world will give wings to a worm. On -the other hand, there is really no reason why the descendants of that -worm should not one day navigate the sky; and, as a matter of fact, they -do. Similarly with the stupidest and the most degraded of us, I cannot -see why a single moment should be lost in attempting to better them. The -earth is likely to be inhabitable for the next eight millions of years -or so, it seems, and I am sure that is long enough for us. We need not -be in such a hurry as the Socialists would have us, nor yet creep along -on all fours in the Conservative manner; but we must not, of course, -undervalue either fashion or progress, since both wheels and a drag are -important parts of a carriage in uneven country. But here again, as is -always the case, we are brought face to face with the question, not only -of the wheels and the drag, not only of the carriage itself, and not only -of even the driver of it, but of the end of the journey. “The purpose,” -we said a moment ago in our ready way, “is, it is presumed, attainment, -but what is the system?—Never mind,” we say, “about where we are going -to: let us hear about the carriage we are going in! Let us have Etons and -Harrows and Melbourne and Geelong Grammar Schools everywhere, and then we -shall be alright. Let us resolve to have the best article, and not rest -content with anything but the best article, and that’s all!” - -Alas, for the impatience of mankind! In order to _try_ for the best -article, not to say to _have_ it, must we not first know what the best -article _is_? should we not know where we are going to, before we -construct our carriage and purchase our horses? And yet, in ninety-nine -cases out of a hundred, are we not content to _go_, and leave more or -less to chance where we are going _to_? do we not waste half our lives in -overcoming difficulties with which we ought to have had nothing to do? -It is so easy to talk and to act: it is so difficult to think, and mould -your words and actions to your thoughts rather than your thoughts to your -words and actions. It is the weary old tale of the more haste and the -less speed, the weary old tale that is for ever new. And yet we will not -listen to it. Sooner than trouble ourselves with the _whys_ of things, -we will throw ourselves with energy into the first _hows_ that present -themselves, and leave the rest to chance, or, as Dr. Moorhouse’s good -“unintelligent orthodox” people say, to God. But nothing real, nothing -lasting, is achieved in this way. Nature does not work in this way: God -does not work in this way. The beasts do and the vast majority of men do, -and that is why, in Hamlet’s words, life is such “an unweeded garden that -grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.” No, -if we are to understand, not only Culture but anything at all, we must -begin at the very beginning: we must learn the _whys_. Take care of the -_whys_, we might say, and the _hows_ will take care of themselves. And -let us not for a moment be deceived by those who tell us that our fathers -got along very well without inquiring into the _whys_, into the causes of -things, and so can we. This is not so. Whatever success has been achieved -has been achieved by a recognition, conscious or unconscious it may be, -of the causes of the thing worked upon. Instead of our fathers having had -any success from their ignorance of causes, or their reliance on good -fortune, they have had success in despite in these, and only so far as -they banished the one and knew how to turn to account the other. - -And Culture? what has this to do with Culture? Everything!—In this, as -in so many other cases, we concentrate all our attention on the _how_ -and leave the _why_ to take care of itself. “More breadth of Culture, -more breadth of Culture,” cry the Princes and the Priests, and everyone -else, in emulous chorus. But when they are asked what they _mean_ by -Culture—what Culture _is_, then they have no answer ready save one (as -Shelley says), - - “pinnacled dim in the intense inane;” - -and this sort of thing will, in the end, satisfy no man. - -Well, we have heard what Culture _is—knowing the best that has been -thought and known in the world_. But we have been brought up sharply at -the very next step: _Culture is reading, but reading with a purpose to -guide it_. What is the purpose? Attainment. Yes, but _how_? _how_ and -_why_? - -But before we try to answer that, let us think a moment whether the -expounder of our parabolic Goethe has given us a definition that is -quite satisfactory. We have nothing to say against his definition of -Culture itself. It expresses Goethe’s “the Whole, the Good and the -Beautiful” perfectly. But what about this second definition? what about -Culture being reading, but reading with a purpose to guide it? Is -this a pure parallel equivalent of the first, or has it something of -a limitation in it? Can we, indeed (supposing us the happy possessors -of a certain purpose and system), achieve a knowledge of the best that -has been thought and known in the world—of the Whole, the Good and the -Beautiful—by reading, and by reading only? is this what Goethe has to -say to us? is this the lesson of Goethe’s life? If it is, why is it that -he lays such stress on the absolute personal experience of things? If -Faust could have achieved Truth in his study, why does Goethe show us -his achievement of it by taking him away from his reading, and flinging -him in the arms, first of Love and then of Life? Faust does not leave -his reading and his thinking behind him: they accompany him everywhere, -from Margarete’s bedroom to the witch-revel on the Brocken. And what does -this mean but that, to achieve a knowledge of the best that the world -has thought and known, two things are necessary—reading and experience; -or, in the same words, thought and knowledge. No amount of reading will -compensate for want of experience. It is useless for me to think I -have attained to Truth, if I have never felt her absolute presence. Is -idealization the essence of true love? Is there a more real inspiration -to be found in the faëry princesses of Shelley, than in the breathing -women of Wordsworth? Idealization is good, but it must have a firm -foundation in reality, or it is barren of anything but fantasticality. So -it is with thought and knowledge. No man who has not himself lived and -loved can tell us the truth of love and life. Gibbon had immense reading, -and a purpose and a system in it (I do not here enter upon their precise -nature), and his history of the Decline and Fall of Rome is in many -respects quite admirable, but he does not attain to truth in it. And why? -Because he has not experience, he has not knowledge. All his reading, all -his purpose, all his system will not compensate for the want of their -corollary. No, Culture, the achieving of the best that has been thought -in the world, is not reading, not reading with any purpose or system that -has been or will ever be devised. Culture is the combination of reading -with experience, of thought with knowledge. The one thing acts as a check -on the other; the one is the spirit and the other the body; the one, -in Shakspere’s words, the “judgment” and the other the “blood,” and in -their “co-mingling” is found the perfect man. The purpose, the system -remain unchanged. We have only, as it seems to me, to develop our second -definition: to say that Culture _is reading and experience, but reading -and experience with a purpose to guide them, and a system_. - -And so, having disposed somewhat of the _why_, we come back to the _how_, -the purpose and the system. In reality the two are one. Mr. Arnold -speaks once of Goethe’s “profound impartiality,” and elsewhere he lays -the greatest stress on that which alone can help criticism “to produce -fruit for the future”—_disinterestedness_. By _disinterestedness_ he -means the sincere endeavour, the pure and simple endeavour, to get at the -truth of things, to see them as they really are. And what is this but -Goethe’s determination to “wean himself from halves,” from partial views -of things? Now nothing is easier than to say that you seek for Truth -and Truth only, and nothing is more difficult to do. Who is there that -does not make this profession? And yet how few, how infinitely few, are -those who turn it into practice! And why is this? The answer of course is -because, say what they may, the pursuit of most men is merely relative. -I no more attain to Truth by saying “Go to, I will attain to it,” than I -should fly over the moon by a like formula. It is only the really honest -and sincere, the really pure and simple endeavour to find Truth that -makes me competent to even set out in search of it, and it is only by -the ceaseless use of a system of resolute patience and clear-sightedness -that I can hope to proceed with any success upon my way. This is indeed a -hard saying; but who, except him who ought to feel it least, feels that -Truth is a goal to be won by rose-crowned processions to the sound of -cymbals and dances? Some people, indeed, have a conviction that a special -exception has been made in their case, and that what has been hidden -from the wise and prudent has been revealed to babes and sucklings; and -I am sure it is a pleasant sight enough to see the way the babes and -sucklings enjoy this idea, and will continue to do so as long as the -milk lasts. (And, indeed, at this very hour when the milk is running -rather low, what a dismal howl the poor little things are setting up, and -how on earth are we ever going to wean them?) No, it is only by utter -and unwearying honesty, by the obstinate determination to admit of no -delusion or illusion, however attractive, however pleasant to our souls, -that we can hope to attain to anything like Truth. How often, when we -think we have found the jewel, must we put it down and remove ourselves, -now to this side, now to that, to be sure that the cutting is indeed -flawless! how much must we give up, and how much must we win, before our -mind is trained to, as it were, of itself, effortlessly, spontaneously, -look at things with that patient clear-sightedness which reaches to their -essence! This, then, is our purpose in Culture, and this our system, and -this is the fruit of it—a habit of thought which shall have _not only -thought and knowledge, but right tact and justness of judgment, forming -themselves by and with judgment_. And so our scheme is complete. - -Now, leave this theoretical consideration of it for a moment, and see -with what result it has been applied to actual things. It has been -applied, it is being applied, everywhere and to almost everything. Take -the domain of Science, where it has, so far, been applied in a manner -which appeals most to most people—practical success, as we call it. There -is no need for me to sing the praises of this practical success. It rises -all round me in choruses and peans and hosannas. What I want to say -about it is, that all this practical success is due solely and entirely -to the fact that its creators have applied that purpose and system of -ours on, it is true, a more virgin soil than most, but also with a more -thoroughness than any. Look at the patience and clear-sightedness that -breathes and shines in every page Darwin wrote! It was well said of him, -that you could be sure no one would state the case against anything he -had to say more fully than he did himself. What a serenity the man had, -what depths of power and peace! It was my privilege to have had for -father one who, to his own depths of serenity, and power, and peace, -added those drawn from his friendship with this great Darwin, and from -an unrivalled appreciation of his work. When I think of that method of -the pursuit of the truth of things which I have myself seen in the late -Professor Leith Adams, my father, I seem to myself to despair of ever -thoroughly mastering the reality of anything at all. I am overwhelmed -with the mystery of Butters’ Spelling Book: I dare not lift up my eyes -to criticise a barrel-organ, and the young lady so painfully practising -scales there is a whole heaven above me. We cannot too much praise the -complete singleness of heart and soul with which the Scientists have -faced their problems. When I compare Lord Tennyson’s consideration of -the Struggle in Nature in _In Memoriam_, with Darwin’s in his _Descent -of Man_, the radical insincerity of the former, I confess, disgusts me, -and I fear to do some one or other of its good qualities an injustice. -What intellectual exercise all this despair is! The poet’s mind is made -up before he starts, and all this paraphernalia of doubt is really simply -to show that he can enter into the opposite point of view to his own, -and yet retain his original convictions! What is the sum total of it? -That here is a man of the past, born into a present from which none but -those of the future can evolve that future. Five are five and ten are -ten, and he adds them together and makes seven! With how different a -temper does Darwin face his problem! He has become “as a little child” -in his simple attitude towards things. “Where’er thou leadest, will I -follow thee.” And it was just because this was so, that what he had to -say to us prevails more and more; for, having attained to the secret of -the purpose and system of patience and clear-sightedness, he had not only -knowledge but right tact and justness of judgment, forming themselves by -and with judgment; and so he achieved Truth for himself and for others. -Nor does the good of such a man, his life and his work, end here. He has -communicated to all who have anything to do with his work, his secret -or something of his secret, even as Goethe did before him. Why, here -we have Professor Huxley warning the coming race of Scientists against -taking for granted the very things in the discovery and revelation of -which he has himself toiled all his life, and the cry has been taken up -with enthusiasm. “All is possible,” said Professor Clifford, “to him -who doubts.” What an admirable temper is this. Imagine Cardinal Newman -warning the young Catholics against taking the Infallibility of the -Church for granted! Or Lord Tennyson assuring us that that fine personal -individuality theory of his (“I am I, thou art thou,” and so on) must -not be considered by young Churchmen as finally settled! And yet it is -in the possession or non-possession of this temper, I say, that lies -the essential difference between the men of the past and the men of the -future. Mr. Arnold laments that Cardinal Newman, “that exquisite and -delicate genius,” was not born a little later, so that the Time-Spirit -might have touched and transformed him. The same may be said of Lord -Tennyson, and will be said in another fifty years. But let us have an -end to such laments. To these men, as to their contemporaries, the light -came, and they chose the twilight where others chose the dawn, and, -having had their hour of victory in the applause of the mass of their -time, the doubters and the believers, let us recognize that, at any rate -as influences on thought, they are but ghosts in the bright daytime, -speechless and ineffectual. - -I have, despite myself, been singing the praises of the Scientists. -And why not? Have they not shown us that they have (as Darwin says so -gracefully of Mr. Wallace) “an innate genius for solving difficulties?” -But they, too, have their assailable side. I have spoken of Professor -Clifford. His talent we were all bound to admire, and his sincerity; -but how wonderfully inept he was when he came to consider things -outside his own immediate sphere! We all remember what he had to say -about Christianity. He had the same narrowness towards Christianity -that the Christians have towards Science. In them it is excusable, -perhaps. Circumstances have been all against them. They have had such -little opportunity of attaining to the secret of the purpose and system -of Culture. It has taken its rise outside their pale, and has been -combated as a foe, and is still combated. But in a man who _had_ this -secret, how inexcusable the not being able to apply it outside his own -immediate sphere! and how doubly inexcusable to apply to his opponents -that very method which had made them so! Really he should have known -better. And unfortunately there are so many of the young Scientists that -are following in his footsteps, and not in the footsteps of Darwin. And -this is a great misfortune, and should be struggled against with all -our powers. But otherwise (since I cannot end here with the note of -blame), how truly admirable is the temper of these men when they are only -let alone in their own sphere! Compare the teaching of Science in our -colleges and universities with that of Literature! And yet, slow as is -the progress of Literature in its application of the purpose and system -of Culture to things, it _is_ a progress. The success of that charming -series of biographies, the English Men of Letters—nay, of the little -shilling Literature Primers—is a sign of it. And the same thing, too, is -being done with regard to Philosophy; but, so far, the men of Science -have the lead, and they deserve it; for, as I have said, theirs has been -the most complete singleness of heart and soul with which Truth has been -sought out, they have the most thoroughly applied the secret of the -purpose and system of Culture. - -Now, let us again leave our consideration of these things, and see -wherein this question of Culture concerns us plain practical people with -our attachment to black and white; how does it, in a word, come into our -daily life. I can only answer as before, everywhere!—The other day the -son of a friend of mine, (say) Jones, wished to apprentice himself as -a brewer, or, rather, wished to start as a brewer at once. His father -sent him to a well-known brewer to be, as the father said, put through -his paces. The young man returned crestfallen. What was the matter? The -father could not understand it, and I was set to find it out.—“_Tom -hasn’t enough Culture_,” I reported.—“What do you mean?” asked the -father.—“He doesn’t know the best that has been thought and known in the -world in the matter of brewing,” I replied, “I should advise a course of -practical chemistry.”—“But I’m sure X ..., the brewer’s father, didn’t -know anything about chemistry, or his father before him.”—“Probably; but, -if _X_ ... didn’t, I expect he’d have to give up brewing,” I said. And it -is the same in everything. More and more the perception that things move -by fixed laws, which must be obeyed if we would direct ourselves with -success, spreads and intensifies. The necessity of moulding our words -and actions to our thoughts, rather than our thoughts to our words and -actions, is becoming apparent to all men who would avoid the workhouse, -actual or metaphorical. The _whys_ of things press upon us. It is no use -contenting ourselves with the _hows_. If we do, someone else finds out -the _whys_, and we are left in the lurch. The other day an intelligent -sheep-breeder told me an amusing tale. He had with much trouble and -cost purchased in Tasmania a small stud of prize sheep, which he took -up to his station in the North. The flower of the first generation he -sent to a neighbouring show. The wool of the sheep was thick and close, -unlike that of the locky sheep which are considered the best there. His -sheep was laughed at by all the judges, who wondered such a sensible man -should have sent such a senseless sheep! These judges were deficient -in Culture: they did not know the best that has been thought and known -in the world in the matter of sheep-breeding. The sheep of these men -were shearing on an average less by more than two pounds of wool than -the sheep of the more scientific sheep-breeders further south! It is a -question, then, whether their children will be so jubilant when they are -brought face to face with the competition of an enormously increased home -wool-production, and a still more enormously increased wool-production -from South America. You cannot now with impunity be wanting in Culture. -The stream of life flows too fast for the straws that want to go -exploring back-waters, or stopping to admire the scenery. - -And Australia—this Australia in which we live—what a need for Culture is -here! I see nothing here of the best, and much of the worst. Take this -very question of sheep-breeding. Australia is in advance of England, -for sheep-breeding is the staple support of the one country, and only -an item in the produce of the other. But in what a backward state it is -to what, as a staple support, it ought to be! By what rough and ready -methods things are still done here. What a dearth of real intelligence -there is! of that patience and clear-sightedness which is the secret of -the purpose and system of Culture. Who seems to see that in this, as in -all matters, the _why_ is the important matter on which the _how_ will -follow, and not the reverse? There is abundance of shrewdness to hand, -and finger and thumb wisdom, but who sees that the great necessity is -sheer knowledge? Australia was made by men of this stamp, and they still -rule it, but their rule is passing, as it was bound to pass, before -the unruffled intelligence of the Time-Spirit. These were the men who -gave us our absurd nomenclature of birds and flowers. If they saw a -bird was black and had one dissonant cry, they called it a jay, and it -sufficed. A flower is yellow and little: call it a primrose. And so on. -Then their children arose in their turn, and found themselves rich, and -took to building cities, and we have (what Mr. Sala calls) Marvellous -Melbourne, with the Picture-gallery and Statue-gallery which we know, -and the crowning glory of its Government House, perhaps the most hideous -hospital in existence. Or the good Sydney people would like to decorate -their Post-office with emblematic sculpture, and the result is, what has -at last become, the mockery of a Continent. And at last, too, the Picture -Gallery at Melbourne is coming into disrepute, and some day, perhaps, the -Government House will do the same. It would be pleasant, I think, to see -it turned into an asylum. No nation that calls itself civilized stands -in more need of Culture, of the best that has been thought and known in -the world, in each and every branch of it, than Australia does. Some -faint perception of this seems positively to be beginning to dawn upon -its complacency. Let us do all we can to forward this. “The Australians,” -said an Australian to me the other day, “are much more fond of beautiful -things than the English.” “Alas,” I answered, “that is not saying much, -but I have not yet remarked it.” No, the one commendable wish that the -Australians have, is that they really do want the best article in things, -and for the best article they are ready to pay. The unfortunate thing is, -that there seems nothing in which they are yet qualified to know the best -article when they see it! “We want fine pictures,” say the Victorians, -and they are befooled by ship-loads of London tea-trays, which no one but -members of Assembly and the wives of tradespeople and squatters would -take for anything else.—And yet, how is it possible for me to continue to -pile up anathemas like this against these Australians for whom I hope so -much, unless it be that I think in this way to do the little best I can -towards helping to the realization of my hopes? But this is an old tale -now, and we will say no more of it. - -In every aspect of life, then, from its highest to its lowest, let us -remember this idea of Culture, let us make for the best article, and -be secure in its possession. The other day a Melbourne lady was saying -to me how pretty and charming a place the Fitzroy Gardens were as a -public park. “But the brown plaster statues,” I said, “and the concrete -water-shrines.” And this Melbourne lady frankly declared her allegiance -to these things, and, when in my disagreeable unsatisfied way I began to -compare them with the marble copies from the Antique which are to be seen -in the Inner Domain and Botanical Gardens in Sydney, she frankly told me -that _after all_ it was only _a matter of opinion_, and _my_ opinion was -this and _hers_ was that! “And so,” I said, “my dear lady, it is, _after -all_, only _a matter of opinion_ whether the Apollo of the Belvidere or -the Venus of Milo is more beautiful or less beautiful than the statue of -Burke and Wills in Collins Street, not to say the brown-plaster statues -in the Fitzroy Gardens?” And then this Melbourne lady, who had read many -novels and magazines, and several volumes of sermons and even popular -“philosophy books,” maintained her original assertion with the charming -assurance of her sex; and I could only think that it was a pity she had -not Culture—did not know the best, or even the second or third best, of -what has been known and thought in the world in the matter of sculptural -beauty, for then she would not have helped to persuade her husband to -vote for the erection of any more brown-plaster statues and concrete -water-shrines in the public places of his city. But, as it is, I am -so thankful that the Sydney people have decorated one of their public -places with really fine marble copies from the Antique (which none of -these Australians, with their superior love for beautiful things has -yet, so far as I am aware, thought of defacing), that I wonder at myself -for thinking of saying it is a pity to see beside these so many poor -modern and perhaps colonial products; for who can be wise—do I say in an -hour, in a day, in a year, in a life-time? nay, rather, in a generation? -Certainly not the architects and public decorators of Australia. Let -us be thankful for what we have got, and diligently go on showing our -thankfulness by asking for more. - -But no; the time has passed when silly people can say that silliness is, -_after all_, only a _matter of opinion_—or, if it has not passed, then we -ought all of us to be striving our utmost to make it be passed. Culture -is possible to so many! Its text-books are no longer in the hands of the -incompetent: we have really no excuse for thinking Mr. Martin Tupper -is preferable as a poet to Lord Tennyson, or Miss Eliza Cook to Mr. -Arnold; and I will confess that I look with suspicion on the intellectual -attainments of a man who sees no difference in the _opinion_ of Darwin -or Professor Huxley and of the popular Theologians and Mr. Lilly. Look, -I say, at the text-books of Culture now, of the best which has been -known and thought in the world. We have all seen Professor Huxley’s -little primer of Physiology. Well, that is for Science. Then there is -Mr. Stopford Brooke’s little primer of English Literature. That is for -Literature; and these are only examples. Really, now, we _have_ no excuse -for reading the wrong books and thinking the wrong thoughts any more. -And we have not, either, to confine ourselves to the thought of our own -language. Everywhere excellent translations of noteworthy works are to be -found. We would get to know something of the literature of Greece? At the -end of Mr. Jebbs’ excellent little primer of Greek Literature, we shall -find a list of the best translations. We have heard people talking of -Professor Haeckel and his wonderful physiological work? Good translations -of his best-known books are to hand. And so on throughout the whole -domain of thought. - -Let us sum up and conclude. We see, then, I think, what Culture is, and -what is the purpose and system which should form and guide it. There -is only one thing more to say about it, and that is that Culture, in -this sense of the word, is the distinct product of our own times. No -other country at no other time possessed it. The Jews possessed an -unrivalled insight into Religion, into the sense of Righteousness. It is -to a Jew that we owe most of what is best in Religion. Indeed, to the -great majority of us his name is still a synonyme for Religion. But -Righteousness is not the sole necessity of life—there is also Beauty. -“Beauty,” says Keats, - - “beauty is truth, truth beauty: this is all - ye know on earth or that ye need to know.” - -But Keats, we remember, was a Pagan, a modern Greek, and men like -this are quite as apt to think that Beauty is “the one thing needful” -as the other stamp of man is to think that Righteousness is “the one -thing needful;” whereas the real fact is that both are needful. What an -advantage, then, have we over both Jews and Greeks in our appreciation of -this! At the best, it is not possible to look upon either Paul or Plato -as exponents of anything final. It requires two wings to soar with, and -who can think that this “ugly little Jew,” as M. Renan has it, who talked -nonsense about an Art which at best seemed to him mostly diabolical, -was dowered with two? Nor yet can we think this of that “high Athenian -gentleman,” as Carlyle retorts, with his illustrious Master who would -have been so “terribly at ease in Zion.” Let us recognize it at once: -the Jews are great and the Greeks are great, but neither of them by -themselves can satisfy us. Nay, further; to the sense of Righteousness -and Beauty must now be added that sense which Bacon first brought with -any fertility to us—the sense of Science. “And we,” says Arnold, - - “and we have been on many thousand lines, - and we have shown, in each, spirit and power.” - -And it is just from the combination of the results of our spirit and -power on these many thousand lines that this Culture of ours, this unique -product of our times, springs. It was not before this possible. How could -Paul understand the Greek Art? how could Plato have understood the Hebrew -Righteousness? It was not till the Renascence, till Shakspere, that such -a thing was possible, and it was not till Modernity, till Goethe, that -it was possible to find these two senses, the sense of Beauty and of -Righteousness, united to that third great sense, the sense of Science. -I do not say that our age is necessarily a peculiarly great age: you -may call it the dwarf on the giant’s shoulders, if you please; but what -I do say is, that it is the first age which has been able to attain to -anything like a really comprehensive Culture, a knowledge of the best -that has been known and thought in the world. Possibly we are only on the -threshold of Truth: possibly it will be left to another age to work out -and complete what we have but begun; but this I think is certain: We -_are_ on the threshold, and the sooner we realize it, the sooner shall -we realize that we are men in whom it is incumbent to put off childish -things, the sooner shall we advance into the palace and very home. - -Ah, then, let us no longer content ourselves with anything less than -the best article! Let us live for the Idea of Culture, for and by -it—for the best that has been thought and known in the world! Let us, -too, like Goethe, resolve to wean ourselves from halves, from partial -and prejudiced views of things, and to live “_im Ganzen, Guten, -Schönen_”—“for the Whole, the Good, the Beautiful!” - - _December, 1885._ - -[Illustration] - - - - -“DAWNWARDS:” - -AN AUSTRALIAN DIALOGUE. - - -INTRODUCTION. - -Horace Gildea was the grandson of one of those self-reliant energetic -men of the English upper Middle-class, who at an early period of life -conceive a particular ambition, and devote themselves wholly to the -successful achievement of it. Edward Gildea, the man in question, -desired, or we may even say intended, to possess both wealth and -position, and he was, as the expression goes, still young (between forty -and fifty years of age, that is) when his intentions were fulfilled. A -baronetcy was conferred on him by a grateful Conservative government: -his marriage with the only daughter of Lord Mainwaring had already -brought him a considerable amount of landed property; and now, having -bought more, he retired from the troublous and busy world to the “easeful -dignity” of the life of a rich and respected English country magnate. Our -Aristocracy is adaptive (here, indeed, lies its strength, as compared, -for instance, with that of France): it will enrol among its members of -to-day an outgrowth of the Middle-class, upper and lower, professional -or trading, with the same ready complacency with which it enrolled among -its members of yesterday the offspring of some poor royal amour or other; -and this is not surprising, when we perceive how little difference there -is, intellectually speaking, between the three classes. The aristocratic -ideal in England does not, or did not, soar much higher than grouse to -shoot, land to shoot them on, and savoury cooking to eat them with; -and the aristocratic ideal is, with slight modifications, the ideal -of the country at large. In one generation the Gildeas were counted -among, what is called, the best people. The two sons of Sir Edward -were educated at public schools and Oxford and Cambridge, and passed, -the one into parliament, the other into the Diplomatic-service, where -neither distinguished themselves. Horace Gildea, too, an only child, -was sent to a public school and Oxford, and with the same result. At -Oxford, however, although he did nothing more, educationally, than take -his degree, he did not spend his time in mere amusement. Thanks to the -friendship of Sir James Gwatkin, the well-known æsthetic critic, Gildea -learned to appreciate the delights of that wonderful modern production -which we call Culture. He had sufficient knowledge of Greek and Latin to -enter into the spirit of their art and poetry, and he learned French, -German, and Italian in the pleasant sexual manner prescribed by Byron. He -travelled more or less all over Europe, “living and loving largely,” but -(unlike Byron) saved from that excess whose inevitable fruit is satiety, -by the talisman with which Sir James had dowered him. Gildea had, too, -what the Romans called _curiositas_. The merely physical ideal of the -English viveur did not satisfy him: he used to say that, if he was to be -a blackguard, he should like to be a fine blackguard, and how can you be -a fine blackguard if you know nothing but what can be known by any fool -that can pay for it? - -Several years after the death of his father, Gildea, living a life of -considerable enjoyment between the pleasures of the countries and the -capitals of Europe, began to perceive that, after all, his talisman -was not omnipotent: it could not lay, it could only distance, that -ancient spectre which he now for the first time learned to face, if -not to dread, Satiety. At this point, however, Fortune, whose child he -seemed, came to the rescue: he fell in love. The best definition of -love is, perhaps, the care of someone else more than yourself, and (the -passionate would add) than anything. Gildea, then, did indeed fall in -love; but as his care for himself or for anything was not very great, -it cannot be said that he fell in love deeply. But Fortune, having -given him a spell with which to once more distance the ancient spectre, -now deserted him. The lady he loved did not love him in return: her -friendship—and friendship from so sweet and passionate a nature as hers -was of a somewhat intense character, partaking more of the warm sunlight -than the clear moonlight—her friendship she eagerly gave to him, but her -love was, past recall, given to someone else. On the day on which he -first realized this, Gildea, who had hoped otherwise, left England in -his little yacht the “Petrel,” alone. He had intended visiting the east -with her, returning by Naples, Rome, and Paris, with many sweet years, -nomadic or otherwise, in the radiant future. Now he was quite careless -where he went: for the first time in his life he knew what it was to feel -miserable. The loss of this woman was a loss from himself. He felt a void -in his soul, in his future. “And yet,” he used to tell himself, “she was -not ‘the twin soul that halved my own:’ we should not have made perfect -lovers, passionate, deep, abiding! None the less do I—or did I—long for -her. She is the most beautiful soul I have yet seen, or probably shall -ever see. Who would not straightway go and sell all that he had to -possess her?—and willingly chance the rest!” - -A violent storm caught the “Petrel” as she was about halfway down the Bay -of Biscay, and hurried her past Gibraltar. When Gildea perceived this, -and was asked by his skipper if they should put back, he kept silence for -a moment. Then, looking up with an amused smile, said: - -“No, Barry. We’ll go straight on to Madeira for provisions—from thence to -St. Helena, and then double the Cape and make for Australia.” - -Gildea had not been to Australia: it was one of the few places in the -world to which he had not been. He might, he thought now, as well go -there as anywhere. Several things in Australia interested him, and this -was enough reason to make him, in his present state, care to go. - -One bright, showery november afternoon, then, the “Petrel” passed Port -Phillip Heads: was piloted up the harbour to Port Melbourne pier, and -Gildea disembarked. He knew one person in Melbourne, and only one, -Charles Maddock. Maddock, and his father before him, had been friends -of the Gildea family. Maddock was some fifteen years older than Gildea, -whom he had known well as a boy at Katharinasbury, he himself at that -time being in the midst of his brilliant scholastic career at Cambridge. -Almost immediately after his ordination, Maddock came out to a high -ecclesiastical position in Australia. It had been the wish of his life to -work in one of the Pacific Colonies, and now his wish was fulfilled. The -appointment of one so young to the post he had at first held, had caused -a little murmuring both at home and in the Colony, it being known that -he was possessed of the highest influence; but the murmuring had soon -passed into pleasant greeting, and was now swelled to a regular chorus -of applause from friends, foes, and indifferent alike. Maddock had great -charm of manner: he was a more or less refined scholar, yet was not -lacking in that spiritual robustness which goes so far to make up what -is called a personality. It would not be too much to say that he was the -most popular man in the colony. Society delighted in the gentleman: the -outer world in the man, and both were right, for (here was the secret!) -he sympathized with both. - -Gildea on his arrival took up his abode at an hotel until he saw rooms -that pleased him, and began, after his fashion, to examine the city -and its inhabitants. He went everywhere and saw everything, happy to -find that his _curiositas_ was not after all dead in him. Pleasure, in -the sense of _living_, is in Melbourne but, what Tennyson says of the -pleasure of London, “gross mud-honey,” and had not much attraction to -one who had been through the best specimens thereof in London, Paris, -New York, and Vienna. Gildea, however, if he did not go through it here, -mingled with it as an amused half-spectator half-actor, seeking out -its meaning as regards this dawning civilization which was interesting -him just at present. He fell in with Sydney Medwin, a squatter’s son -and ex-Cambridge undergraduate, whom he had known by repute as an -inter-university runner and would-be rake, and they spent some pleasant -days together. Medwin’s father wished him to take to station work, but -Medwin, having tasted the “gross mud-honey” of London, Paris, and the -Continent generally, was doggedly determined to do no such thing. - -“Damn it all,” he said once in his half-acute way to Gildea, “there’s -quite enough money made already in the family, and now it’s time to spend -it. If my governor had wanted me to look after sheep, he shouldn’t have -sent me to Europe.” - -Europe was to Medwin—to Medwin held down by his inexorable “governor” -to an allowance and a place in the home establishment—a sort of far-off -beautiful dream which had once to a certain extent been his and, he -feared, would never be his again. His life was reckless: he was knowingly -doing his best to spoil a fine constitution by his excesses, and looked -forward to death within ten or fifteen years with stupid stoicism. - -After a little Gildea thought that he would like to see something of -colonial society, social and intellectual, and presented himself to -Maddock. Maddock knew the Medwins well, and even Sydney Medwin who, in -his unreflective way, had a great respect for him. - -“The governor,” Medwin said once to Gildea, “the governor has ruined -my life! I had an ambition—I was _ambitious_; yes, I was _ambitious_! -But I had to keep it dark! I can’t argue about it, you know: I haven’t -thought for years, and now I can’t. But if Christianity’s good enough for -Maddock, it’s good enough for me. I believe in Maddock.” - -Accordingly, whenever Maddock was to be met at the Medwins’, Sydney -Medwin was to be seen listening attentively to everything the Doctor -said, trying to think, trying to understand, the look of intelligence -varying on his face with the look of puzzlement. - -“A fuddled intelligence,” said Gildea once, smiling and laughing; “now -he’ll be off and get drunk with one of his girls at Dicks’.” (Dicks’ -was a private hotel where “the set,” as Medwin and his friends called -themselves, often met for the purposes of recreation.) - -Maddock was very pleased to meet Gildea again, and during the next month -they saw much of each other. Gildea mingled with the Colonial society -as he had mingled with the outer world, but with less interest. The -Colonial outer world is at any rate original: it does not imitate, it -_is_. Colonial society, on the other hand, imitates and imitates badly. -It is a case of the new wine in the old bottles. The young people wish -to break away from all the old social convenances and bien-séances: they -have almost a contempt for the old people; but the old people rule, and -their rule is as yet too strong to be openly disobeyed. The young people, -therefore, lack social self-reliance: they have no distinctive “style” -of their own as in America. “Indeed,” as Medwin used to say, “no one -_has_ any style out here, except the people at Government House.—And -they,” he would add, admiringly, “look down upon us all as louts.” The -young people, then, feel their ideas of happiness to be frail, immature: -pleasure is not, as in the European capitals, provided for them; they -must provide it for themselves. Pleasure, however, is their aim, and -pleasure, so soon as they rule in their turn, they will have. The -question is whether this pleasure is to be “mud-honey”—“mud-honey” with -its grossness drained somewhat, but still “mud-honey”—or whether that -wonderful modern production which we call Culture is going to intervene -and complicate matters. - -Gildea soon wearied of a society in such a painful state of transition. -Having arrived at these conclusions on its tendencies, or what he took -to be its tendencies, the painfulness of it began to afflict him. At the -same time his interest in the problem of this small social hot-house did -not, somewhat to his surprise, show signs of leaving him. - -One evening, at a large ball, he had been dancing and talking with a -singularly bright and intelligent girl, who had pleased him by herself -expressing her consciousness of this state of social transition of -theirs, and ascribing the true reasons for it. They sat out several -dances together, he enjoying her talk as that of a clever child, she with -her woman’s vanity pleased to be monopolizing the most distinguished -man in the room, and also glad of his mental appreciation of her. He -half lay in a low chair beside her, looking at her with smiling eyes and -smiling lips, amused. She was a little excited, just enough to give extra -brilliance to her words and acts. She was not speaking to him alone: she -was aware of the audience of guests, all of whom, she felt, were noticing -her, and some catching parts of the conversation. He, who read her soul -as if it were transparent, became more and more amused as she proceeded, -and by an occasional movement helped her out with the impression he -saw she wished to give her friends, namely, that he was more or less -entranced by her. The thought of taking her to Paris and introducing her -to its society, of watching her intense capacities of social pleasure -expanding there in their natural atmosphere, occurred to him and pleased -him. He had arrived at that spiritual state when much of our pleasure is -in watching the pleasure of other people. - -“Well,” he said at last, “and do you not find yourself lonely here, -with all these wonderful ideas of yours, Miss Shepherd? All the other -Melbourne young ladies do not, surely, participate in them?” - -She was not quite sure for a moment whether he was mocking at her or not; -but, looking at his face, decided in the negative. - -“Yes,” she said, “I _am_ lonely—rather. The other girls want to see -things. They want to go to Europe—London, Paris, and all that. But they -say it’s such a bother, and they’ve no memory. They don’t know _what_ -they want: they only know that they don’t want what they’ve got.—But -I—,” she added, turning to him, and catching her lower lip lightly with -her pretty visible teeth, one hand on her knee closing slightly. - -“But you?” - -“_I_ want to—_live_!” - -A pause. - -“Ah,” he said, “that means that some day you will want to die.” - -“I daresay! But I shall have lived _first_!—This Melbourne is just waking -up. I wish, O I wish I had not come into it till it was awake!” - -“You would like to go to Paris, then?” - -“Paris!” (She stopped breathing.)—“O that,” she said, looking at him -again, “is simply heaven!” - -“How do you know that, Miss Shepherd?” - -“Oh, I have read it! I have read all Alphonse Daudet’s novels, and a lot -of Balzac’s.” - -As Gildea strolled through the warm night streets, smoking a cigar, he -thought of her again for a moment, and laughed to himself. - -“The one Parisienne I have met out of Paris,” he said to himself, “She is -of the tribe of the fine steel-pearl mangeuses who rend life with their -dear little white teeth for the pleasure of rending. She should have been -born in a concierge’s lodge, with a future in ermine—and the Morgue. -And yet she is better than the mere mangeuse: she has intelligence. She -has to thank Australia for that. For a month, or even two, she would -be supportable—but the “Petrel” would take three to get her to Naples, -perhaps, and it would be more trouble to loose her and let her go then -than now.” - -He had been strolling about the streets for more than an hour. He was not -quite sure where he was. He stopped for a moment to look about him. A -short well-moulded figure in a close dress and a poke bonnet passed him -and turned down a narrow street ten or twelve yards ahead. He threw away -his cigar. - -“Janet,” he said to himself, “sweet child! And she recognized me and went -on.” - -Janet, a Salvation Army “lass,” going down into the Little Bourke Street -slums had indeed recognised him. The figure of a man, in a light overcoat -open in front showing that he was in evening dress, was remarkable -enough, to have attracted anyone’s attention there. She had looked up for -a moment: caught a glimpse of his face and, with a wild throbbing heart -and quivering lips, hurried by, and on, and away. Gildea’s investigations -into the social condition of the place had made him many unexpected -friends. Here was one who was something more than a friend, a lover, and -he knew it. - -“I am sick of it,” he said to himself, almost bitterly, “I will go away. -I want change.” - -At about five o’clock that morning Sir Horace Gildea was rowed aboard -of the “Petrel,” which passed out of the Heads a little after one, and -turned to the east, making for Sydney. - - -I. - -It was about eleven o’clock in the morning of a day late in april. The -sun shone with bright warmth, a fresh breeze blowing in from the sea. -Great deep masses of cloud, luminous-white or here and there shaded with -that slaty black which denotes incipient rain, were moving in the blue -vault of the heavens. Gildea was descending the steps of the entrance to -St. Mary’s Cathedral, accompanied by a young man of about his own age. At -the foot of the steps they both paused. - -“Well,” said Gildea with a look, “You will be at my rooms in time for -lunch, you say?” - -The other nodded, and, in a few moments, saluting one another with a -movement of the hand, they parted. The young man went with a quick firm -step in the direction of St. James’ Church, while Gildea sauntered across -the road into the Domain. He was thinking of the young man, Francis -Fitzgerald, a young Jesuit whom he had met years ago at a seaside place -in the south of France, and who, as he said, for the sake of his health, -had come out on a voyage to Australia. - -“It is wonderful,” said Gildea to himself, “how quickly and thoroughly -the religious bodies are waking up to the intellectual necessities of the -time. Romans—Anglicans—Lutherans, and even Calvinists are sucking lustily -at the two paps of the Modern Spirit which we call Science and Culture. -It is the instinct of self-preservation. If they do not suck they will -starve. But ah, how many of us are cross-tempered enough to prefer to -starve rather than imbibe the milk of a cross-tempered mother!” He looked -up with a fine smile, suddenly realizing his humour of thought. “I am -quite serious,” he said to himself, the smile deepening and broadening, -lighting up his face with amusement, “which shows how adaptive I am. -Really now, I listened to Fitzgerald’s hopes and beliefs in the future -of Romanism with quite as much interest as if I were a Romanist myself. -I can quite conceive of myself taking very considerable pains to forward -a cause in which somebody else believed. This surely was the central -idea of my attachment to Olivia Bruce? I used to think I should be -quite satisfied to live the life of a poet in that of my poetess? So -far, this power of living your own life in the life of one you love has -been a female gift. And indeed I have often thought that I should have -been better as a woman. I can quite imagine myself as Lady Bellfield -or d’Israeli’s delightful Berengaria; whereas now, I am but an aimless -wanderer on the face of an aimless planet, a pilgrim without a shrine.” - -He walked on half-thoughtful half-amused, till he had crossed the Domain -and found himself opposite the Picture Gallery and the Botanical Gardens. -He entered the gardens, and was proceeding down one of the walks when, -some fifteen yards before him, he beheld a well-known figure. It was -Maddock, Maddock standing at the side of the walk, observing a plant -through his pince-nez with serene interest. Gildea came up to him with -pleasure. - -“Ah, Doctor,” he said, “you here! This is a surprise!” - -They shook hands: greeted one another, and exchanged health notes both of -themselves and Mrs. Maddock, as they went on down the walk together, the -Doctor rubbing his glasses with his silk handkerchief and keeping step. - -“The truth is, my dear fellow,” he said, his head up and moving from side -to side as he drew into himself the enjoyment of the fine morning air -and scene, “the truth is, I am here for a holiday—or rather, for half -a holiday. Sydney is a favourite place of mine.—But,” he added in his -humorous confidential way, “you know I don’t care for the _people_! They -are not in earnest enough! I would sooner, I believe, have an earnest -atheist than a lukewarm orthodox man. Isn’t it your friend Renan who says -somewhere, that the atheist has an idea of things, a quite inadequate -idea, it is true, but still an idea, whereas ‘the average sensual man’ -has none?—or something to that effect.” - -“Yes,” said Gildea, “he says so; and he adds elsewhere that ‘atheism is -one sense the grossest of anthropomorphisms. The atheist sees justly -that God does not act in this world after the manner of man; hence -he concludes that he does not exist; he would believe if he beheld a -miracle—in other words, if God acted as a finite force with a determinate -object in view.’” - -“That is good,” said Maddock, “I did not give Renan credit for saying -such a thing.” - -“No,” said Gildea, “you have never got much further in Biblical criticism -than the Germans. Strauss satisfies you as the great _Against_, and poor -Westcott as the gigantic _For_!” - -They both laughed. - -“Come, come,” said Maddock, “you must not poke fun at me!” - -“It is impossible,” Gildea answered, “to poke fun at an ecclesiastic who -calls Heine ‘a great poet and brilliant philosopher.’” - -“Ah, you have been reading my last polemic, I see?—Yes, you _must_ have -been reading it; for no newspaper man would ever think of quoting an -opinion like that.” - -“I have been reading it with admiration and wonder: admiration at its -excellence as polemical work, and wonder that you should take the -trouble to castigate a production which you yourself declare to be, as a -contribution to theological knowledge, utterly useless.” - -“Yes, but did I not explain myself? The book is fundamentally vicious. -It confirms the shallow heterodox in their heterodoxy, the shallow -orthodox in their orthodoxy. It gives forth light to no one and darkness -to everyone. Progress in foolishness and stupidity, that is all that it -signalises; the foolishness of ‘go-aheadism,’ the stupidity of re-action. -I have no patience with a man of presumable intelligence who could write -such a book.” - -“But do you not think that your attack on it will only, by bringing it -into public notice, increase its powers of mischief?” - -“I hope not. I hope that I have sufficiently laid bare its gross -ignorance of the subject of which it treats to bring it into that -contempt whose fruit is oblivion.” - -“In England—in London or in any country or capital where there is a -large intellectual life—this might be so. But am I not right, Doctor, -in believing that this Victorian Melbourne of yours is a place where -pure intellectual life scarcely exists? You have the mass of intelligent -money-makers who care, or who do not care, for things (I will not say -religious but) sectarian. Then there are those who care for things -political; but where will you find any number of men who aim at making -their life the purely intellectual life? They are all partizans here. -When, therefore, you attack a Rationalist like Judge Parker, all the -Rationalists rally round him, just as the orthodox rally round you; and -the result is, as the _Argus_ says, a boxing match, wherein the great -thing is to at all price shout down their man and shout up your own. -Truth turns away in disgust from such an exhibition of blind deaf bawling -partizanary. These men are not of the sort that are open to reason: you -cannot lay bare to such as these the gross ignorance or perfect science -of their champion; they will only hiss or applaud as you blame or praise -him. I may be wrong: my observation of your so-called intelligent public, -is, you know, necessarily but small.” - -Maddock kept silence with rumpled brows. At last: - -“I do not know,” he said, “that you are not, after all, to a large degree -right. We are very narrow here. A thing done in the street is done in the -city, and indeed in the whole country!” - -“And am I not right in thinking that the only two native subjects, -which are capable of arousing public interest and curiosity here, are -those which appeal to the two portions of your mass of intelligent -money-makers—things pertaining to business, and things sectarian?” - -The Doctor suddenly regained his humour. - -“Are,” he said, the deep humorous smile playing about his mouth, “are all -the fashionable young men who come out here in yachts as acute observers -as you, Sir Horace?—But I object to your word sectarian: you should say -religious. I am quite ready to admit that (to put it as a Melbourne -printer put it to me the other day) the only subject that will pay for -book-printing here is Religion, and Religion, alas, in its polemical -aspect. But I cannot look upon this, as you seem to do, as a great -misfortune. I—I ... well, I may say _candidly_, that I rather _like_ a -bit of polemics now and then, and the shouts of the men round the ropes -do not altogether disgust me, as of course” (his eyebrows went up) “they -ought to do! No, I do not look upon that purely intellectual life of -yours as by any means the ideal for us to aim at. It smacks too much of -dilettantism for _me_!” - -Gildea smiled. - -“Dear Doctor,” he said, “we all know that you prefer a climate where -the sky is not always a cloudless vault of blue insipidity. The sound -and feel of a buffeting wind is pleasant to you. As I said just now, -you prefer Strauss to Renan, and the good secular Saint Matthew Arnold -finds small favour in your eyes. Now too that you are taking to science, -I expect every day to hear you tell us Cuvier was a greater man than -Darwin, and that Huxley is an impudent young amphioxus that has no place -beside the dignity of our dear old behemoth, Owen.” - -“Now I really won’t let you poke fun at me,” said the Doctor, “I really -won’t! The next thing is, that you will be saying something rude about -Professor Mosley and his “Ruling Ideas in Early Ages,” and scoffing at my -idea of having some of his essays reproduced in our _Daily Telegraph_.” - -“Oh no, Doctor, I will not do that. Even Mosley’s essays are better than -the sermons of the local ecclesiastics.” - -“You are very impudent,” said Maddock, his face all beaming, “to call me -a local ecclesiastic! I shall have to get you to write a pamphlet on my -review of ‘Religionless Religion,’ so as to be able to denounce you _ex -cathedra_!” - -“Well, I should very much like to do so, only ... you know my cowardice: -I cannot write——” - -“Even letters to your best friends, to explain that you have only gone -off to sea at an hour’s notice, and are not, as they anxiously expected, -drowned, or murdered and secreted in some hole in the slums.” - -“I prostrated myself in apology to Mrs. Maddock.” - -“Yes, in over a week! As for Dr. Maddock, of course such a casual -acquaintance as _he_ could not expect.... Ah, you are a quite too -eccentric young man, Sir Horace! I wish you were well married, with a -definite aim in life. Someday one of your wild freaks will end you, and -then, what, what will have been the result of those great abilities with -which God has gifted you?—Now,” proceeded the Doctor, “this is not an -extract from the _Daily Telegraph_ sermon corner, but only the expression -of the affectionate anxiety of one who hopes you will allow him to call -himself your true friend.” - -Gildea kept silence for a moment. Talk of this sort only served to show -him how completely his real inner view of things was unknown to his -companion, and so the idea of making an answer did not occur to him: he -felt how useless it would be. Then he genially thanked the Doctor for his -friendship and its kind wishes, and added lightly: - -“You ask what will be the result of, as you are pleased to say, those -great abilities with which God has gifted me. The result (you perceive -it) will be nothing; but, Doctor, what, let me ask you, in a hundred -years will be the result of those great abilities with which God has -gifted _you_? In the hundred and first year we shall start equal; and -I, who have not a belief in a personal God and a personal immortality -as _you_ have, find the whole matter, I confess, rather absurd! This -would not probably have been so always. If I had lived in the days when -action indeed contained the highest stakes of life, I should have played -for them; but, as it is, the highest stakes now belong to the thinker, -the writer, and I—I cannot write ... even letters! I, like all my -contemporaries, am more or less under the sad dominion of the perception -of, what Leopardi calls, the ‘infinita vanità del tutto,’ but, unlike the -best of them, I have no care for the only immortality we have left, the -immortality of Art or Science. I think of the hundred, or thousand, or -million and first year, and find myself smiling.” - -Gildea was soliloquising, Maddock forgotten. He had, then, after all, -drifted into making the answer, the idea of making which had, by reason -of its clear uselessness, not occurred to him; and yet he had not made -it to Maddock, but to himself. Maddock, indeed, did not altogether -understand it, but the feeling of it, the belief that inspired it, he -felt and hastened to reply to. He laid his hand gently on Gildea’s arm, -bringing him to a pause, and said simply: - -“_Look!_” - -They had come down as far as Farm Cove—skirted it, turning off along Lady -Macquarie’s Walk—then mounted up onto the drive, and, having passed by -the Chair, were now standing on the brow of the slope with an open view -of Garden Island (Clark Island being hidden), the harbour, and the woody -hills behind it. Great deep masses of cloud, luminous-white or here and -there shaded with that slaty black which denotes incipient rain, were -moving in the blue vault of the heavens. Light and shade lay everywhere -in alternate streaks or patches. One round piece of water to the left -was like a burnished blazing mirror of steel. Other parts were blue, -gray, or dark, reflecting the cloud-colours above them. The anchored -ships rose and fell gently, their flags fluttering. A steamer came -stealing out of one of the harbour arms into the open. The only sounds -of life were the far-off hammer-strokes of the builders, the occasional -cry of the white fleeting sea-gulls, the striking of a ship’s bells, the -cricket humming at their feet. - -“And,” Maddock said, in his deep voice of earnestness, “in the face of -such a scene as this—the free glory of nature so great and so glad, -the wonderful toil and effort and happiness of mankind—you will say to -yourself: ‘_There is no soul in me, for there is no God to give it!_’ -Ah, my dear Sir Horace, you surprise and grieve me! Are you not—you, oh -heavens, _you_!—at heart an atheist? are you not guilty of that grossest -of anthropomorphisms yourself?” - -Gildea smiled, a fine sweet smile of sadness that made even the strong -steady heart of his companion turn faint for a moment and sick. There was -something so absolutely inevitably hopeless, as it seemed to Maddock, in -this strange soul that he saw before him, now for the first time laid -bare. Here was a patient for which the physician felt he had no power -of healing or even alleviation. What view of christian faith and hope -and love did not this strange soul know? Maddock, for the first time in -his life, felt himself in the presence of one, the breadth and depth -and height of whose spiritual experience encompassed him like an ocean. -The words of remonstrance died on his lips: exhortation lay lifeless in -him: silence and sorrow possessed him. He turned away with a heavy sigh, -a sigh which was the unconscious acknowledgment to himself that life -and death, time and eternity, man and God, could indeed be read in two -diametrically different ways. For the first time in his life he realized -the truth of “the Everlasting No” in a human soul greater than his own. - -They walked on together for a little in silence. Then Gildea said as -simply and naturally as if nothing unusual had happened: - -“Now, Doctor, tell me will you come and have lunch with me? Mrs. Maddock, -you say, has shaken you off for the sake of a long morning with Lady -Whitfield, and why should you not retort on her spinster’s déjeuner with -a bachelor’s lunch? I ought to have thought of it before.” - -The Doctor again suddenly regained his humour. - -“Thank you,” he said, “I shall be charmed.” - -“Nay,” said Gildea, smiling, “but I must bid you pause a moment, aimless -dreamer that I am, and tell you who you will meet there. Perhaps you will -want your assent back again.” - -“Speak on,” said Maddock, “and, provided it is not some one who will -object to my smoking afterwards, I ... I don’t think I shall!” - -“The guests, then, are three in number. Firstly, James Alcock, who, they -tell me, is the most secular and scientific member of all the Australian -Legislative Assemblies——” - -“Go on,” said Maddock. - -“Doctor,” Gildea said, “he reads Haeckel and swears by no other prophet -of Science. Pause before it is too late. They say too that he sleeps -every saturday and sunday with Mill “On Liberty” under his pillow, and -all Spencer’s “Principles” strewed about the counterpane. He knew my -father years ago in England, and his heart warms towards me as towards an -incipient disciple.” - -“Secondly—” - -“Secondly, Francis Fitzgerald, a young man learned with all the learning -of the Egyptians; a pilgrim and devotee at that simple west-England -shrine which holds the Catholic pearl beyond all price, John Henry -Newman; a scholar of the Parisian seminaries; a pupil of the inner Jesuit -circle—” - -“Thirdly—” - -“Frank Hawkesbury, the young Australian poet; a Socialist, delighting in -Trades-Unions, Religious Revivals (the Salvation Army is a hobby of his), -and Secular Organizations with a grand impartiality! Nay, it is even -whispered that he had dealings with Holden and the Irish and Continental -Nihilists two years ago in London. Our friend Mrs. Medwin almost fainted -when Sydney Medwin asked her if she would care to know him.” - -“I have looked through one of the young man’s books of poems,” Maddock -said, serenely, “and rather liked them. He is in earnest. Your lunch -will be amusing.—It smacks to me,” he added, with a touch of grimness -in his humour, “a little of those shows one sees now and then at the -street-corners. They call them, I believe, happy families.” - -Gildea laughed. - -“Yes, Doctor,” he said, “but what if the animals should take to fighting? -Alas, then, for the canaries and the mice, who will be worried and eaten -by the dogs and the cats.” - -“Which are who, or who are which?” - -“Let us say that Alcock is a dog, and Fitzgerald a canary.” - -“Then _you_, I suppose, are the mouse and _I_ the cat? But what is your -young Australian poet to be? You have left him out.” - -“Oh, he will be a rabbit. You will see that he can burrow. It is the -forte of Socialists, burrowing.—Now,” he proceeded, “we must go this way -if we are to get to my rooms in time. And as we go, will you let me first -express some tentative thoughts of mine, and then ask you a few questions -about your friend Mr. Parker and yourself?” - -“Ask on,” said Maddock, getting into step, “and I will do my best to -answer you.” - - -II. - -“It is about this little book of his,” Gildea said, with slow -reflectiveness, “‘Religionless Religion.’ I found it interesting.” - -“Indeed?” said Maddock, “As interesting as the production of your dear -continental sceptics?” - -“Well now,” Gildea said, in a tone that implied a certain amount of -candour, “to tell, what the French call, the true truth, I was struck -by several things both in it and in your reply to it. I thought that it -would have been difficult to have found a more typical example of the -average intelligent secular view of theological Christianity than that of -our good Judge.” - -“I agree with you, and that was one of the reasons that made me decide to -attack it. It is typical.” - -“And, therefore, to anyone who is, though only as an amateur, an observer -of things contemporary, it is interesting. Its very deficiencies will be -instructive. Well, what I want you to do, Doctor, if you will be so good, -is to help me with your superior knowledge of the things treated of to -arrive at the spiritual condition of the treater. Perhaps you will not -find the attempt too uninteresting, or....” He paused with a movement of -courtesy. - -Maddock, who had a faint suspicion that Gildea was mocking, half grumbled -out humorously: - -“Go on, then! Qualify yourself as a psychologist, my dear fellow, and -then we will have a plunge into social metaphysics. It is refreshing in a -country where they are all partizans, and Matthew Arnold and the purely -intellectual life are not appreciated. _Sic itur ad astra._ In the name -of all the lucidities, forward!” - -“In the first place, then, we have to notice, have we not, that the -little book is polemical, which, at any rate to the amateur observer of -things contemporary, detracts somewhat from its historical value; for, -after all, is not a polemist, to a large extent a man who defends the -delusions of his friends against the delusions of his enemies, and leaves -Truth, like the proverbial pounds, to look after herself? But, if we -always remember to take off a percentage for the polemics, we need not -miss what it is that the polemist really means and feels?” - -“Πως γαρ οὐ?” said Maddock. - -“And the more easily, as our Parker is in earnest about, what he calls, -‘his most serious and difficult task.’” - -“Forensic flourishes!” - -“—In earnest as far as suits the disposition of a theistic polemist.” - -“—Microscopically, that is to say. The lawyer’s, and especially the -successful lawyer’s, habit of thought tends towards earnestness as the -sparks fly downwards.” - -“For the average lawyer’s habit of thought is perhaps the most typical -example of the average intelligent secular view of things. Is it not -the final fruit of what is called common-sense, that is to say of the -sense of common people? Our good Judge more than once speaks of himself -and his audience as “persons of ordinary common-sense,” as opposed to -“metaphysicians,” and especially “ecclesiastical metaphysicians.” He -wants clear solid statements which his mind can see, and as it were, -touch and handle. He scoffs at all statements other than these, looking -upon them as at bottom sophistical. It follows that, when he comes to -criticise the Bible, he claims the right to criticise it, not only with -the same spirit, but with the same manner, as he would criticise any -other book. He will not only look at it straight, fearlessly, logically, -but he will demand of its statements that they be clear and solid, that -they bear the ordinary interpretation of ordinary statements. He will -apply the same principles of examination to Moses and Jesus as he would -do to Blackstone or Chitty. And all the secular persons of ordinary -common-sense cry out: ‘Hear, hear!’” - -“With the Judge,” said Maddock, “a metaphysician is a man who examines -the Bible by the aid of principles other than those of one who is -ignorant of all contemporary history save that which the Bible gives him.” - -“The consequence of which is, that he is capable of such a statement as, -that ‘without question early Christianity was far more free from paganism -and from the taint of superstition than the Christianity of our own -time,’ and others of a like force.” - -“He has no notion whatever of the philosophy of history—of, what I call, -the development of divine Truth.” - -“And yet he is contradictory enough, while asserting the degradation -of the Christian ideal, to lay much stress on the development of -Divine truth in a civilization that has, till comparatively lately, -been Christianic. Yes, he sees the development of divine Truth, but -he does not understand the forms which that development has taken in -Christianity. The Trinity—the Atonement—the Deity of Christ—are to him -‘mere crude superstitions which disfigure and obscure pure and true -religion.’ It never seems to have occurred to him that, although these -doctrines may be empty formulæ to him, they were and are passionate -realities to others.” - -“That is very true.” - -“He will talk with the same ignorance of what he would call Jesuolatry -as a Protestant will of what he calls Mariolatry, neither he nor the -Protestant understanding any more of a deep spiritual truth than its -cut-and-dried dogmatical letter.” The Doctor assented, though with a -movement of slight qualification. - -“We agree at starting, then, that his criticism as that of an historical -Bible student does not exist. The authorities he quotes are, as you point -out in your Reply, ludicrous. They culminate in his poor little some -‘celebrated Unitarian minister’ or other, than whom the habit of thought -of the legal Biblical critic can, it is to be hoped, no further go! He -is too, we agree, careless and superficial even in his own style, but -we must not lay too much stress on individual cases of this in the face -of his request for ‘indulgence’ for his ‘doubtless many imperfections -here.’” - -“When a man speaks publicly of such a grave matter as religion,” said -Maddock, “he should _not_ be careless, he should _not_ be superficial! We -have a right to demand of those who make explosives, that they, at any -rate, do not smoke in the magazine.” - -“True; but, if we all got our deserts, who, you know, should -escape whipping? Certainly not the producers of orthodox religious -literature.”—(The Doctor, after a pause, assented as before).—“Well, -we will proceed further against our good Judge, and say that his -appreciation of what is, as he says, ‘good and ennobling’ is ludicrously -inadequate. What can be said of a man who seriously speaks of Jesus, -‘when, in the garden of Gethsemane, he went apart and prayed, three -times over, the same prayer to God, within a short period,’—of Jesus -thus ‘_doing that which he told his disciples not to do—“use not vain_ -repetitions, _as the heathen do,” for the reason that your heavenly -Father knoweth what things ye have need of_ before _ye_ ask _Him_.’ -Habemus confitentem asinum! We can only burst out laughing: a reply to -such a statement is impossible! The lawyer’s habit of thought is at its -apogee, and (as Heine says) ‘_Gegen die Dummheit kämpfen wir Götter -selbst vergebens._’—Against stupidity the very gods themselves struggle -in vain.” The Doctor assented smiling. - -“And statements similar to this are not scarce here. Our good Judge, -then, has not, it is clear, much experience of the spiritual life, of -those who live in the spirit. The ‘sudden conversion of Paul,’ for -instance, strikes him as one of the (it is supposed) ‘improbabilities so -forcible that no sane _thinking_ man or woman can accept’ the inspiration -of the Scriptures which relate them. Now, any one who knows anything -of human nature other than that of ‘persons of ordinary common-sense,’ -knows that such ‘sudden conversions’ are not only not improbable, but -passably frequent. In some cases, as in that of Staniforth, quoted by -Arnold in his ‘St. Paul and Protestantism,’ the circumstances approach -so closely to those of Paul’s that we are enabled to assign to them a -definite place in the science of psychology. Nor are our good Judge’s -‘errors,’ as you say, exhausted yet. We have still to bring against him -the charge of, what Celsus calls, κουφοτης, and Arnold translates ‘want -of intellectual seriousness.’ So confused and incoherent is his knowledge -of the real position that the secular biblical critic takes up, that he -absolutely calls the position taken up by the orthodox biblical critic -(that is to say, biblical _critics_ who are orthodox; as, for instance, -you yourself, my dear Doctor): he absolutely calls this position -critically ‘untenable,’ not perceiving that it is his own only differing -in degree!—This is simply appalling! The κουφοτης of the Secularists is -not a whit better, after all, than that of the Christians!” - -“Yes,” said Maddock, disregarding the last remark, “but then you must -remember that the Judge ‘does not intend to resort to any process of -subtle argument, nor to make any display of scholastic knowledge, nor to -indulge in learned disquisitions.’ He merely writes ‘popular, clear, and -simple’ nonsense for ‘the doubter who is trying to grope his way to the -light, but cannot; to the Atheist who believes in nothing, neither in a -Supreme Power, nor in a future life.’ And your secular ingratitude to -him, Sir Horace, strikes me, I must confess, as keener-toothed than the -winter wind of orthodoxy!” - -“Doctor,” said Sir Horace, “you are poking fun at me! But I, who am, as -Shelley said of himself ‘rather serious’—I proceed in my examination, -whose sole confirmation as truth I find in your words or gestures of -approval. You will, I hope, forgive me for any repetition I may make of -your own criticism, as a master should a humble disciple? It is only a -proof of attention and admiration.” - -“Go on,” said Maddock, “mocker!” - -“All these faults, then, which we have remarked in our good Judge—his -polemically; his ignorance of the grammar (or, perhaps, as your Reply -says, the alphabet) of historical criticism; his ludicrously inadequate -conception of the good and the ennobling, of the spiritual calibre of -such men as, for instance, St. Paul; his superficial acquaintance with -the data of the subject of which it is treating; and, finally, his -κουφοτης, his want of intellectual seriousness—all these faults, are we -not agreed, are the faults of the average intelligent secular view, in -its negative consideration of Christian Theology? The question that now -arises is, has this view nothing but faults?—has it no excellencies? -Does there remain, after the attack on it of so admirable a theological -polemist as Dr. Maddock is, no residuum of real and vital truth? -Let us try and see.—To begin with, did we not find that, despite a -contradiction, our good Judge perceived the reality of, what you so -finely call, the development of divine Truth?— - - “_Yet I doubt not thro’ the ages one increasing purpose runs,_ - _and the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns._” - -“No,” said Maddock, “I cannot grant him even that! A faint glimmering of -a thing cannot be called a perception. Consider this very contradiction -of his! Consider, again, his unspeakably gross and ignorant treatment of -the Old Testament which he brands with blood-thirstiness and impurity. He -works by a rule of thumb. The higher spiritual mathematics are mere names -to him. He is—I must declare—too much of a blockhead to ever rise beyond -the spiritual Rule of Three.” - -“I agree to a large extent, dear Doctor; but you will admit, I think, -that even the Rule of Three is not without its use, without its real and -vital truth?” - -“Not when the schoolboy cannot use it properly! I have pointed out, for -example, that, in attacking the doctrine of the Divine Sonship, he only -attacks a dummy doctrine of his own. Your schoolboy does not know which -of the three is his third quantity! He wants, then, to be whipped and put -onto the dunce’s stool—to encourage the others!” The Doctor spoke for the -first time with a little testiness. - -“Be it so,” Gildea said, “our good Judge is not to be allowed more than a -faint glimmering of that fine theory of ours of the world’s unseen τελος. -The ‘divine far-off event’ is not more than a fog-lamp to him, which he -will not, then, mistake for the moon, or its light for moonshine. But -that he is too much of a blockhead to even rise beyond the spiritual -rule of thumb, the spiritual Rule of Three, seems to me, I confess, dear -Doctor ... well, a rather strong statement. The average intelligent -secular view of things is, is it not, less pedantic, less given to -accepting the conventional value of things as their true value, than the -average intelligent orthodox view? Are not, indeed, these tears a most -convincing proof of it? Is it not just because our good Judge refuses, -for instance, to accept the orthodox view of Jesus and of God that he -wrote his little book, and you replied to it? Now the orthodox view of -God is, if you will let me say so, excessively pedantic: it adheres to -the expressions of a belief in which in its heart it does _not_ believe -at all. Parker’s criticism on this is excellent. ‘It is impossible,’ he -says, ‘to lay down any definition of God which will even satisfy man’s -conception of God.’ What, then, is the good, he asks, of holding up this -‘magnified non-natural man’ of yours, and asking me to fall down and -worship it? Common-sense revolts against such an idea and common-sense, -dear Doctor, is, will you not agree, for once right?” - -“You surprise me, Sir Horace,” said Maddock. “Are you too going to spend -your time and trouble in demolishing the survivals of verbal inspiration?” - -“Certainly _not_! I am only trying to see wherein common-sense is a safe -guide as a biblical critic. We are agreed, then,—you, that is, the Judge -and I—that we must unite in opposing many of ‘the statements which,’ as -the Judge says, ‘the orthodox are pleased to call evidence.’ Because, for -instance (to continue with the Judge’s own words), ‘the fallible man Paul -says in a letter to Timothy that the Scriptures were inspired, it does -not make them so.’ We are agreed here?” - -“We are agreed here,” said Maddock, with deliberation. - -“Or again, to take another instance, when Matthew and Luke, for whatever -purpose, strive in their genealogical tables ‘to give Jesus’ (I always -use the Judge’s words) ‘a divine origin, conceived of a virgin by the -Holy Ghost, and yet to connect him with David by making Joseph the -natural father of Jesus.’—are we not here faced by two ideas which ‘no -one short of an ecclesiastical metaphysician,’ or, as you say, a ‘very -bad critic,’ would or could ‘reconcile?’—We are still agreed, of course.” - -“We are still agreed—to a certain extent.” - -“Nay, let us go further, then, and chime in with the Judge to the effect -that ‘on far stronger evidence (if evidence it can be called) than that -which supports’—let us say, almost all—‘of the events or miracles’ of -the Scriptures, ‘the Roman Catholic Church propound to the world their -miracles,’ which ‘the Protestant section of Christianity reject as -incredulous.’” - -“Proceed,” said Maddock. - -“Nay, let us go further still, and notice how we no longer look on the -Genesis account of the Creation as more than allegory, of the Flood as -being strictly accurate; of the tower of Babel as, again, more than -allegory, and so on in many other similar cases. And how in the same way -we do not look upon the statements of Christ, and after him of the author -of the ‘Revelations,’ of the close approach of the Apocalypse, as literal -but only figurative. ‘The statement of Jesus,’ as the Judge puts it, ‘as -to his coming again before the then generation have passed away does not -mean that he will so come: ‘generation’ being merely used figuratively, -but when he does come he is still to come in the clouds of heaven, and -with great glory, sounds of trumpets, rushings of winds, and mourning -of tribes; for’ (Gildea paused)—‘all this has not yet been falsified by -the event.’ This is, I think, undoubtedly the conclusion at which common -sense arrives, but common sense is of course wrong.” - -“Common-sense is wrong,” said Maddock. - -“Common-sense too, as exemplified in this its typical blockhead -who cannot ever rise beyond the spiritual Rule of thumb and Three; -common-sense observes of the development of divine Truth, as exemplified -in the Christian theology of yesterday and to-day, that its ‘golden -rule apparently is to adopt those interpretations’ of its Scriptures -‘which best satisfy the exigency of the particular position of the time -being,’ and thus we have no further guarantee that the God of to-day -will be the God of to-morrow than that the God of yesterday is certainly -not the God of to-day. ‘Heaven forgive me,’ exclaims ‘that great poet -and brilliant philosopher,’ Heine, ‘but I often feel as if the Mosaic -God were but a reflected image of Moses himself.’ And we all remember -with what contempt Taine speaks of this God of Christianity, revised -and amended to suit the latest edition of scientific and historical -discovery—rooted up out of the earth and momentary intercourse with -man—driven out of the clouds and the occasional interposition of his -strong right hand—spied and telescoped from the radiant bowers of the -stars, and finally lodged out of sight, and all but out of mind, in the -eternal infinitudes of Time and Space! After all, then, may not our good -Judge have had, not of course a perception, but a faint glimmering, of -sapience, when he spoke of the position taken up by the orthodox biblical -criticism as critically ‘not only untenable, but absolutely suicidal?’ -The thought is, as we agreed before, simply appalling. Spirits of Butler, -Paley, Neander, Weiss, Westcott, Lightfoot, and many another mortal or -immortal immortal, rise and thunder ‘_No!_’ When this exponent of the -average secular intelligence declares that contemporary Theology is an -impossible compromise between Reason and Absurdity; that the Protestant -is quite inconsistent who with one face rejects ‘the events or miracles -propounded by the Roman Catholic Church because they involve a violation -or suspension of unvarying natural laws; because such things do not -happen, and because _reason_ refuses to give credence to them,’ and with -another face accepts as truth the sojourn of Jonah in the belly of some -sea-monster (at present conveniently extinct, even to the bones), or the -communications of, what Gordon describes as, - - ‘that duffer at walls, - the talkative roadster of Balaam:—’ - -rise, I say, and in Olympian accents demonstrate to him and his benighted -audience, that these were but links ‘in the development of divine Truth,’ -and that ‘one lesson at a time of this difficult kind was enough, and as -history shows more than enough, for human weakness.’” - -“You are a treacherous and malicious young man,” said Maddock, laughing -in spite of himself, “and have no right to quote my words in such an -irreverent and grotesque manner!” - -“It is my orthodox ingratitude,” said Gildea, “—And yet,” he added -suddenly, with a complete change of tone and manner, “in less than fifty -years polemics like these will be looked upon as childish, and, those who -spent their life and energy upon them, as we now look on the mediæval -Schoolmen. It is a sad thought.” - -Maddock was a little puzzled at these swift chameleon changes in his -friend. - -“And now,” said Gildea, looking up with yet another change of tone and -manner, “and now we have done with the negative side of the good Judge’s -criticism and can turn to the affirmative.—But that,” he added, “must, I -am afraid, be after lunch—if you will, Doctor?” - -“I will,” said Maddock, “and you shall not then find me so passive, for -your treachery and malice are now quite laid bare to me.” - -Gildea smiled. - -“But not my loyalty and admiration? Believe me, Doctor, that, if it were -only for this one remark of yours, I could never fail in my interest and -gratitude to you. ‘Our blackfellows,’ you say, ‘had no punishment for -offences against their elementary ideas of purity but spearing. _And -it was infinitely better that they should spear for impurity than lose -their first step towards a higher life._’ ... But here we are,” he said, -“This is the house. Fitzgerald and Hawkesbury have to leave us soon -after lunch. Mrs. Medwin and her niece, Miss Medwin, are coming later -to make tea for me, and then we are going out for a sail in the yacht. -Mr. Medwin is thinking of a legislative career, and so Alcock is to be -cultivated. Can you come with us? You know how pleased it would make us -all.” - -The Doctor explained that he was due at his hotel at half-past three to -meet Mrs. Maddock, and both he and Gildea expressed their due regrets at -his not being able to make one of the party on the yacht. - - -III. - -Gildea led the way upstairs and ushered Maddock into the sitting-room. It -was in reality two rooms joined together by a large folding-door, which -was now thrown open and draped with four looped-up curtains, two of some -dark-red material behind two of delicately-wrought muslin. The two rooms -were of the whole depth of the house, the large bay-windows, open and -with a glass-door in the middle of them open also, at one end looking -out over the city, at the other over the harbour. A grass-slope, and a -garden with flower-beds and rustling trees, spread all round and down to -the water’s edge; while, a little way out, the “Petrel” rode at peaceful -anchorage, her boat behind her. Maddock was for the moment so taken up -with the beauty of the place within and without—the room with all its -harmonies of form and colour, the garden and harbour scene—that he did -not notice that someone was standing, half hidden by the curtains, in -the next room on the hearth-rug. Then Gildea passed through and greeted -this person whom he brought forward and introduced to Maddock as Mr. -Hawkesbury. - -Hawkesbury was a small but well-made man with a tendency to muscular -leanness. His face was striking and interesting, and betrayed a -strongly-defined individuality. At one moment he might have been called -handsome, and his manner frank, free, and open: at another his features -took such a contracted intensified look, and his movements were so -nervously acute, that the whole man seemed to have suffered distortion. -It seemed as if he were suddenly seized by some keen pain, spiritual and -physical, and was being racked by it. When Gildea entered, there was -for a moment a trace of this latter manner in Hawkesbury: his sensitive -pride found something antagonistic in, what seemed to him, the consummate -luxury which surrounded him and even in the consummate culture of its -owner: he was almost asking himself what right this man had to spend so -much money and care in decorating a few rooms for a few months, this -man whose life was so radically selfish? Hawkesbury’s was, he might -have said, the feeling of one who was a socialist and worker by intense -conviction, finding himself opposed to one who was an aristocrat and -hedonist by the mere chance of birth and fortune. But, when Gildea met -and greeted him with the frank sweet unconscious cordiality of an equal -whose acquaintance is pleasant, the dark look passed from Hawkesbury’s -face and he gave himself up to the simple pleasure of the situation. -His unexpected introduction to Maddock, who represented to him the more -or less sumptuous aristocrat of religion, for a moment, it is true, -threatened to bring back the evil spirit to him; but Maddock, with his -fine social tact, almost divining the state of affairs, was equally -frank, sweet, unconscious and cordial in his manner, and Hawkesbury was -at his ease. - -The three men stood talking together, Maddock in the middle, in the -bay-window that looked out over the harbour. - -“Why, Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “you will never be able to get away from -this enchanting place again! Are you sure you do not intend to make it -into a home? You did not honour your Melbourne rooms with such care—such -choice of furniture, and....” (He raised his arm and outspread hand, -smiling humorously). - -“‘Man delights not me,’” answered Gildea, “‘No, nor woman neither, though -by your smiling you seem to say so.’” The smile broke out on Hawkesbury’s -face too. It was soothing and very pleasant to find these two talking in -his presence of such an intimate matter as that alluded to here: he was -not accustomed, in the company of, what in Australia and even England -goes by the name of, ladies and gentlemen to this complete absence of -social and individual constraint. - -Then Edgar, Gildea’s valet, ushered in someone else, Mr. Fitzgerald, and -there was a movement and introductions between Maddock, Hawkesbury, and -the new-comer, the three being left alone for a moment while Gildea was -giving some directions to Edgar about domestic arrangements. - -Maddock and Fitzgerald fell almost immediately into a conversation, -Hawkesbury playing the part of silent member. The Doctor was interested -in finding out what the impressions of a cultured Roman Catholic were -of Australia and more particularly of Victoria and New South Wales. -He asked a few questions, the answer to which, he thought, would show -him whether Fitzgerald had observed things with care and sympathy, and -was answered with a gentle readiness that pleased and satisfied him. -The two men felt themselves to a certain extent on common ground, and, -Fitzgerald touching incidentally on the education question, they began to -parallelise each other’s views with cordiality. - -“We quite recognise,” said Fitzgerald, “all the difficulties of -the case—the danger of the unfair influence of catholic teaching -over protestant children, or vice versa, just as each happens to be -stronger in the particular place and school. But we would accept this -danger—accept it, even supposing we were the losers by it—rather than -have the present state of things continue. As our Archbishop said only -the other day at Leichardt: ‘Besides the faculties of intellect and of -reason, there are certain passions of the soul,’ and to develop the -former and wholly neglect the latter is to send a boy out into the world -with _only one eye_. You have prepared him for the temporary business of -life, and unfitted him for the glorious service of eternity: you have -given his ship fine sails, and forgotten to add a rudder! He may be an -acute man of business, but he will be a bad citizen; for, in taking away -from him his sense of religion, you will take away from him his sense of -morality, of honesty, of integrity! We can, at the present stage, see for -Australia no future save that of corruption—a corrupt political life, a -corrupt national life, the unlimited worship of Mammon!” - -“I agree with you to a large extent,” said Maddock, “and we all know -that, practically speaking, the talk about ‘religious education at home’ -is mere verbiage. If the education of a child is secular, his spiritual -lungs, so to speak, end in being able to inhale no other air and thrive -on it.” - -“And,” Fitzgerald said, “the education _is_ secular! Every effort is -being made to drive the voluntary schools out of the field. Their state -aid here in New South Wales is withdrawn: in England it is reduced to -a pittance and hedged about with annoyance. And this, although the -educational reports, drawn up by a secular commission, show that, at -any rate the catholic schools educate on the average both better and -more cheaply than the state-schools do! We only ask for fair play, and -now it has come to this pass that we cannot get it! All over England -the protestant voluntary schools are failing and disappearing. But we, -we Catholics, who cannot, as Protestants do, console ourselves with the -reflection that the atmosphere of the state-schools, if secular, will be -tempered by that of our own beliefs—we _will_ not fail and disappear! We -are the poorest of all religious bodies in England; but I will venture -to say, that not a single case can be found of a catholic school which -has surrendered itself up, as these others did, into the hands of the -Secularists. Our educating priests and laymen have to suffer much -privation: I know, shall I say hundreds, of them who deny themselves all -but the bare necessities of life; but—_we stand our ground_!... You see,” -he added smiling gently, “we Catholics cannot labour under any delusion -here. We recognize that this is a stupendous crisis in the world’s -history. We will have no compromise and secular tempering of the wind to -the shorn Christian. We will stand to our guns, and, if we must perish, -perish there!” - -Maddock was impressed, and so even was Hawkesbury. This man’s enthusiasm -was so quiet, so clear, and yet so radiant. Gildea returned and joined -them. - -“We were speaking of the popular education,” said Fitzgerald, turning to -him, “and I would persuade Dr. Maddock that his cause and ours are here -identic.” - -“I need no persuading,” said Maddock, “I have for some time been -persuading _myself_!” - -“And yet,” Fitzgerald put in gently, “the alliance between us and you -seems farther off than between us and the Dissenters.” - -“And that, I think,” Gildea said, “is because you have more in common. -You are afraid of one another. In the one case, you know that the -frontier of your alliance will be observed, in the other there is a -chance that it may not. At present the most dangerous opponents of -Catholicism in England are, what they call, the High Churchmen. The -Church of England is a compromise between Catholicism and Protestantism; -hence its adaptiveness, hence its strength! It more nearly, in my -opinion, approaches ideal Christianity than any other sect in existence. -It unites the Faith, the Poetry, of Catholicism, with the Freedom, the -Prose, of Protestantism.” - -“We thank you,” said Maddock. - -“Logically speaking, however,” added Gildea, “it is an absurdity.” - -They all began to laugh. - -“Ah,” said Maddock, “I was right when, even while thanking you, Sir -Horace, I thought to myself: _Timeo Danaos, et dona ferentes_.” - -“The Christianity of the Future,” Gildea proceeded gravely, “lies, I -believe, in two transformations—in Catholicism learning that its kingdom -is not of this world, that it no longer requires a Pope, a Rome, as a -Palladium whereby it may fight; in a word, in learning the lesson of -Protestantism, of Freedom: and in Protestantism doing the converse, and -absorbing into itself the catholic Faith, the catholic Poetry!” - -“And what are the Secularists going to do in your Future?” asked -Hawkesbury, “are Messrs. Arnold and Huxley to be put up on a shelf in -your spiritual Museum, in two large spirit bottles, labelled respectively -‘Culture’ and ‘Science?’” - -“Culture,” answered Gildea, “is, after all, but Secular Catholicism, just -as Science is but Secular Protestantism. They too will each learn their -lesson of the other.” - -“Humph!” said Maddock, who again had a faint suspicion that Gildea was -mocking, “and so, after all, Sir Horace is an optimist.” - -“We do not lay stress,” Fitzgerald said gently, “on the temporal power -of the Holy Father. As Sir Horace implied, this temporal power was once -the one shining light in a chaotic world, and it was well that it should -be set on a hill. But now the light is diffusing itself. It is our -wish that, as the Vatican Œcumenical Council declared: ‘Intelligence, -Knowledge, and Wisdom may grow and perfect themselves—as much with the -mass as with individuals, with one man as with the whole church!’ We are -no foes to Freedom. What we _are_ foes to, is Anarchy! At the Reformation -you gave the right of deciding on the deepest religious questions to -every ignorant man that chose to discuss them, and the seamless robe of -Christianity was rent into a hundred pieces! Look at all these miserable -little protestant sects and sub-sects, Plymouth Brethren, Primitive -Methodists, Ana-baptists, and I know not what noisy, ignorant fanatics. -At the Revolution, you did the same for social questions, and what is -the result? The Dynamiters of Russia, of Germany, of Ireland, initiated -by what you, Dr. Maddock, so well call ‘such gentleness as was revealed -in the diabolical deeds of the Commune,’—to say nothing of those of the -Reign of Terror.” - -Maddock half-deprecated, half-approved by a gesture and an inarticulate -sound. - -“Yes, but,” said Hawkesbury with the thrilled voice of suppressed -passion, “has not history justified the Reformation? and how can you say -that it will not justify the Revolution? These, as it seems to me, are -the two fiery portals which lead to Religious and Social Liberty. But you -are right to depreciate them: they knew nothing of the poetry of Culture -and Catholicism, or of the prose of Protestantism and Science. They were -volcanic eruptions of the People. Heine says well, when he talks of ‘the -divine brutality’ of Luther, and we do not shrink from the same phrase -for Hugo or Whitman. Sir Horace has painted us a Future which is indeed -heavenly. It is thronged with sweet-singing angels, and there is not a -shadow in its perfect light. But what has become of the _men_, and what, -O what, has become of the _devils_? They have no place in this Future. -You do not care for the People, I say, except as you care for your dog -which, if he is quiet and docile, shall have a kennel and the bones and -scraps from your table; or, if he is surly, shall be chained up; or, if -he goes mad, shall be shot! Ah believe me, gentlemen, the People _has_ -a place in the Future, for the People, and none other, _is_ the Future! -‘_All for the modern_,’ cries Whitman, ‘_all for the average man of -to-day_.’ But you—you only care for the Upper and the Middle-class. Your -scheme of civilization does not reach to the People. The Upper-class is -exhausted: it needs invigorating. ‘_Cultivate the Middle-class_,’ is the -cry, ‘_Give us Higher Education for the Middle-class!_’ This is the whole -social teaching of the best representative man you have, Matthew Arnold. -Now we, we Socialists as you call us, _love_ the People, and (you will -pardon me) _hate_ the Middle-class;—the dispossessed, the sufferers, -_not_ the possessors, the usurpers! The People is the Prodigal Son. What -sympathy have we, then, with a man like Arnold who has devoted himself -to the edification of the Elder Brother? Arnold says once that he has -evolved that perfect style of his which we know so well—that style which -encloses a minimum of ideas in a maximum of catch-words—or, as he likes -to call it, ‘plain popular exposition’—for the especial benefit of the -British Philistine, the divine Middle-class, who otherwise could not be -got to read him! He would have done better, perhaps, if he had not turned -to the setting, but to the rising sun. The People are the masters of the -Future, and the People’s great men will be the great men of the Future.” - -There was a pause. Then: - -“There is much truth in what Mr. Hawkesbury says,” says Gildea, “Just at -present we think too much of the ultimate Culture of the Middle-class -and too little of that of the People. But the fact is, that the question -of the Middle-class is pressing: they are, as you say, Hawkesbury, the -possessors; they are the Present! And this, I think, is why men like -Arnold, who believe that, in the organization of the Present, lies -the only hope of the success of the Future, are so anxious about it. -It is a case, as he believes, of ‘Culture or Anarchy’—Culture now or -Anarchy then. And Carlyle, a disciple of whom Mr. Hawkesbury has, in -the admirable Preface to his second book of Poems, declared himself to -be; Carlyle too, who laid much stress on what he calls ‘the radical -element’ in himself, yet mocks at ‘Mill and Co.’ as he says, in whom he -declares the opposite element was ‘so miserably lacking.’ Carlyle had no -respect for ‘Rousseau fanaticisms,’ even in a man like Mazzini: he saw -that, if the Middle-class were purblind and slow, the Socialists were -only purblind and quick. Supposing that we grant that the Dynamiters -of Russia are justified in meeting an absolutely dense despotism with -violence, what excuse but impatience can we find for the Dynamiters of -Ireland? The first have no means of free agitation, the second have every -means. Ireland has been wronged: no one denies it; and never, in the -whole course of her history, has England shown such alacrity as she is -doing now to right the wrong; never, not even for herself. But the Irish -Socialists are impatient: their cry is for everything to-day, this very -hour! To grant it them would be the greatest unkindness possible. Well, -they too have taken to dynamite as a hypochondriac takes to opium. The -Russian Nihilists are noble people, none nobler, but they taught fools -and knaves an appalling lesson when they inaugurated the reign of terror -in Petersburg. At the present moment, as Heine clearly foresaw, the -Civilization, not of Europe, but of the whole world is in danger.” - -“You speak well, Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “and express my opinions -better than I could myself, but—_Timeo_.” - -He, Gildea, and Fitzgerald smiled. Hawkesbury was grave. There was a -pause. Then: - -“I think,” he said, “that you do the People wrong. These extreme -Socialists, the Nihilists as they are called, are not from the People, -but from the Middle-class. They are, as a rule, men who have received the -best education of the time, and who yet find themselves unrecognized and -unrewarded. Most of them are journalists. It would astonish you, I think, -to see the amount of really first-rate talent that is being flogged to -death in the shafts of the modern Press. These men cannot work in shops -and banks: the narrow material life has been made impossible to them. -The only opening for the life they would—nay, that they _must_ live, or -perish, is that of Literature. Literature caters for the Middle-class, -the ruling class. These men, then, are the slaves of the great caterers, -the newspaper editors. One of the most thorough Socialists I ever knew, -Holden, in fact, was on the regular staff of the English _Spectator_, -the organ of the enlightened portion of the Middle-class; and there, as -he said to me, he went as near Socialism as he could for threepence! -(Threepence is the price of the paper.) This same man wrote, too, -political articles for a distinguished radical politician, and I have -seen the proof-sheets of these hacked and mauled by the patron to -suit the palates of the Radicals. It was this man who once seriously -contemplated dropping a bomb in the House of Lords, to show that herd of -hereditary liars, as he put it, that there was such a thing as justice -in the world! He loved the People: he hated the Middle-class, but the -People cared nothing for him. It is, then, I think, a mistake to lay the -paternity of Nihilism to the charge of any but the over-fed tyrannous -Middle-class.” - -“What you say,” Maddock said slowly and courteously, “is very interesting -and instructive, Mr. Hawkesbury, and I perceive that the ground which -you, and I think I may say Mr. Fitzgerald,” (Fitzgerald smiled and -bowed), “and myself have in common is large enough to admit of our -working—at any rate not in opposition to one another. Is not our mutual -object the enlightenment of the unintelligent mass of the People and of -the Middle-class? I am, I am sure, grateful to you, sir, for the manner -in which you have brought this home to me. I always felt that underneath -all our differences—I mean, the differences of our beliefs, religious -or social—we had a common ground, the advancement of a really good and -true Civilization, and now, I think, I know this. He renders us a great -service who makes our feelings self-conscious, who turns them into the -articulate thought of words.” - -There was a slight pause. - -“And now,” said Gildea, in his half-amused way, “we will, if you please, -go down to lunch. Mr. Alcock particularly asked me not to wait for him, -and we have waited, it seems unconsciously, for over half-an-hour.” - -They went down together into the dining-room, chatting lightly and -pleasantly. - - -IV. - -The dining-room was the corresponding room on the ground story to the -sitting-room up above. It was quite as well furnished, but in a different -style. A fine rather than an exquisite form of beauty had been sought -after. It was a saying of Gildea’s that a dining-room ought to give you -an impression somewhat similar to that of a beach-brake in spring: the -architecture and furniture should have clear outlines, the colours should -be clear, the lights should be clear. All massiveness and duskiness was -to be avoided. A meal ought to be a repast, not a feast: we should rise -pleasantly satisfied, not dully satiated. In a sitting-room, on the other -hand, the sworn abode of the sweet and delicate talk and music of women, -just as the dining-room was that of the serene discussions of men, there -should be something of the lush luxuriance in shape and colour of the -midsummer woods, knights and ladies and all the figures of romance and -fairy-tale passing together. But such an arrangement of rooms as this, -he would say with his bright half-mocking smile, was at present like a -damsel of the Middle Ages suddenly awakened in the dull derisive streets -of London or Manchester. This will only come to pass in that wonderful -Future, when we have all learned that Beauty and Truth are synonyms, and -Keats has statues and altars like Sophokles of old. - -Considerable time, wealth and trouble had been spent on this house. -Sydney and Melbourne had been ransacked for beautiful things worthy -of Gildea’s ideas of “the nest,” as he called it to himself, that he -desired; for this was indeed one, and not the least remarkable, of his -freaks. It had been aroused in this fashion. One afternoon, sauntering -across a road in the Domain, he had almost been run over by someone -riding a splendid bay horse. Looking up, with a fine touch of anger, he -had perceived that it was a lady, who was looking down at him with a -look, he suddenly felt, so precisely his own that, the ludicrous aspect -of the thing coming upon him, he smiled. She too, at once following his -change of feeling, smiled, and then in a moment, with a slight courteous -movement of hand and body, had passed. It had all taken place in a few -seconds. Her face and form made up between them, he thought, the most -beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had not seen few so-called -whether in Europe or elsewhere. Beauty in women was, according to Gildea, -a thing which was not _in reality_ to be seen in the present world, -implying, as it did, perfection of form and perfection of spirit, καλον -κἀγαθον. The Athens of Perikles had produced female beauty; in the -face and form of the Venus of Milo the highest physical and spiritual -perfection of the time is apparent. Florence too, in such a woman as -Vittoria Colonna, had produced female beauty, and the Renascence had -incarnated it in a Marie Stuart; but, so far, our Modernity was not ripe -for it. Lovely female faces it, as all times, had in abundance, but these -faces knew nothing of spiritual perfection: they knew nothing of life, -they were not beautiful. And the female faces that _did_ know of life, -the faces of women like George Sand, Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot, -were quite wanting in physical perfection. They imply mental passion, -the struggle of pain: they have not reached to the serene pleasure of -spiritual sovereignty. No, Beauty, καλον κἀγαθον, is to be a produce of -the Future when Modernity has passed through the pangs of its travail -and, in the bright light of health and youthfulness, “grows in wisdom -and stature” to the perfect self.—But this face that he had seen for a -moment, was, he thought, really beautiful. - -A few yards from him a man was standing looking back at the rider passing -along under the trees. Gildea came to him, and asked him courteously if -he happened to know who the lady was? - -“No,” said the man, “I don’t know who she is, but I often see her.” - -And on this incident Gildea had founded a freak which had for some time -amused him. He intended to see this woman again, and, if he was correct -in his supposition (which he used amusedly to doubt to himself) that -she was some phenomenal anticipation of the Future, to possess her. He -set about choosing and furnishing a house, therefore, which should, as -far as possible, be worthy of such an individual, and much amusement -it occasionally afforded him. A private enquiry-office was meantime -seeking her out; and, about a month ago, Gildea to his surprise had -been informed that she was, beyond doubt, a Miss Medwin, niece of the -well-known squatter, english, eccentric even to the extent of riding -about and shooting in man’s clothes on one of Mr. Medwin’s stations in -New South Wales, and, moreover, strongly suspected of having had, and -of still having, an intrigue with a Mr. Frank Hawkesbury, a writer and -man of uncertain means, in Melbourne. Gildea laughed much on receiving -this unasked-for report, (He had just by accident made the acquaintance -of Hawkesbury), and his interest in his freak somewhat revived; but his -all but conviction that he was incorrect in his view of Miss Medwin (if -it were indeed she), prevented him from having any great interest in the -matter or any great anticipations of success. As usual, however, he was -satisfied to find that he had any interest or anticipations at all. He -learned from Mrs. Medwin that she was in a short time coming to Sydney -for a week or so on her road up to one of Mr. Medwin’s New South Wales -stations to which she had not been for years, and would be pleased to -see him. A few days ago, then, she and Miss Medwin had arrived, and were -waiting for Mr. Medwin who was detained by business in Melbourne. Hence -Gildea’s invitation to Mrs. Medwin and her niece, to come and make tea -for him and go for a sail in the “Petrel.” - -The party arranged itself round the table, Maddock at one end, Gildea at -the other, an empty place on Gildea’s right hand for Alcock, Hawkesbury -on his left with Fitzgerald next to him. Maddock, as before, could not -help observing with admiration the beautiful room in which they were -sitting. Hawkesbury, however, following out a train of thought suggested -by his own last words, sat serious, looking at the table-cloth. - -The lunch began. Gildea and Fitzgerald could both, when they pleased, -excel in that graceful sweetness of manner which is supposed to be the -peculiar gift of women. They pleased now. The talk flowed lightly and -pleasantly, and soon returned to, what seemed to be to them all, the most -interesting topic—the People. Fitzgerald spoke of the far greater ease -and leisure of the People here than in England, and that led on to a -consideration of the question of Labour here. - -“Carlyle declared long ago,” said Hawkesbury suddenly, “that the great -question of the time was no other than the organization of Labour. Well, -Labour is at last organizing. The consequence is that, as Mr. Fitzgerald -remarked, there is greater ease and leisure among the People, not only -here in Australia where Labour is comparatively scarce, but even in -England where it is plentiful.—The question here, however,” he added, -“shows signs of complication. The employers are to form—nay, have already -formed—a union: ‘The Victorian Employers’ Union.’ The only wonder is -that it is in Victoria and not in England that this idea has first been -adopted. In Trades-Unionism in England, let me say it at once, there have -been many abuses; but, let me hasten to add, not nearly so many abuses as -there were under the old despotism of Capital. Trades-Unionism, which so -few people seem to understand, originally meant the combination of many -oppressed small units against a great oppressing unit. _Now_ it means -more: it means the determined effort of the People after happiness.” - -“That is very true, I think,” said Gildea, “The People, ever since the -deception practised upon them by the compromise Reform Bill of ’32, have -been slowly learning to organize themselves and to rely on themselves -alone. Such a fact soon makes itself apparent. There is not a single -considerable political measure since ’32 which has not a socialistic -tendency.” - -Hawkesbury acknowledged Gildea’s remark, and proceeded: - -“The People, and by the People I mean of course the masses, is everywhere -realizing that there is something better worth living for than frantic -competition and the scramble for wealth. Trades-Unionism, then, is -the sworn foe of all this. I am not speaking either for or against -Trades-Unionism: I am simply stating what it _wants_, what it _is_! The -Trades-hall delegates, in the late conference anent the Bootmakers’ -strike in Melbourne, refused to let a bootmaker work for more than eight -hours a day, although, by so doing, he might better himself, and by not -so doing might keep himself for ever a mere journeyman. ‘Further argument -with men of such a way of thinking,’ says Mr. Bruce Smith, the chief -mover of the ‘Victorian Employers’ Union,’ ‘further argument seemed -useless.’ And it was indeed as it seemed; for these men were of opinion -that if, in the frantic competition and scramble for wealth, one or two -journeymen _did_ rise and become rich, hundreds and thousands would have -to lead lives which would not stand too favourable a comparison with -those of dogs. ‘Therefore,’ the delegates would say, ‘we will check this -frantic competition and scramble for wealth, and we will even be so -wicked as to sacrifice the one or two possible journeymen who might rise -and become rich, for the sake of the actual hundreds and thousands whose -lives otherwise would not stand too favourable a comparison with those -of dogs.’ Well, and what will be the end of this new phase of the great -battle of Capital _versus_ Labour on which we seem to be now entering -here? Let me not be thought a terrorist, if I remark, what is indeed -patent to all, that, in a country with a franchise like ours, Labour, if -driven into a corner and confronted by Capital triumphantly brandishing -its sword of ‘Frantic-competition-and-the-scramble-for-wealth—Labour, -I say, might make things excessively uncomfortable for the community -in general and Capital in particular. I am not hinting at mobs and -sticks and stones. I am merely stating a fact that is patent to all. -Our good friends the Landed-proprietors, videlicet the squatters, have -experienced in Victoria and elsewhere—are indeed now experiencing even in -Queensland[13]—the undoubted benefits of a little judicious legislation. -Might not someone suggest to the ‘Victorian Employers’ Union’ and Mr. -Bruce Smith, who seem to have such quaint notions of what Trades-Unionism -really wants and is, that the same fate may possibly be in store for our -other good friends, the Capitalists?” - -“It is a pity,” said Gildea smiling, “that we have not a Capitalist here -to answer you. But, I think, I know what one of them, Mr. Alcock, would -say. He would say that the great law of Nature is this very frantic -struggle which you deprecate, and that, if you attempt to put a check -on it, you will only end by first arresting and then destroying all -progress. He would oppose the interference of organized Labour quite as -much as of organized public opinion, that is to say the State. He would -of course recognize all the evils of the frantic struggle, but he would -say that it yet contained the great ascending and progressive power of -Nature, it was yet capable of Evolution; whereas the artificial state of -popular leisure and ease contains the great de-scending and retrogressive -power of Nature, Dissolution.—But here,” he said, “at the very nick of -time, he comes himself.” - -Edgar, who had just left them, returned ushering in Alcock, who came -forward with somewhat off-hand apologies to shake hands with Gildea. He -was then introduced to Maddock and shook hands with him, compromising -the matter, as he thought, with the others by a bow and an expression -of his pleasure at making their acquaintance. He sat down in his place -and, having told Edgar what he chose to eat, was ready for a few moments’ -talk before setting somewhat vigorously to work on the victuals. Gildea -explained to him the conversational context, and what he himself had -ventured to say in the person of the typical scientific capitalist. - -“Well,” Alcock said, with a half-pleased half-amused look on his face, -when Gildea had finished, “I will observe that, on the whole, you didn’t -put my sentiments so badly, Sir Horace.—I am opposed to all state -interference,” he declared, turning to Maddock, “It doesn’t pay in the -long run; it enervates people! Look at this New South Wales here. They -can’t put a bridge across a creek now, without petitioning government for -assistance! In England a half-dozen men or so would have got together and -settled the matter themselves. And they want more state interference in -Victoria! Why, it’ll drain out all their independence, and energy; and, -in twenty years, they’ll be as lazy and lackadaisical as they are here in -New South Wales! Competition’s the law of Nature.” By this time Alcock’s -mouth was full, and he was beginning to enjoy the delicate food and -wines, for he was hungry and thirsty. There was a pause. - -“True,” said Fitzgerald, gently breaking it, “but does not Mr. Alcock -too think, that it is just where the law of Nature ends that the law of -Humanity begins? Surely this is the essential position of Christianity, -that it says to the brutality of Nature: ‘Thus far shalt thou go, and no -further.’” - -“You can’t,” answered Alcock with his mouth full, too intent on the -victuals to be more explicit, “You can’t interfere—impunity—great -law—nature—struggle—existence—survival—fittest.” - -“Here, then,” said Fitzgerald who ate little and drank less, turning -to Hawkesbury, “_we_ are at one, I think, as opposed to the pure -Scientists?” - -“I do not believe,” Hawkesbury said, “and I do not think any Socialist -believes, in carrying the initiative of the individual to the extent -that Herbert Spencer would like. But we are not in favour of state -interference. We want to nationalize things, the land, the unearned -increment, the great public enterprises, but we include in this term the -State also. The State at present means the tool of the Middle-class, -worked by Capital and the Land Interest. This arrangement partakes -too much of the nature of a political joint-stock company to please -Socialists.” - -“And you think,” asked Gildea, his hand on his wine glass, looking -at Hawkesbury, “you think that when the People wins, as it of course -ultimately will win, the control of things, that it will not work the -State in its own interest, just as the Aristocracy did and as the -Middle-class does?” - -“You know,” Hawkesbury said, “I _believe_ in the People! The People is -the only unselfish part of society. Their one desire is for justice and -mercy; and, when they could not get it themselves, they have always died -readily for those who, they believed, wished to give it them. Herein lies -the secret of all great popular devotions—from that of Christ to that of -Napoleon.” - -“I,” said Alcock, “do _not_ believe in the People, as you call them, -and their unselfishness has not yet come under my notice. The People, -like everyone else, are led by what they believe to be their interests, -their immediate interests, and our great effort should be, by giving them -a good sound practical education, to get them to see that their true -interest lies in e-volution and not in re-volution. Let us have a fair -chance for everybody, and let the best men win.” - -“Yes,” said Hawkesbury, with suppressed eagerness, “but the trouble is -that, in this so-called free competition of yours, the best _don’t_ -win! In Nature the best win, I agree; but Civilization has complicating -clauses that modify and all but change, what you rightly call, her great -law—the struggle for existence and survival of the fittest.” - -“I do not see that,” said Alcock, returning to his victuals which he had -left for a few moments. - -“I will give you an instance,” said Hawkesbury, “A, B, and C are three -men who start as beggars in the market of free competition. A has the -best wits, and A accordingly wins, and makes a fortune. Good: we applaud! -Then A, B, and C all die, leaving sons D, E, and F, the best-witted -of whom does not happen to be D, A’s son, but E, the son of B. Does E -therefore win and make a fortune, and D sink down to his proper level -with F? Not a bit of it! D has not only his own second-rate powers to -help him: he has also the wealth which he inherits from his father. -E, then, has no chance against him: the second-rate man with wealth -overwhelms the first-rate man with beggary. What are the consequences, -generally speaking? Why, that, instead of the best surviving, the second -or third or fourth or fifth-best survive, and the market is drugged with -successful mediocrity. Here, I think, is the delusion under which Herbert -Spencer’s social philosophy labours: he does not see that Civilization, -as we know it at present, is not a natural but an artificial state, and -that therefore the laws which hold good in Nature by no means necessarily -hold good in Civilization. Look at the bees or ants, whose Civilization -is a natural and not, as ours is, an artificial one: do _they_ encourage -free competition with its inevitable concomitants of wealth and power -accumulated in the hands of a few to the prejudice of the community? Not -so. To each is assigned an equal, if varying, share in the economy of -the community. With them work has its duty, and, as for idleness, it is -not possible. But what duty has the successful business man, except to -his own success? what duty has the wealthy aristocrat, except to his own -pleasure?” There was a slight pause. - -“It won’t _work_,” said Alcock, his eyes a little opened, sitting -considering this young man with sudden interest. (Alcock had so far -thought that, in the present company, nothing would be acceptable save, -what he called, a popular exposition of his own views)—“Believe me,” -he added with gravity to Hawkesbury, “I have gone through all this at -length, repeatedly, and with care, and I am convinced that, with many -drawbacks, free competition within and without is the only thing which -will give us a civilization of progress. The real tendency of everything -else, I say, is towards stagnation or retrogression. Free competition -universal, the great problem of which is to be the dominant race will -proceed to settle itself quickly and thoroughly. Until that problem is -settled, we cannot hope for a Civilization worthy of the name. All the -inferior races must be stamped out, all the stagnatory or retrogressive -ideas eliminated, and the best men with the best knowledge left masters -of the situation. It is impossible to foresee what such men may achieve. -We may yet, perhaps, open communications with the planets and even modify -the courses of the stars.” - -“Well,” said Fitzgerald smiling, “we have had the Vision of the Future -from the Christian, the Cultured, the Socialistic point of view, and now -we see that Science too has her dreams. I have no objection myself to any -of these Visions which, as I take it, all contain a not inconsiderable -amount of truth. I would only observe that I believe them to be all -impossible solely and individually. The Socialistic Future that would -banish Christ, the Scientific that would also banish God, can no more -exist as, in Mr. Alcock’s phrase, masters of the situation, than the -Future of Christianity that would ignore the glory of our discoveries in -Natural Law, or the Future of Culture that would deny to the People our -highest joy.” - -“No,” said Alcock drily, “we don’t want Superstition mixed up with -Religion, _that_ is clear enough.” - -“Nor yet,” added Fitzgerald sweetly, “do we want Superstition mixed -up _without_ Religion.” (Alcock, with the look of a man who does not -understand a thing and does not much care to, took a drink at his -champagne, which, it was evident from the new expression on his face, -was to his taste. Fitzgerald proceeded suavely to the table at large and -more particularly to Maddock.) “For, as perhaps Mr. Alcock,” (with a -slight bend of the head to Alcock), “will permit me to say, the purely -scientific view of things, which sees, in the unrestrained application -to civilized life of the brutality of Nature, the undoubted parent of a -Civilization worthy of the name, may be after all, and I believe is, a -great superstition. Is not a superstition a belief in a thing not worthy -of that belief? And is it not, then, a superstition, in calculating the -progress of Humanity, to leave out of all account, as the pure Scientists -seem to me to do, the most distinctive thing in Humanity—Religion.” - -“_I_ should say,” observed Alcock, “that _Reason_ is the most distinctive -thing in Humanity.” - -“Indeed?” asked Fitzgerald, “You surprise me! Is it not generally -admitted now that the rudiments of Reason, and considerably more than -the rudiments, are to be found in the animals? But I am not aware that -anyone, not even Ernst Haeckel, has discovered in them the rudiments of -Religion. Can we not, then, agree with Max Müller that it is ‘certain -that what makes man man, is that he alone can turn his face to heaven; -certain that he alone yearns for something that neither sense nor reason -can supply?’” - -Alcock had the look of a man who feels the prompting of flippancy -and, restraining it, is amused at what his flippancy would have said. -Fitzgerald, perceiving this, answered it: - -“Müller,” he proceeded, “in criticising Kant, who is of course the Father -of all the worshippers of Reason, again says finely that ‘he closed the -ancient gates through which man had gazed into Infinity; but, in spite of -himself, he was driven, in his “Criticism of Practical Reason,” to open a -side-door through which to admit the sense of duty, and with it the sense -of the Divine.—This is the vulnerable point in Kant’s philosophy,’ he -goes on, ‘and if philosophy has to explain what is, not what ought to be, -there will be and can be no rest till we admit, which cannot be denied, -that there is in man a third faculty, which I call simply the faculty -of apprehending the Infinite, not only in religion but in all things, -a power independent of sense and reason, a power in a certain sense -contradicted by sense and reason, but yet a very real power, which has -held its own from the beginning of the world, neither sense nor reason -being able to overcome it, while it alone is able to overcome both reason -and sense.’” - -“That it has held its own from the beginning of the world,” said Alcock, -“is no proof that it will do so to the end.” - -Fitzgerald smiled. - -“What you say,” he answered, “makes clear to me, then, that you do not -accept this ‘faculty of apprehending the Infinite,’ and philosophically -make the best of it, but you wish to call it mere childishness or, as you -say, superstition and—‘eliminate’ it! And yet you talk of Religion! What, -may I ask, does a pure Scientist, as you seem to be, Mr. Alcock, _mean_ -by Religion?” - -“Well,” said Alcock frankly, “I confess that, to me, it means little -more than credulity. I am not, of course, hostile to Religion; on the -contrary, I support it. It helps to keep society together.” - -“It will do,” said Hawkesbury, “for the People! Pending the arrival of -that education, which is to teach them the high satisfaction of social -evolution, the masses may amuse themselves with such used-out mummeries -as the Devil, Christ, and God. The People is grateful. It has, it knows, -as much to expect from Science as from Culture.” - -Fitzgerald was quite amused. - -“Mr. Alcock,” he said, “since you pure Scientists are generally reckoned -as the foes of us Christians, we can ask you to do us no kinder service -than to nail these colours of yours to the mast in the sight of all men. -I do not alone mean your belief that Religion is all but a synonyme for -credulity; but this general conception of things of yours which includes -no further consideration for Religion than elimination. We can have no -doubt of the results. The world will doubtless find in _our_ conception -of things a certain amount of, what Mr. Hawkesbury has called, used-out -mummery (for man’s free-will has ever turned use into abuse), but it will -find also things which savour of the kindly earth and the genial sun; -whereas, if you will let me say so, in _yours_ all that it will find -will be the steel-cold atmosphere of some heatless planet, filled with -the dreary whirr of abstract machinery. Superstition _with_ Religion, -they will say, is better than Superstition _without_. And then, after -they have given you a trial—and a trial they will give you, and such a -great and long trial that we shall be eliminated almost as much as even -you, Mr. Alcock, could wish us to be—then they will come back to us, -and, having been driven by sore anguish of soul to re-discover, as their -Father did, the sense of duty and of the Divine, they will find that this -first step leads inevitably to another, and that to yet another. And, -in the end, all high souls, and after them of course all other souls -(for the wisdom of to-day is the common sense of to-morrow), will see -that their best and truest Father was a man who, passing through all -this before them, has these years stood with clear and radiant faith, -his longing hands held out to all that would take their strong help and -guidance to that place of joy and of peace!” - -Alcock, supposing this man to be Jesus and having made it a rule never -in mixed company to speak of that to him, under such circumstances, -embarrassing personage, kept silence, looking at the table-cloth. -Hawkesbury too did not understand the allusion, which even Maddock, -unless he had been warned by Gildea of Fitzgerald’s connection with -Cardinal Newman, might have missed. As it was, Gildea, perceiving and -amused at Alcock’s misunderstanding, was ready to at once dissipate it. - -“Newman,” he said, “is indeed the great modern example of a man of high -intellect and all spiritual powers giving, not only, as Heine did, -‘his tribute of admiration,’ but everything he had, ‘to the splendid -consistency of the Roman Catholic doctrine.’ I remember once hearing a -rather able High-churchman say that he could not see, any more after -than before reading the celebrated _Apologia_, why Newman had joined the -Church of Rome: which is to say, that he could not see that, to a certain -type of mind, the only two logical positions for a man of thought to-day -are those of Scientific Atheism or of Catholic Faith.” - -“He leaves no place, then,” said Hawkesbury, “for the Theists or the -Pantheists?” - -“The Theists,” answered Gildea, “leave no place for themselves—except -in the spiritual out-houses and the Unitarian chapels. There is not, I -think, in modern times, one man of first, or second, or even third-class -intellectual power that has believed in a personal God and not believed -in a divine Christ. All men of thought are really now divided into two -classes, Christians and Atheists: the first believing in a personal -Christ and a personal God, the second in Law. All other differences -are, as it seems to me, at heart mere divergences of symbolism. We are -accustomed, for instance, to call those who hold that matter produces -spirit Materialists, and those who hold that spirit produces matter -Idealists, and those who hold that matter and spirit are identic and -divine, Pantheists; but really they are all Atheists. There is no -Atheism, no disbelief in a personal God, more intense than that of our -Idealists, Renan, Arnold, Emerson, who never cease, however, to talk of -God and bid us find in Him our only comfort and guide: they are the true -children of Goethe whose conception of God was Humanity in Nature, and of -Religion Humanity in Art.” - -“So we Catholics feel,” said Fitzgerald, “and this is, as I have implied, -the great truth which we owe to the life and work of Newman. He has saved -us from any temptation to compromise with Atheism. We are to stand to our -guns, and, if we must perish, perish there!” - -“The only thing is,” Gildea answered ruefully, “that no great spiritual -movement, religious or otherwise, was ever yet produced, retained, or -destroyed by the action of logic, and they have all partaken largely of -the nature of compromise. Voltaire and the philosophes sent such a douche -of logic onto Christianity in France that they literally beat it out of -the country, but it came back again. And why? Because it contained the -satisfaction of the demands of one side of Humanity which Logic had not, -and could not have. Well, they compromised the matter, and the result -is, (Dare I declare it, Fitzgerald?), none other than men like the fine -and intellectual ecclesiastics who presided over the education of that -lay priest, as he calls himself, Ernest Renan. History repeats itself. -What Logic tried to do yesterday, Science is trying to do to-day. And, -as you,” (he turned his eyes to Fitzgerald), “foresee, Christianity, -and Religion generally will suffer a defeat and even decapitation, only -to return with processions, ringing of bells and the glad shouts of the -populace. Then the Parliament will shut up all the sunday theatres, and -the skeletons of Professor Huxley and Herbert Spencer will be removed -from the Pantheon at Westminster and lodged in Madame Tussaud’s, and the -land have rest—for the space of forty years!” - -“Well,” said Alcock, “you young gentlemen are getting too far head -for steady-going seniors like Dr. Maddock and myself. We will ask -for matches, and smoke a cigar, while you tell us all about our -great-great-grandchildren.” - -Cigars, cigarettes, and lights were brought and, with some pleasant small -talk, the party loosened and eased its position at table and physical and -mental state generally. - -“Talking of compromise,” said Hawkesbury, taking his cigarette from -his lips and leaning the elbow of the hand that held it on the table, -“between Religion and Logic, or Reason, is not, what is called, -Positivism an attempt to organise such a compromise?” - -Gildea began to laugh. - -“Ah,” he said, “is not Arnold’s ‘grotesque old french pedant,’ a late -foolish Monsieur Comte, as Carlyle would say, to leave me alone even -beyond ‘the long wash of Australian seas?’ Am I to be persecuted even -here by his tiresome adaptations and school-boy notions, all bundled up -in superlatively bad French?—You do not know,” he added, “what I chance -to have suffered at the hands of my positivist friends at home, or I am -sure you would not ask me to discuss them here where I am come for a -holiday. They and Mr. Mallock are the most tiresome people in existence. -You have heard of Mr. Mallock out here? and of his tilts with the junior -Positivists?” - -Hawkesbury acquiesced. - -“We have heard of everything out here,” he said smiling. - -“Mr. Mallock,” said Gildea, “was a young man who wrote a charming book -called ‘The New Republic,’ one of the most charming books that had been -written for several years, and then took to polemics, and has been -logically agonizing there ever since. For this too we all ought to owe -this religio-intellectual pedantry called Positivism a grudge. And, when -we remember what Positivism did for George Eliot,—reduced a good quarter -of herself and her characters into edificatory machines—I think that all -of us, to whom Nature and Art are precious, should look upon Positivism -as the contemporary accursèd thing.” Gildea spoke with a certain -exaggerativeness of tone and manner that to Maddock, observing and -listening to everything with humour, was somewhat puzzling. Maddock with -average profundity suspected that here was a case of some personal memory -of a more or less disagreeable character; but average profundity, when it -has to deal with that which is out of the range of the average, nearly -always makes mistakes. Gildea was subject to sudden losses of interest -in what he was saying or doing, spiritual twinges of that terrible wound -from which he suffered: to those to whom “the endless emptiness of all -things” is a reality, moments of acute weariness and disgust are ever -lying in wait, and then the harness of life and living is often resumed -with impatience or even pettishness. It had been so just now with Gildea. -He had looked forward to his meeting with Miss Medwin, and heard those -beautiful lips open and sounds come forth that showed that, however -fine the harp, its strings were unattuned. The sense of his intense and -perpetual loneliness had rushed upon him, and he had gone back again into -his surroundings with an irritation that in a few moments amused him at -himself. - -The talk passed onwards, Maddock for the first time taking his share -in it. And yet again it came round to the People. It was clear that -the strongest impression that had been given to the party was that of -Hawkesbury’s Socialism. - -“If I had been speaking of it some five or six years ago,” said -Fitzgerald, “I should have certainly said that I thought the Secularists -had made most impression on the People of late years. But, in the face of -the American Revivalist meetings and the Salvation Army, I have had to -modify my views.” - -“These movements or rather this movement,” said Gildea, “strikes me as -reactionary. British Middle-class Liberalism and Secularism have been -at work, with much cry, and the egregious littleness of the wool has -disgusted the People who have rushed off into the opposite extreme. The -workmen, the skilled workmen, are I think secular. I remember hearing a -lecturer on art who had been on a tour in America say, that the American -workmen all asked him if he knew Darwin or Huxley or Tyndall, and -expressed little or no care about anyone else, which seemed to surprise -him.” - -“Cardinal Manning,” Fitzgerald remarked, “said well, then, that ‘the -spiritual desolation of London alone would make the Salvation Army -possible’—‘this zealous but defiant movement.’ Are we right in our -supposition, do you think, Mr. Hawkesbury?” - -Hawkesbury assented. - -“There are three movements,” he said, “at present going on among the -People—the Socialistic, the Religious, and the Secular. They are all -strong. In Ireland I have seen the two first clash, and the first was -almost invariably victorious. If the priests will not go with the People -in their socialistic views, (For of course the Irish Question is really a -socialistic one, although it is not spoken of as such), then the priests -are given up. Usually, however, the priests, being themselves of the -People, are in full sympathy with them. The Socialists are by no means -necessarily Atheists, but they are not Christians. ‘The sooner,’ I heard -one of them say once, when pressed on the point, ‘the sooner Christ is -made a thing of the past and Jesus a thing of the present, the better it -will be for all of us.’ That expresses them excellently. The same idea -lies at bottom in the popular Religious movement.—We Socialists,” he -added with a touch of bright humour, “like the Booths better than we like -the Bradlaughs, but we recognise that both are in earnest and working for -the People.” - -“And what, religiously speaking,” asked Fitzgerald, “do you believe is to -be the future state of the People, and of us all?” - -Hawkesbury had another touch of bright humour. - -“Socialism,” he said, “nothing but Socialism! We are all Socialists, -whether we know it or not. Just, then, as in the first and second -centuries the platonistic Time-spirit radically influenced before it -was absorbed into the christianic: so in the eighteenth and nineteenth -centuries has the christianic Time-spirit radically influenced, before -it shall be finally absorbed in, the socialistic. Socialism has, after -all, its universal modern expounder in Goethe. Goethe was the first to -look upon Civilization as a great organic whole, every part of which has -fixed pleasures and duties. He was the first, we believe, to conceive -a natural as opposed to an artificial Civilization. Carlyle, too, felt -something of the sort, although he could not express it, any more than he -could not express what he took God to be. But we know Carlyle loved us, -and therefore we love Carlyle. As for your Idealists, Sir Horace,—Renan, -Emerson, and Arnold—we have no care for them, nor they for us. I remember -once hearing Holden call Arnold ‘the man who slew so many Philistines -with the jawbone of an ass.’ Well, the remark is expressive of his -attitude towards Culture.” Gildea and Fitzgerald were laughing, Maddock -smiling. - -“The end of it all,” said Maddock, “seems to be, then, Mr. Hawkesbury, -that ‘the People,’ as we say, is the great unknown quantity of the social -equation. We all more or less feel its power, and we all more or less -wish that power to be arrayed on our side, but no one quite knows what it -is and everyone is a little afraid of it.” - -“You say truly,” said Hawkesbury, “The People is the great unknown power, -and it puzzles us. Pharaoh has dreamed a dream, and there is none of all -the magicians of Egypt and all the wise men thereof that can interpret -it unto him. What to make of the People’s noisy Tichborne or Salvation -Army devotions but political and religious infatuations? Be it so! But I -will say this, that the People has a shrewd humorous instinct for both -politics and religion that is a whole heaven above the purblind prudence -of the Middle-class.” He sighed, the sigh of a man who has somewhat -outspoken himself. “‘—And all these things,’ he added as if to conclude -the matter, ‘are only known to the Deity.’” - -Gildea smiled. - -“Well,” he said, “Are there not those among us who look forward to what -is to come with the brightest faith or with the darkest despair? And -there are those who dream and those who doubt,—and those too who possess -their souls with patience, nourishing a modest hope. For - - “what was before we know not, - and we know not what shall succeed. - - “Haply the river of Time— - as it grows, as the towns on its marge - fling their wavering lights - on a wider, statelier stream— - may acquire, if not the calm - of its early mountainous shore, - yet a solemn peace of its own.” - -Little more was said after this of the chief subjects of their talk, and -presently both Fitzgerald and Hawkesbury took their leave, Maddock and -Fitzgerald, and Alcock and Hawkesbury, expressing mutual hopes of seeing -one another again. - - -V. - -Maddock went out into the balcony and stood there, leaning on the rails, -reflectively smoking his cigar and looking out at the scene stretched -before him like a panorama. Alcock held quiet converse with Gildea for a -few moments, apologetically asking permission to go and write a letter, -the importance of which he would have explained at length, had not Gildea -interposed. - -“By all means,” said he; and, with a word of excuse to and gesture of -acknowledgment from Maddock, took Alcock off into a room opposite, a -study, where he ensconced him at the desk and, having pointed out the -position of all the epistolatory necessities and told him to ring the -bell for Edgar who would see that the letter was posted at once, withdrew -and rejoined Maddock on the balcony. - -“You will excuse Alcock,” Gildea said, lighting a cigarette, “He has a -letter of importance to write, which he does not care to leave till we -come back.” - -Maddock at once acquiesced. There was a pause, both smoking with leisure. - -At last: - -“Well,” said Gildea, taking his cigarette from his lips, “and how did you -like the happy family? You were a very quiet member of it.” - -“Yes,” said Maddock, “I refrained from mewing and sat still, purring and -pleasantly watching the others. It struck me, shortly after Alcock came -in, that we were a very representative happy family.” - -“We only wanted a genial Theist to make the pile complete. Your good -Judge is a Theist. Now if we could only....” - -“Ay, ay,” said Maddock with something like a chuckle, “Judge Parker is a -Theist! As your friend the _Argus_ said, he was ‘the learned gentleman -who discovered Unitarianism in the early months of 1885.’—Come now,” he -proceeded with a sudden concentration of interest, “what are you going -to say of the affirmative side of this man’s criticism, after your -remark that there was not, in modern times, one man of real intellectual -power that has believed in a personal God and not believed in a divine -Christ? Are you going to turn upon me again with your precious purely -intellectual view of things, and say: ‘The question that now arises is, -has not Theism, after all,’ et cetera, et cetera, et cetera?” - -“Certainly I am,” said Gildea laughing, “but all hope of utilizing -the purely intellectual view seems lost after my unwary committal of -myself.—No,” he added more seriously, “I have of course little more left -to do than to try and get you to join me in abuse of the good Judge for -his superstition, that is to say his Theism, and that other egregious -vice of his—his ludicrously inadequate conception of what is ‘good -and ennobling.’ To take the last first, I will say, as I once heard -Hawkesbury say on a like occasion, that I would far sooner believe in -the Orthodox Christ than in the Unitarian Jesus. Indeed I might broaden -my saying, and declare to the whole Rationalistic conception of Christ -and Christianity generally, what Carlyle declared to Voltaire: ‘Cease, -my much respected Herr Von Voltaire, shut thy sweet voice; for the task -appointed thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou demonstrated this -proposition, considerable or otherwise: That the Mythus of the Christian -Religion looks not in the eighteenth century as it did in the eighth.... -Take our thanks, then, and—thyself away.’” - -“Judge Parker’s view of Our Lord,” said Maddock frowning, “is,—not to -say blasphemous,—simply _fatuous_! I do not know whether indignation at -impudence or contempt at stupidity the most possesses a man, when he is -told, by such an one as this, that ‘the Christian Theist, who regards -Jesus as man, considers, and rightly from his point of view, that it _is_ -within his power to attain to the life of, and to follow the example -of, Christ.’ Imagine Judge Parker attaining to the life of anyone but a -blatantly successful lawyer in the truculent spiritual quagmires of a -colonial capital!” - -“Our good Judge’s discovery and investigation of the character of Jesus,” -said Gildea, almost ready to laugh outright at Maddock’s concluding -dythramb, “are certainly not unlike those of a man who should charter a -penny steam-boat for a trip up the Nile, and proceed, on his return to -England, to give a lengthy description of certain large triangular-shaped -buildings which, he should say, bore considerable resemblance to the -common-sense conception of pyramids! And it _is_ possible perhaps to -denominate such a description as fatuous. His conception of Jesus _is_, -we are agreed—inadequate: ‘an exemplar ... who merits all praise, all -esteem, and love, and admiration for that, _being human_, he led so pure, -so blameless, so noble and unselfish a life.’ This, what this with our -good Judge _means_, is an inadequate conception of Jesus. He perceives -nothing of the real essence of Jesus. Anything that Arnold, whom he -quotes so often, may have said of ‘the mildness and sweet reasonableness’ -of Jesus, or that Renan may have said of the wonderful powers of personal -attraction that are in Jesus—all this has fallen like water on the -judicial back of our duck here! It is for none of these that our good -Judge, our typical man of common-sense, goes to his New Testament. -‘Mildness and sweet reasonableness,’ the yearning of a consuming personal -love, are not clear solid spiritual qualities which his mind can see and -touch and handle. They have no place in the copy-books of the soul, nor -yet in the sum-books thereof, and you shall search its ‘Little Arthur’s -History’ from beginning to end and find no mention of them. Their only -place is in the thoughts, words, and actions of the men and women who -have moved thousands and millions of their fellows, in the radiant days -of high civilizations, in the agonies of the travail or the destruction -of peoples and races. ‘It is apparent,’ says he, ‘that we can collect -from the Christian Bible, a purer, more beautiful, and more advanced -ethical code, than is to be obtained from any other book or books.’ -O good Judge, O belovèd Judge, if all that is to be got out of the -Christian Bible is an ‘ethical code,’ then the sooner Martin Tupper and -Mr. Harrison are deified, the sooner will the human soul have reached its -apogee!” - -“That is well,” said Maddock, “but, at the same time, there are few -things that disgust me more than the man of the opposite sort—he who, -like so many of these Socialists of yours, will sing the love of Christ -with passion, and then go out and commit a hundred of the grossest sins. -Christ is morality.” - -“Ah no,” said Gildea, “he is something better; he is religion! It is -immoral to commit adultery: it is moral to punish it: (‘Infinitely better -that they should atone for it, than lose a step towards a higher life’): -it is religious, not to condemn it, but to bid go and sin no more. It is -immoral to take your share in your father’s substance and waste it in -violent living: it is moral to punish this prodigal, to whom repentance -has only come with a belly that was fain to fill itself with the husks of -the swine: it is religious to kill the fatted calf for such a penitent, -and rejoice and make glad. Jesus’ sole criticism on practical morality, -on the realization of an ethical code in everyday life, is, that ‘it was -not so from the beginning.’” - -“Just so; but this is precisely the difference of the ethical code of the -Old and of the New Dispensation.” - -“Will you let me say, that it has nothing to do with any ethical code -at all? For, surely, the essence of ethical codes is justice, and the -essence of the religious code, of the code of Jesus, is love. The Amazon -may be a big river, but you shall compass all time in trying to put into -it the unspeakable ocean.—No, it is just here that, as Fitzgerald would -say, all these good people are superstitious. They believe that the -spiritual progress of humanity is synonymous with the progress of one -portion of the spirit of humanity, namely the ethical portion; and this, -being a belief in a thing not worthy of that belief, may justly, as it -seems to me, be denominated a superstition. It is superstition without -religion.” - -“And what, then,” asked Maddock, “do you call the belief of men like your -friend Hawkesbury?” - -“Those who are immoral? men and women who, as most of these Socialists, -work in the spirit of Jesus and act (as a polemist would say) in the -manner of Bradlaugh?—what is _their_ belief?” - -“Yes,” said Maddock. - -“Why, clearly,” answered Gildea smiling, “religion _with_ superstition! -The men of enthusiasm like Hawkesbury, and the men of morality like Judge -Parker, are surely both of them right, and surely both of them wrong: -right in their appreciation of the truth of one portion of the spiritual -life, wrong in their ignorance of another portion. They both possess -truth, and they both possess superstition.” - -“And what of a man like our friend Alcock here, who is ignorant of -religion and more or less lax as regards morality?” - -“He too,” answered Gildea, “as Fitzgerald clearly demonstrated, is -a victim of superstition. But he is not, for all that, without his -belief, without his appreciation of truth. He believes in that portion -of the spiritual life which we call intellect. Men like him have their -enthusiasm, for which they are ready to suffer and do suffer all things; -and that enthusiasm is the enthusiasm for that portion of truth which we -call Science.” - -“And your Fitzgerald—is he too both right and wrong?” - -“Of course he is; for has he not both belief and negation? All belief is -truth, not _the whole_ truth, but _a part_ of the truth. There is but one -thing that is the whole truth.” - -“God?” - -“No, not God, for God does not include Nature, from which He is the -outcome—not God, not Nature, but that which contains them both, -Everything, the All!” - -“Pooh,” said Maddock, “flat Pantheism!” - -“_And suppose_,” cried Gildea, “_it were_ Pot-_theism, if the thing is -true_!” (He laughed outright.) “—That answer of Carlyle’s,” he said, “is -immortal.” - -“Oh, it was Carlyle said it?” said Maddock, “I had forgotten.—And so,” he -proceeded, “the secret is out, and Sir Horace Gildea ‘stands confessed a -Pantheist in all his charms!’” - -“Two of the happy family still remain unaccounted for,” Gildea said, -“although they too have not probably attained to perfect truth.” - -“Oh, that is you and I. As for me, I can describe myself without your -aid. I believe in morality and religion, with a touch of superstition in -both.” - -“Worse,” said Gildea, “worse!” - -“What, then?” - -“You believe in theology which is as bad a superstition as, what Judge -Parker calls, ‘the calm blissful sea of pure _theistic_ belief.’ (You -notice how emphatic he is about his superstition and casual about his -truth?)” - -“Stop a moment now, my bright Apollo, and explain to me, what you have -not yet attempted to, what the superstition of Theism is?” - -“_What is Theism?_—‘It is a faith,’ answers our good Judge, ‘which is -_the_ faith of all others’ (that is to say the faith of Judge Parker and -all the ‘celebrated unitarian ministers’), ‘to be clung to, cherished -and maintained as long as man exists—belief, trust in, and love for -the All-loving, All-righteous, All-wise Universal Spirit of God.’ Now -observe that this faith, this unique faith of faiths, is ‘refreshing, -and invigorating in its simplicity’—(as, we might add, is also its -formulator, if we did not shun flippancy as we would the pest)—‘warm and -glowing in its absolute unclouded devotion to, love for, and perfect -trust in God alone—_proclaimed by_ NATURE!’ O wise Judge, O upright -Judge, O Judge much more elder than thy looks, where, when, and how, -in the name of all observers of Nature from Darwin through Haeckel to -Tennyson, did you discover therein either this love or righteousness of -which you make such mention? ‘The struggle for existence and survival of -the fittest,’ the parent of theistic righteousness and love! ‘_Proclaimed -by_ NATURE!’—and Nature in italics! O immemorial phrase that eats up -all the others even as Aaron’s rod swallowed up all the rods of the -magicians!—Who, after this, would care to trouble himself with all the -other potent items of this faith of faiths? The idea of God, God ‘the -All-loving, All-righteous, All-wise Universal Spirit’ ‘originated in -instinct,’ and is not the slow and painful growth of time? Think of the -love of Jehovah! the righteousness of Baal! the wisdom of Moloch!—The -beauty and sympathy and warmth of the theistic form of belief,” he -added, “are recognizable as a half-hearted mixture of the clap-trap of -Religion and Science—Superstition, which knows that it is naked, and sews -fig-leaves together, and make itself an apron!” - -Maddock, however, could have no confidence in the expressed views of this -man, from whose face the light of amusement, amusement at others and -himself, seemed never to be absent long. There had, indeed, been moments -when it required all Maddock’s intuition to prevent his perception rising -in absolute revolt against what seemed Gildea’s flagrant insincerity: -then his perception had said to him that this was but a youth, endowed -with brilliant abilities, the mere exercise of which was a pleasure -and satisfaction to him, caring too little for any one thing to owe it -loyalty. Whereto his intuition had replied that this was not a youth but -a man, and a man whose secret could not thus be read. And the feeling -that Maddock had, once before that day, felt towards Gildea returned -now with an intensity and strangeness that seemed to Maddock, when -he afterwards considered it, as little short of wonderful. Maddock’s -profundity was often beyond the average, and herein indeed lay his -secret, herein nestled “the heart of his mystery.” - -“And yet,” said Gildea, “here, as in the other case, the common-sense -view of belief has, of course, its excellence. ‘To take nothing else,’ -says the Judge, ‘the very idea of “space” and “distance” that astronomy -has given us fills the mind with wonder and with awe, clothing nature -with a sublimity, a majesty, and a beauty which, otherwise, we had never -known.’ For observe that _Space_ and _Time_, these two inexhaustible -ideas, are not, to our average intelligent secular view of things, -the mere words that they are to the orthodox: they are realities thus -far, that they help us to perceive that ‘there exists throughout -space,—throughout the vast limitless universe,—motion, order, beauty; -that there is behind all motion, all order, all beauty, a force that -produces the motion, the order, and the beauty.’ And further. They are -realities thus far, that they help us to be (whatever Dr. Maddock, in -a polemico-theological spirit, may declare) earnest in our life and -earnest in our wish to bring home to others the truth of that life, a -‘most serious and difficult task!’ They help us to all this, and an -unrecognized intuitional belief in the essence which, in other forms -and other men whom we fail to appreciate, not to say understand, we -condemn—our intuitional belief, I say, in the Faith, Hope, and Love, -which are the great movers of the progress of Humanity both upward and -onward, will not let the forms that portions of this belief may take in -us make the whole grow cold, lifeless, petrified, but the beauty and -melody of our acts will often be found to contradict the deformity and -discord of our words.” - -“I confess, Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “that you are a puzzle to me. I -really should not be surprised to see you some day walking side by side -with the Judge, the best friends in the world!” - -“And perhaps,” said Gildea, “the Judge would not subsequently be -surprised to see me doing the same with yourself! For that indeed is the -only use of such poor creatures as I: we see the good in opponents and -serve as links in the spiritual bridge of Humanity.” - -“I should very much like,” said Maddock, “to hear how you would abuse me -to him. I think I see the urbane expression with which you would delight -him by shewing how, in this ecclesiastical, metaphysical, theological -polemist here, habemus confitentem asinum; and then turn upon him and -say: ‘The question that now arises, my dear Judge, is, has this man -nothing but faults—has he no excellencies? does there remain, after the -attack on him of so eminent a biblical critic as Judge Parker is, no -residuum of real and vital truth? Let us see.’” - -“Doctor, Doctor,” said Gildea, “to make me laugh so, is cruel!” - -“You do not consider me,” said Maddock, “in the least.” - -They both laughed heartily. - -“And now,” said Maddock, “in order to complete the matter, tell me, what -is _your_ superstition? Here are Alcock and Parker with their respective -superstitions of Atheism and Theism, of purely scientific and purely -ethical progress. Here is Hawkesbury with his superstition about the -unselfishness of the People and the practical neglect of Morality. Here -is Fitzgerald with his superstitious belief in a Church whose splendid -logical consistency will prove its ruin. Here am I, a member of a sect -that more nearly approaches ideal Christianity than any other sect in -existence, and is a logical absurdity—blessed with the superstition of -theology and, worse, of polemical theology, with.... But I cannot express -all my superstitions: they seem more in number than the hairs of my head!” - -“Let us say broadly, then, that Alcock and the Judge are those who have -superstition _without_, and Fitzgerald, you, and to a certain degree -Hawkesbury, those who have superstition _with_, Religion.” - -“And that you?” - -“And that _I_ am he who unites in my proper person the superstitions of -all with the actualities of none.” - -There was a pause. Then: - -“Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “I take you seriously. And I will confess -that I would sooner, far sooner, be any one of us than you.—Verily and -indeed,” he added, solemnly, “I cannot see why you should care to live.” - -“Nor yet,” said Gildea, “why I should care to die?” - -Maddock was possessed by sadness. The absolute, inevitable hopelessness -of this man made him again turn faint and sick at heart. - -“Nor yet,” he said, “why you should care to die.” - -There was a long pause. Never again could Maddock be illuded into -momentary misunderstanding of this man: he had now not only seen this -strange soul laid bare before him and felt the influence of that sight, -but had felt as if he had, as it were, almost received it into his own, -almost made it a part of himself. - -At last: - -“I asked you to believe,” he said with a touch of wistfulness in face -and tone, “that I was your true friend. You will perhaps, forgive me if -I ... if I offer you the one token of it that seems left to me to offer. -Some day—I cannot tell, but so I trust—you may care to think that, each -night you close your eyes in sleep, there is one whose prayers for you -are rising, as he believes, to the God and Father of us all, to bless and -keep you, to lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and to give -you peace.” - -The two men stood facing each other for a few moments in silence: then -their hands met in a close, long clasp, and parted; and they turned, -standing almost touching each other, looking out over the lovely scene of -earth and water and sky. - -At last: - -“Those clouds,” said Gildea softly, “they have a peerless radiancy. One -seems to understand how the men of the past days saw a spirit therein, -and held converse with it with wonder and delight and awe. Those were -days of a music and beauty and sweetness such as we shall never know -again.” - -“_If not_,” said Maddock as softly, - - “_if not the calm_ - _of its early mountainous shore,_ - _yet a solemn peace of its own._” - -A footstep was heard behind them. It was Edgar, come to say that Mrs. and -Miss Medwin had arrived and were up in the drawing-room with Mr. Alcock. - -Gildea stepped out onto the lawn. - -“Let us go up by the balcony,” he said to Maddock. - - -VI. - -Mrs. Medwin was the only native-born australian lady who was “good -style.” So at least a Governor’s wife, about the “goodness” of whose -“style” there could be no question, had declared. It was not, this -Governor’s wife had explained, that there were no ladies in Australia, -(There were not however many, par parenthèse, and such style as they had -was at best but second-rate american), but they none of them had that -manner of dressing, moving, and speaking which characterizes what (to use -this rather objectional term again, for want of a better) we call “good -style.” This Governor’s wife, with her usual delicate feminine instinct, -had felt on the occasion of this now socially celebrated description -of Mrs. Medwin, that she had not quite satisfied herself, that the -description did not contain the truth, all the truth, and nothing but -the truth, of the matter; and she was right, it did not. Mrs. Medwin -undoubtedly possessed that serene refinement of movement and speech which -go so far to making up that all but defunct individuality, a “lady,” but -she was wanting in the final gift of a “lady,” social charm. The flower -was scentless, or rather the scent it had was of another description. -Her life had not, indeed, been favourable to the development of this -final gift. She had been married early, a ready enough victim to the -convenience of her family, to a man with whom she had little in common -and much in opposition. He was liked by none and feared by all those -who had any personal dealings with him: his savage outbursts of passion -recalled to memory the dark stories that were told of his father who had, -as the Australians euphemistically put it, come out at the government -expense. But she, having calmly decided to accept Medwin and life with -him, set herself by the sheer intrepidity of her sweet high beauty, to -dominate them. She succeeded. And she won, not only the control, but -the deep, admiring love, of the man. Then came the catastrophe which -those who knew him had prophesied and recanted. In one of his savage -outbursts of passion, he struck her. The blow was a cruel one and its -results life-long. Much as she then suffered in body and soul, she could -have no other feeling for him than that of pity. For days he would take -no food, but sat in a chair outside her door, like a dog that waits in -silence on an idolized master; and, when he was first permitted to enter, -flung himself onto his knees by the bedside, sobbing and moaning and -covering her hand with kisses. And she, who had had little or no care for -him before, save as the principal incident in her life, now to her own -surprise found that from out this appalling misery was born affection -for him and even love. Her life from then onwards had been spent in -a struggle far more terrible than that which she had waged with him. -At first the idea of wasting away inch by inch on a diseased sick-bed -almost overwhelmed her: she longed, she prayed for death. But death -did not come; and then her spiritual pride began to reassert itself, -and, like the captain of a battered ship, she once more thought how she -could rule these waters that had ruled her. For long it seemed as if -the effort would be too much for her: she said to herself one sleepless -horrible night that she was being consumed alive. Her very latest gift -seemed but as an added thorn to her; for now that she had affection -and even love, she had also jealousy. The spell of her sweet, fearless -health and strength and beauty was passed from him save as a memory: his -love, deepened it might be by his abiding remorse, was (as she thought) -deprived of that admiration which had been her first and strongest -hold on him. Nothing more pitiful, than to see the womanliness in her -assert itself against her pride and speak in jealousy! With wonderful -intuition, however, she divined and with wonderful determination carried -out, what was the only plan of still keeping for herself his admiration. -She, who since she had married him had not given his business affairs -a thought, now gave herself up to the mastery of them. She had herself -taught all arithmetic thoroughly, and, in little less than three years -after her misfortune, knew more of all his business affairs than he did -himself. And more. She stirred up in him the ambition to become the -leader of that great amorphous section of colonial society of which he -was a member, the land-owners, the “squatters.” She had a certain liking -for society, and when she was in England went into it as much as her -extremely delicate health would permit her: in Australia, however, where, -as she said, there was no society, or only of a sort which she did not -like, she yet entertained a good deal, as she wished her husband to be -popular in view of his entering parliament and attempting to organize his -party. But her entertainment was more after the fashion of a listless -social empress than an interested hostess: she did not care enough about -these people to make, what would have been to her, a painful physical -effort to attract them. She had indeed something of the feeling of one -of the old aristocrats forced by the pressure of the time to open their -houses to the Middle-class; she acknowledged the salute of her guests, -and provided them with fine rooms, music, amusement, foods and drinks, -and what more could they want? Her coldness was generally ascribed to -her notorious ill-health, but the young people felt instinctively that -she condemned them, and were not drawn to her. Between her and Gildea, -however, there was an understanding that was not without either charm or -brightness to both. He understood her, and she half-felt this and, never -having been really understood before, was in a way pleased at it and -drawn to him. She amused him and at times, thanks to the pity with which -her sweet courage inspired him, affected him. He was not too without -respect for her intuitional capacities. He said once to Sydney Medwin, -who was complaining that his mother was fifty years behind the time, -(Mrs. Medwin supported her husband in his views for their elder son), -that, on the contrary, she was fifty years before; for she was the only -person he had met or heard of in the Colony who clearly saw that the Land -Question was upon them. Mrs. Medwin indeed, as has been noticed, saw that -the attempt of the Australian land-owners to repeat the performance of -those of England and form a dominant aristocracy, would be met with keen -opposition, and that the only hope of success lay in creating out of an -amorphous class a party, and organizing it. The feeling of possession -and caste had grown a strong one in her, in her more or less absorbed in -the life of her husband. Hers, then, with all its powers of passionate -attachment to an individual, was one of those not frequent female souls -that see beyond a man into the cause which he represents. Her elder son -she looked upon as a failure, as useless, as worth no more than making -behave himself. Her younger son, Stephen, she was training with some -care, and to him the far greater bulk of his father’s wealth and property -was at present destined. Miss Medwin, whom Mrs. Medwin called her niece, -and who called Mr. and Mrs. Medwin respectively uncle and aunt, but who -was in reality no such relation, being the daughter of Mr. Medwin’s -father’s brother’s son; of Miss Medwin it will perhaps be enough to -state, that the report which Gildea had unexpectedly received of her from -the Private Enquiry Office was correct, and that she was the possessor -of a moderate fortune who had come out to Australia, half for a change -from her English life of which she was weary, half in search of an old -schoolfellow to whom she was much attached. - -Gildea and Maddock stepped out together along the lawn and mounted the -steps that led up to the sitting-room balcony. The sunlight, intercepted -by an angle of the house, covered half of this portion of it, almost so -exactly half that the glass door, open in the middle of the bay window, -was partly in the sun and partly in the shade. As they reached the -balcony, Gildea, with the gesture of a courteous host, indicated to -Maddock to enter first, but he, with the no less courteous gesture of -a guest, refused and returned the indication. Gildea stepped into the -open doorway and, as he stood there for a moment with the sunlight and -shade playing upon him, met the gaze of Miss Medwin, seated upright, -looking almost proudly before her. Behind her was the dark red of the -curtain with its subdued white of delicately wrought muslin. Two rays of -sunlight lay along the rich variegated colours of the carpet, diffusing -a little light about her. She was very beautiful. They had recognized -one another at once. And more. They both were undergoing that feeling -of half-forgotten recollection that affects us with such unprepared and -mystic strangeness. Had they, then, seen one another before that day -when she had almost ridden over him under the Domain trees? had they met -in some way similar to their meeting now? At such moments the past, the -present, and the future, all half unknown, seem to join hands, and kiss, -and part with eyes dimmed with a regretless regret. - -It had passed in a few moments. Gildea, with something that might be -called a sudden freak of tact, stepped into the room, turning a quite -self-possessed face to Mrs. Medwin. She was sitting on a sofa dispensing -serene little nothings to Alcock, whose face and manner beamed with -social polish. Gildea came straight to her and made his greetings with -winning grace: then, obeying a slight gesture of hers, moved aside and -she introduced him to her niece, Miss Medwin. With the same winning -grace, head courteously bowed, he stepped to Miss Medwin, and lightly -raised the hand she held up to him. Maddock was greeting Mrs. Medwin. - -“I think,” said Gildea smiling slightly, “I think, Miss Medwin, that we -are not quite strangers.” - -“And how is Mrs. Maddock?” asked Mrs. Medwin, “I hope she is quite well.” -Gildea sat down in a chair by Miss Medwin. - -“No,” answered Miss Medwin gravely, “I was careless enough to have almost -ridden onto you.” - -“The carelessness was mine. I was dreaming. Day-dreamers should be -awakened.” Maddock was assuring Mrs. Medwin that Mrs. Maddock was -in excellent health, and at this very moment enjoying herself quite -satisfactorily without the society of her lord and master. - -“Indeed,” said Mrs. Medwin, “I hope we shall be able to see her before we -leave Sydney. We are stopping at Winslow’s.” - -“That,” Miss Medwin said gravely again, “seems to me to depend a good -deal on the day.” - -“Mr. Medwin is _with_ you, Mrs. Medwin?” interrogated Alcock with his -politest manner, “I understood that I should not have the pleasure of -seeing him till monday or tuesday?” - -“It is true,” said Gildea, “that to-day the reality of things is so -troubling to the peace and pleasure of many of us, that it is cruel to -wake us from our dreams.” - -“Oh no!” said Mrs. Medwin with her usual unruffled serenity, “Mr. Medwin -is not coming up till tuesday or perhaps wednesday.” - -A swift sense of the humour of a social scene like this, where the -tendency of things is for the dramatis personæ to beat unlimited time -with musical voices, graceful gestures, and a charming expression of -countenance, dawned upon Gildea as a memory of almost distant days. The -poetry of society is mostly expended in its common-places. To be able to -do this is an art, an art of which provincial and colonial society is -ignorant. Hence Gildea’s sense of the humour of the present scene was as -an almost distant memory. “Here,” he thought, “we have four excellent -musicians who would make the most charmingly meaningless quartet -possible, Alcock being reduced to the part of accidental audience.” -It was not, of course, that Gildea’s talk with Miss Medwin was social -time-beating: it was, rather, spiritual time-beating, rendered in a -manner that partook of the social. Miss Medwin had not recovered from the -to her strange sensations of this second sudden meeting with him: she was -neither as consummate a master of her emotions as he was, nor careful of -becoming one, nor yet was she prepared, as he was, for their meeting: she -was left by it as one is who has had some swift revelation of good or -evil in himself—considering himself if he really was this, is that, and -will be something that contains them both. The individualities of other -men she had known had touched her as much, or almost as much, as his had -on that day in the Domain, but none had ever entered into her and, as it -were, “blown a thrilling summons to her will” as his had, as he stood -looking at her in the shadowy sunlit doorway there. And her will had -answered that summons, and instantaneously. To him that sight of her, -sitting upright, looking almost proudly before her, was ever to be as the -sight of an Antigone, one who felt “it was better not to be than not be -noble,” the depth of whose scorn for unworthiness was equal to her love, -high as the everlasting hills, deep as the unplumbed sea. - -“Yes,” she said, “it is sometimes cruel to wake us from our dreams, and -yet it is best, I think.” - -“—You think it is best to modify our poetry with prose? Was it better to -have awakened Shelley, and given us his ‘Prometheus’ with wooden limbs of -a day’s social dogmatism, than to have let him make delicate music in the -italian woods and by the italian shores, for ever sweet and fair?” - -“So he told me,” said Alcock, “and I was very glad to hear it. The -interests of all wealth, whether in land or in money, is identic. But -we have no organization.—And Labour,” he added with a look to Maddock, -“as Mr. Hawkesbury just told us, is organizing, if it is not already -organized.” - -If it had been possible for Mrs. Medwin to be amazed at anything, she -would have been amazed at this. Hawkesbury had a few years ago been an -employé on one of Medwin’s stations, the very station to which she was -now on her road. This was a reflection which was positively annoying -to her. “It would,” she had once simply remarked, “have been as well -perhaps, if he had eaten some poisoned meat when he was there, as they -used to say the troublesome blacks did. He is a danger to society.” -Sydney Medwin, who liked to do his best to ruffle his mother’s serenity -now and then, used not unfrequently to speak in praise of Hawkesbury -(his friend Hawkesbury, a clever fellow too, and who would make his mark -out here yet!) and had once even, as Gildea told Maddock, offered to -introduce him to her. “You know, Sydney,” said Mrs. Medwin simply, “I am -not interested in Mr. Hawkesbury. If you like to make up a shooting-party -at Lathong,” (a station of Medwin’s in Victoria), “with all the men on -the station, I daresay he would be pleased to join you.”—What, then, was -the meaning of Mr. Alcock’s remark that this firebrand socialist, this -impertinent journalist and pamphleteer, had been _just telling_ something -to Mr. Alcock, Dr. Maddock, and presumably Sir Horace? - -“I’m sure,” said Alcock with his politest manner again, “that we all -of us cannot be too—too pleased to have found a lady who realized -this, and could help us to what we so much want—a ... a sort of general -rallying-point.—Nothing,” he proceeded, “struck me so much in England -as the use that the political parties made of their social gatherings, -and they tell me that this was much more the case once than it is at -present.” Alcock found a certain amount of difficulty in saying that he -thought women might, after all, be made of some use in political life, in -a manner that should be pleasing to _this_ woman. - -The talk progressed more or less easily, Maddock, with a humorous -perception of the effect Alcock’s innocent allusion to Hawkesbury had -produced on Mrs. Medwin, playing the part of conversational mediator -between the two. - -“You are not, then,” said Gildea, in answer to a remark of Miss Medwin’s, -“in sympathy with dreams and dreamers?” - -“No,” she answered shaking her head, “not if they take their dreams for -realities. It is just, I think, because we have been dreaming so long and -dreaming so much, that our waking is so miserable.—You speak of prose -and poetry,” she continued, turning her head a little and looking at -him, “as if the prose had something disagreeable in it. Well, so it may -have—to the dreamers. I too am a dreamer, of course, in my way; but I -dream about the earth and the things of the earth, and so my dreams are -real as the wind is real, or the sunlight, or the moonlight, or the light -of the stars, none of which fear the contact of the earth or the water. -But these people seem to me to dream of the things of heaven, filling all -space with them. But space is empty—at any rate of things like theirs.” - -“You do not believe,” he said, “as Taine does, that ‘at bottom there is -nothing truly sweet and beautiful in our life but our dreams?’” - -“Yes,” she said, “yes and no! But what does it matter _what_ I believe? -I have no opinion of my own in this way. You would make me dogmatic. Now -I shall always try not to be dogmatic. I rebel against defining things, -especially things that I like; they are never the same afterwards. But -I am often doing this, and I have to suffer for it. This comes of being -born in an age which can describe everything and do nothing.—You see, you -make me petulant!” - -It flashed across Gildea’s mind as she finished speaking that there -was a great difference between the manner of his talk with this girl -and with that bright intelligent girl in Melbourne. He perceived the -difference, and the greatness of the difference, but not much farther. -It was many years, and in point of spiritual time many ages, since -Gildea had been blind to the fact that another nature was influencing -and being influenced by his own with the force of fatality. It is the -distinguishing mark of the moderns that they are not blind in this -respect. None of Shakspere’s men, not even the intellectual Hamlet, -get beyond a suspicion that Fate is playing upon them. The chief cause -of Hamlet’s delay lies in this suspicion and his antagonism to it: the -others submit blindly, and only recognise fatality when the “wheel has -come full circle,” but _the process_ of fatality is all unknown to them, -not even a mystery. Miss Medwin too was in the same state as Gildea but -even deeper in it. She spoke to him as she had never spoken to anyone -else in her life, as to a comrade, without leaning, without supporting, -with complete simplicity. The spell that compels a mutual truthfulness is -the perception that you understand and are understood. - -“I see,” he said, “that _you_ complain of your age because its senses are -deranged, and idlers like me because the gifts that it assigns to the -doers, as opposed to the thinkers, are not gold but tinsel.” - -“No, no,” she said, “I do not complain of my age! If I complained of -anything, it would be of myself who am unfit for my age. And I do not -think that the gifts of our actions are tinsel.” - -“Perhaps you are right, and the fault is mine because _my_ senses are -deranged?” - -“There is great room for action now, as it seems to me. If a man appeared -to-morrow with the secret of attraction in him—the secret that Napoleon -had or Byron—he would control us as much as they did. They are ours too, -these men.” - -“But we think too much? we can describe everything, and do nothing?” - -“I do not know,” she said, “I have no opinion!” - -“Alice,” said Mrs. Medwin. - -“Yes, aunt,” answered Miss Medwin. - -“Will you please make the tea?” she said. - -Miss Medwin rose at once, Gildea rising too, smiling. It was Mrs. -Medwin’s peculiar charm that, at certain apparently eccentric moments, -she would speak and act with the pretty spontaneous sweetness of a young -girl. This was the scent this wonderful flower had retained, despite all -the terrible heats of the noontide and frosts of the dawn that had fallen -upon its life. She had spoken in this manner now. - -Miss Medwin went behind the tea-table which Edgar had just brought in -and on which he was placing the bright silver tea-urn, and the water-can -with its blue-violet-flamed spirit-lamp; then, at a nod from Gildea, -disappeared. Miss Medwin poured out a cup of tea which Gildea took to -Mrs. Medwin, returning for the milk and sugar, while Miss Medwin took the -second cup to Maddock, who received it with suave and charming thanks. -Mrs. Medwin thanked Gildea, who passed on with the milk and sugar to -Maddock, and, as he returned to the tea-table for the cakes and biscuits, -passed Miss Medwin with the third cup on her way to Alcock. Alcock -received her with thanks profuse and jocular. - -“Do you take milk and sugar?” asked Miss Medwin. - -“No, no, thank you, Miss Medwin,” returned Alcock, “I take neither!” - -Gildea arrived, with a plate of cakes in one hand and a plate of biscuits -in the other. Mrs. Medwin recognised in the biscuits those of a sort to -which she was somewhat addicted, and divined that Gildea had noticed the -fact. - -“Thank you, Sir Horace,” she said, with her manner of pretty spontaneous -sweetness, “And presently Alice shall play for you. I know you will find -her style of playing a treat.” - -Sir Horace made a suitable reply and passed on with the cakes and -biscuits. Mrs. Medwin and Maddock began to talk together, Alcock playing -the part of silent member. - -“There is your tea,” Miss Medwin said to Gildea as he came back to the -tea-table. She was standing with her own cup in her hand as if about to -move away to a seat. Gildea proffered the biscuits. She took one. He put -down the plates and took up his cup. - -“You are an epicure in tea,” she said, sipping a little of hers from her -tea-spoon, “are you not?” - -“I do not know,” he answered with a slightly amused look, “but I believe -that the Russians are the only people in Europe who understand it.” - -“They take neither sugar nor milk, do they? and a slice of lemon floating -in the tea?” - -They were moving back to their places. He assented. - -“And who are the only people in Europe who understand coffee?” she asked. - -“Undoubtedly the French.” - -“Ah, you mean the café au lait—with the milk and coffee both boiling and -poured in together? I like it that way, but not with too much milk. We -had a french cook once who used to make it for us, and, as I liked it, of -course I found out how to make it myself.” - -“Yes,” he said, “certainly coffee with cold milk is a barbarism; but the -shape in which I like coffee best is as, what the French call, café noir.” - -Miss Medwin said she had never seen it in that way, and, in answer to -Gildea’s slight expression of surprise, explained that she had never been -in France. Gildea described the café noir and the proper manner in which -to drink it. - -“You fill the spoon with cognac,” he said, “into which you put a lump of -sugar—In France the sugar is in little thin slabs, not, as with us, in -squares—and then you set the cognac alight. This melts down the sugar -and, when all the spirit is burnt up, except that which saturates the -sugar, and goes out, you put in your spoon. The flavour of burnt sugar -and cognac is pleasant.” - -“It is indeed, Sir Horace,” said Alcock, tired of playing the part of -silent member in the other conversation, “I drank it that way myself -in Paris. A friend of mine, an American told me of it. Paris is a very -pleasant place. You have a treat in store for you, going there, Miss -Medwin.” - -“Yes,” she answered, “I should like to go to Paris; the Louvre is there.” - -“A very fine collection,” said Alcock, “I was much struck with it! -Unfortunately all the best works of art are now either in collections, or -so expensive that they are out of the reach of us Australians who have -claims upon us more pressing. You saw the Picture Gallery in Melbourne?” - -“Yes, I saw it. I think it is rather painful. I liked the Library better.” - -“The building—the room, you mean?” - -“No, I meant the books. I used to go and sit there and read.” - -“Oh indeed?” said Alcock. “And what now do you think of the Picture -Gallery here?” - -“Alice,” said Mrs. Medwin, “you are not to say! I won’t have you say that -the things in Sydney are better than in Melbourne!” - -“Very well, aunt,” said Alice, “then I will not say it.” - -“And now,” said Mrs. Medwin, “I want you to play for us.” - -Miss Medwin rose at once with a look for the piano, which was on the -other side of the curtains. Both she and Gildea were amused and delighted -by Mrs. Medwin’s characteristic interruption and command: Maddock -was amused: even Alcock, who did not yet know her ways, was too much -influenced by the charm of this her happiest manner to think it rude or -imperious. “She is such an invalid,” he said, recounting this incident -as an anecdote to a friend of his at the Melbourne Club, “and rules -everyone about her like a little empress. But her manner is irresistible, -really irresistible; and it doesn’t offend you in the least—in fact you -rather like it. There is no woman in Melbourne who could help us to -consolidate a party in the english social manner as _she_ could. And I -really attach—I really do!—considerable importance to the idea.” Such -was the subsequent expression of the thoughts which were passing through -the mind of Alcock as Gildea, having held back the curtain for Miss -Medwin to pass, was opening the piano for her. Mrs. Medwin sat in serene -unconsciousness of the possibility of her manners being considered as -otherwise than her own, and would have been surprised if she had heard -that anyone thought they were open to question. - -“Is there any piece, aunt,” asked Miss Medwin, bending back so as to see -Mrs. Medwin through the curtains, “that you would like me to play?” - -“Oh no!” Mrs. Medwin said, “Why, I wanted you to play for Sir Horace, not -for me!” - -Miss Medwin smiled assent, and, after a few moments’ pause to consider -what piece she would play and to collect her thoughts, began. The piece -was the one which she considered would most please her audience, and -which of course she knew. It was Chopin’s Eleventh Nocturne. It suited -her humour at many times, but particularly at the present. The Nocturne -is divided into two parts: passionate and half-weary wandering, and rest -in which passion is merged in peace. To her it conjured up the vision of -a twilight road winding up between woody rolling fields and a plantation. -The dark figure of the man, whose passionate and half-weary wandering is -here expressing itself, is coming slowly up the road. Low down and far -away behind the close straight stems of the plantation lie a few pallid -veins of sunset light. The shadows are stealing swiftly around him. He is -near to hopelessness, near to the wish to - - lie down like a tired child, - and weep away the life of care - which he has borne and yet must bear: - -but passion and yearning are still too strong in him for self-abandonment. -Then he hears sounds—a strain of music and voices—the nuns or monks -perhaps, singing an evening hymn to the blessèd Mary, mother of passion -and of peace! He moves on slowly and softly, listening. His hopelessness, -his weariness are soothed into rest: trust enters into him, trust in the -aims of life, that general life in which his own is now merged, even as -the yearning of passion is lost in the sweetness of peace.... - -When she had finished, there was a long pause, and then Gildea thanked -her for the pleasure she had given him. Mrs. Medwin and Maddock began -to speak of the piece, Maddock expressing his pleasure at it and his -admiration for Miss Medwin’s playing. - -“You are, then, a lover of this Chopin?” said Gildea to Miss Medwin. “But -he is not your Master, as you would say?” - -“No,” she answered, “he is not my Master.—I suppose you mean Beethoven by -that?” she added, looking up at him. He assented. - -“And yet,” she said, “I cannot somehow call even him Master. I do not -love music as I ought to do—especially Beethoven and Wagner. They are -great, these men, very great, but I cannot lose myself in their spirit as -I should do. I often feel this.” - -“It was one of Heine’s few fantastic sayings,” said Gildea, “that -Chopin was the Raphael of the piano, and indeed a piece like this, or -the stately opening of the Thirteenth Nocturne—You remember it?” (She -assented)—“or the Marche Funèbre, help to see what he meant; but to call -him a Raphael seems to me inapt. No Raphael, for instance, would have -dreamed of so entirely giving himself up to the influence of his passion -as Chopin does. Surely it is not in _his_ spirit that you can lose -yourself?” - -“No,” she said, “less than in Beethoven’s. But perhaps Heine only meant -his expression about Chopin comparatively. Chopin, you remember, is the -only great composer who devoted himself to the piano. Certainly he is a -master of it, but his style of art is not like Raphael’s—at least so far -as I know of Raphael.” - -They came back talking into the other room, where Gildea, from a glance -at Mrs. Medwin’s face, perceived that she now wished them to go down -to the yacht. In a few minutes he brought the conversation round to -the subject and, having asked and she having expressed her wish, the -party was presently crossing the lawn on its way down to the small -landing-stage, close to which the “Petrel” had now been brought in. Mrs. -Medwin, between Maddock and Alcock, was some yards ahead of Gildea and -Miss Medwin who were following them. - -“You did not know,” Gildea was saying to her, “that Mr. Hawkesbury was a -friend of mine? He has been having lunch with us, and only just went away -before you arrived. He, and another friend of mine whom you perhaps have -met in Melbourne, Mr. Fitzgerald—No?—were unable to stay.” - -“So I supposed,” said Miss Medwin, “or something like that.—You do not -perhaps know,” she added, “that my aunt has a dislike for him that really -almost amounts to antipathy?” - -“Yes,” said Gildea, “I was aware of it: his social opinions are too much -for her, and Sydney Medwin annoys her by constantly mentioning both -them and him. A meeting would have been awkward indeed, but I made my -calculations carefully, and I should have regretted not giving my friend -Fitzgerald the opportunity of making Hawkesbury’s acquaintance. In a few -days one will be going due north and the other due south, but I hope they -will meet again later on. Two more charming examples of the two species -of enthusiast it would be hard to find.” - -“What do you call the two species?” - -“The enthusiast of heat and the enthusiast of light: both are to me -equally beautiful, equally charming!” - -“Mr. Hawkesbury, then,” she said, “is the enthusiast of heat? I have -never known any man so much in earnest as he is. He seems to understand -nothing but devotion or abhorrence; and yet how well he generally -conceals this from those whom he thinks unworthy of the knowledge of -it! His patience and courtesy have often astonished and filled me with -admiration. I have heard him arguing with a stupid opponent, and I have -heard him addressing a crowd. His self-restraint, his clearness, were -simply wonderful. Has he ever spoken to you of his friend and Master, as -he says,—James Holden?” - -“No,” answered Gildea, “but I happen to have seen Holden myself.—But here -we are!” - -Alcock from the deck and Maddock from the shore had assisted Mrs. Medwin -over the plank into the “Petrel,” and now Miss Medwin, after shaking -hands, expressing her regrets that he could not come, and saying good-bye -to Maddock, followed. - -Mrs. Medwin, Miss Medwin, Alcock and Gildea gathered opposite Maddock, -with whom they talked while the ropes were being cast loose and the yacht -got ready for starting. Then, as she glided away, bending slightly as -the wind caught and filled her sails, Maddock took off his hat and stood -bare-headed, bowing and waving farewell. - -A more charming day for such a trip, it would have been hard to choose. -The air was warmer than in the morning, but the breeze was still strong -enough to prevent the volumes of foul smoke which issued from the funnels -of the harbour steamers from polluting the air and spoiling the view. -The “Petrel” made straight for the main channel of the harbour in the -direction of the Heads. - -While Gildea was away talking with his skipper about the arrangements -that had been made for the trip, the other three passengers moved about -looking at the yacht, praising and admiring its neatness and cleanness. -And it was worthy too both of the praise and admiration which they -bestowed on its general completeness, that namely of silence, and of -the praise and admiration which they who were skilled in such matters -bestowed on its sailing-powers. - -Presently Gildea rejoined them, and the conversation flowed on lightly -and pleasantly. - -“I notice,” said Miss Medwin, “that you carry very little gear up aloft. -Your masts too are unusually tall, are they not?” - -Gildea gave a pleased smile. - -“Yes,” he said, “they call her the ghost yacht at Cowes. I use as little -hempen rope as I can. When the great point is speed, every extra inch -that you give to the prise of the wind is of importance. The steel, you -see, does not offer half as much resistance as the ordinary hempen rope. -Besides which, I have in several cases done away with a rope altogether -where I believed one, if properly handled, could do for two.” - -Miss Medwin, who knew the rigging and handling of a sailing-ship fairly -well, asked for an explanation of how one or two things were done, which -he gave her with a certain pleasure. - -“And what,” she said, “do your sailors think of your alterations?” - -He laughed. - -“They say the Old Man—that is my name with them—” - -“It is the name of all skippers with their sailors, is it not?” she asked -smiling. - -He assented. - -“—They say, or rather used to say, that I had a twist that way. The -conservatism of sailors and builders as regards ships is quite wonderful. -Imagine that, when they came to build iron sailing ships instead of wood, -they actually had and have the stupidity to put up masts of the same -circumference as the old wooden ones, although thereby they gain no extra -strength, and expose square yards on yards needlessly to the prise of the -wind! I would venture to say that this alone makes a difference of three -or four knots per hour in a head wind to the speed of the vessel.” - -Miss Medwin thought Gildea more charming in his capacity of intelligent -amateur captain than as consummate master of things social. They moved -down together towards the stern, and stood there talking and looking -forward. Mrs. Medwin and Alcock were standing together talking a little -way in front of them. Then Edgar appeared with seats and rugs, which he -offered to Mrs. Medwin and Alcock, who sat down, Mrs. Medwin with a rug -over her knees, and then came aft to the other two, who accepted two -chairs, but for the present remained standing as they talked. - -Presently there came a pause in the conversation and Miss Medwin sat -down, Gildea following suit. The pause became a silence. At last he broke -it. - -“You have noticed,” he said, “how different is the effect on you of the -sea, in a steamer and in a boat?” - -“Yes,” she said, “I have noticed it. The steamer goes its own determined -way, breaking its sympathy with winds and waters, and you—you are so high -up that you cannot mingle in the being of the spirits, the breathings of -their lips, the wavings of their hands, the tossings of their hair.” - -“_Where_,” he said smiling, - - “_where the wild white horses play,_ - _champ and chafe and toss in the spray._” - -She smiled in turn. She was looking before her across the sunny rolling -billows to where, against some high brown jagged rocks, the foam-mantle -of the breakers rose ever silently and fell. She was breathing in gently -and serenely the delight of the sea, the bright breeze, the movement of -the yacht, the divine blue free expansion of the clouds and skies. There -was a silence. - -“You are not fond of steamers, then?” he asked with a side-look. - -“No,” she said, “except in rough weather, and then I too feel the elation -of my kind,—the frail race of men which can yet dominate the winds and -waters and make their paths along the neck of the untameable sea.—You do -not know,” she added, leaving her extraneous delight for a moment and -looking at him with a touch of self-amusement, “you do not know how I -swell with pride when I watch a great man-of-war sailing on and on with -such serene confidence, dominating the expanse of water like a thing -of self-evident strength and beauty. I remember once making sand-forts -with some children in England in a little rock-girt cove, and suddenly -I looked up and there, almost filling our narrow horizon, was a great -white troop-ship passing close to the shore. It struck me quite dumb -for a moment; and then I began to applaud and shout like a Bacchant, -the children following suit.” She turned her face away again, laughing, -looking here and there, delighting again in what she felt and saw. - -“You are a true daughter of kindly men,” he said, laughing too, all -suspicion of mockery passed away from look and tone. There was another -silence. Gildea was beginning to perceive in himself a feeling he had -never felt before, the feeling that he was in the presence and even in -the influence of a girl-woman, (such was the idea presented to him), -of a spiritual force as consummate as, but wholly differing from, his -own. In a few moments he had recognized this, and by a wonderful stroke -of intuition divined the meaning of it. It partook of the nature of a -revelation. He seemed to see all his past life in a new light. He felt -that she—she, this woman, this girl, this child here—had, by some unknown -wonderful means, won the true talisman of life, that talisman whose -omnipotence is perpetuity. It was, then, possible, after all, to combine -perfect knowledge of life with the radiant joy and peace of perfect trust -in it!—It partook of the nature of a revelation and, to second thoughts, -of a delusion. His lip curled: he almost despised himself for the swift -speed with which a suddenly begotten hope had leaped to a birth whose -form and pressure was but the mask of credulity. “There has been no man,” -he said to himself, “save Goethe, who knew what life was and yet could -have a weariless joy in it. Carlyle well said that this man was to have -no imitators or successors.—_Nostra vita a che val? solo a spregiarla._” -And yet the idea of a new life, a life wherein might be found something -more than sweet resignation, hedonistic merely or even optimistic, -but supplying thought, action, and speech with a motive-power whose -strength should be in its truth—the idea would not be shaken off by mere -self-contempt at credulity in it. - -“To tell you the truth,” he said to her, “I could almost envy you your -pure free joy in things.” - -She looked at him, surprise passing swiftly into serene observation. - -“What troubles you,” she said, “that you should not have it yourself?” - -He smiled slightly as he answered her. - -“Pleasure, however sweet, however clear, is not joy.—And yet,” he added -quickly, “I would not change my pleasure for your joy.” - -“No?” - -“A child has joy, a man has pleasure: joy, then, is a step backward. It -may excel in height, as we should say, but breadth is the finer quality. -The mountains are noble, but the sea, encompassing all lands, is great.” - -“The sea also is deep, it has its valleys whose shadow is nadir to the -zenith peaks and light. I will not grant you your simile. You must not -mock at joy, for joy is the gift not only of childhood which precedes, -but of maturity which follows, manhood. I would sooner be a Christian and -have joy than a Heathen with only pleasure.” - -“Christianity,” said Gildea, “is spiritual opium. You do not eat it?” - -“No,” she said, “I see no use in drugs. But, as I said, I would sooner -take drugs that give me joy than live on meats and wines that only gave -me pleasure. Joy is mine, but pleasure is every one’s.” - -“You had, then, once the temptation of drugs?” - -“Yes,” she assented a little dreamily, “I had the temptation.—And yet,” -she added with a sudden return of interest, “it is wonderful how little -of _these_ drugs you can take, and live with energy and joy. Are the -lips of Monica pallid or her eyes stony? Theresa has a clear mind: she -can set her house in order. The songs and glories of the Creatures, do -they not pass purely and freely, as you say, through the lips of Saint -Francis?” - -“True, but for us this aspect of the thing is past. The central trust in -the Christ-God is a skeletoned shadow, that the grate holds up a moment -beyond its time of falling in. You see it lying, a pile of shapeless ash, -and wonder it ever stood. The Mother of Love and Grief appears no more -save in the brilliant burning of distorted vision. It is a case of opium -or nothing!” - -“You are right,” she said, “and so I saw it.” - -“What, then, remains,” he asked, “but resignation? There is no joy in -patience. Nay, worse, there is little pleasure. I too take drugs, and -I have more than once thought that, if Fate had not kindly given me -the wherewithal to buy them, I should have ended the dreary business -for ever. What is the good of our life except to despise it? says -Leopardi. It is just bearable with drugs, but, without, I cannot think -it worth the bearing. Pure indifference keeps more of its high souls -alive now than the world wots of. They are careless of life, but they -are equally careless of death. They live merely waiting for chance to -kill them, or for life to become unendurable enough for them to care -to kill themselves. Such men are not miserable. Sometimes, it is true, -they suffer disgust; but they know nothing of despair, for despair means -illusion, and they have the truth. Sometimes, again they have pleasure. -But how, tell me, is it possible to have at once both truth and joy?” - -“All this,” she said, “I too felt, and not so long ago—although I could -not have put it to myself so clearly. You, I think, have learned your -belief more by living than by reading: with me it was different. Before -I began properly to live,—to be free, that is, to examine and try -everything for myself,—I had arrived at my belief, and all my living has -only confirmed me in it.” - -“_What_ is your belief?” he asked. - -She smiled and shook her head. - -“I will not try to tell it you explicitly,” she said, “for fear of -harming it. Analysis is a mistake, and now I have so long known this, -that I have little temptation to give way to it. You, it seems, have -tried to be a Heathen. You gave yourself up to the natural joy of your -youth and fortune, your health and strength and riches and powers, until -the joy turned to pleasure and the pleasure to almost pain. Then you went -for interest to the spiritual life of those about you, and again joy -turned to pleasure and pleasure to almost pain. But _you_—you were not -one that knew how to be resigned! You could not, as your great Master -could, add to the ‘Vanity of Vanities, all is vanity’ the ‘Fear God and -keep his commandments; for this is the whole duty of man.’ Far otherwise -with _you_, as you have told me, was ‘the conclusion of the whole -matter.’” - -“And you?” he said with the tone of comrade to comrade, “and you?” - -“I had a revelation. It took place in a London fog in front of a fire in -a little backroom where I had my books. And, as it were, scales fell from -my eyes, and I saw men as trees walking.” Gildea, the true arch-mocker, -for the first time in his life had to undergo the sensation of doubt -whether or no he was being mocked at. - -“Well?” he said. - -“Well, I was in a rather miserable state at the time. Someone to whom I -was attached had had to leave me. I was sick of trying to satisfy myself -with the life of pleasure as pleasure, and I had the temptation to take -spiritual drugs, for I felt an appalling loneliness of soul. I thought -that no one had ever looked at things as I felt I should like to look -at them, and I was at times almost afraid that I was suffering under a -delusion that might end in something very like madness. Then I had my -revelation. I found out that there had been a whole race whose central -belief was the one I was stretching out my arms to.” - -“Greece?” said Gildea, “Greece?” - -“Yes, Greece! Here I found were men who realized the secret of life, who -knew what Truth was. They looked at life as it was, and they saw calmly -and clearly that the butterfly’s life is enough for the butterfly, and -the man’s for the man. They took no spiritual opium as the Christians do: -they have no yearning love. They have not resignation as the Heathens -have, resignation that sullenly accepts the evil, or that brightly -determines to make the best of the good in things. They have better; -they have truth and light and joy! Take, then, your Christian Faith and -Love: your Heathen Trust and Hope: _I_ am a Pagan, and my care is Truth -and Light!—And I found,” she went on, “I found, after a time, that there -had been others in these later days that had looked, or striven to look -at things, as I did. Such was Goethe, such was Keats. With Goethe the -freedom of his Paganism was bought at a great price, but Keats was born -free. When Goethe recognised what it was to have been a Christian, to be -a Heathen, and to wish to be a Pagan, he renounced his past and present -with all the strength of his soul, and fixed his eyes resolutely on his -future. But he never won it—that is to say, as he had won the others. He -was never a Pagan as he was a Heathen or a Christian. The Second Part -of Faust is not like the First. It is not with impunity that we have -passed through the Christianity of Catholicism and the Heathenism of the -Renascence. A Dante or a Shakspere could not be shaken off by a Goethe, -and a Sophokles wholly put on. Is a great pagan soul possible yet? How -shall we say no with what Keats might have become before us?—Sometimes I -think,” she said a little dreamily, “that I am the only one of my time -who understood these great men; Goethe, the god of the Transition, Keats, -the Herakles of Modernity, strangled in his cradle by the serpents of -Hera! And, for either of them, I would readily have given my life.” ... - -Mrs. Medwin turned round towards them, Alcock turning too, as if they had -reached a point in their conversation in which a break was expedient. -Then Mrs. Medwin and Alcock rose and came up to them. - -“Is not the water exquisitely clear?” she said to Gildea, “It reminds me -of Capreae. It only wants the beautiful coral rocks.” - -Gildea smilingly assented. He remembered a remark of Mrs. Medwin’s to the -effect that, as you approached Melbourne from the north, it was like the -bay of Naples with Vesuvius. - -“Miss Medwin,” he said, with the smile changing on his face and becoming -sweet and radiant, “Miss Medwin has just been explaining to me a passage -from Goethe which I never understood.” - -“Indeed?” said Mrs. Medwin, “I did not know you read German, Alice. Was -it a passage from Faust? I think Faust is very difficult, and I do not -understand the Second Part in the least.” - -“No,” answered Gildea, “It was not from Faust.— - - Vom Halben zu entwöhnen; - im Ganzen, Guten, Schönen - resolut zu leben.” - -“That is not very difficult, Sir Horace,” said Mrs. Medwin. - -Gildea, in answer to the dumb look on Alcock’s face, who did not happen -to know German, translated it with courtesy: - -“‘I resolved to wean myself,’” he said, “‘from halves, and to live for -the Whole, the Good, the Beautiful.’” - -“And what does it _mean_?” asked Alcock. - -“Ah,” answered Gildea smiling, “Miss Medwin must tell you that!” - - _April, 1885._ - - -THE END. - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - -[1] The remark is, of course, general. Most of Victoria, as we all know, -is unfortunately definitely sold. - -[2] _Melbourne Review_, October, 1883. (No. 32.) - -[3] _Victorian Review_, May, 1884. (No. 55). - -[4] _Melbourne Review_, April, 1884. (No. 34). - -[5] I may parenthetically remark that the idea that Gordon is buried -in St. Kilda Cemetery is incorrect, as my doing so may perhaps save -others from the trouble of a fruitless pilgrimage there, not to say an -examination of all the Cemetery books. He is buried in Brighton Cemetery. -The tombstone is a block of blue-stone, topped with a shattered column -crowned with a laurel-wreath. The four sides of the block have marble -tablets let into them, on which are severally written: “The Poet Gordon. -Died June 24, 1870, aged 37 years;” “Sea-Spray and Smoke-Drift;” “Bush -Ballads and Galloping Rhymes;” “Ashtaroth.” The Cemetery is wooded -and wild, the vegetation, including the grave-flowers, stragglingly -luxuriant. Not altogether an unfitting “sleeping place” for him. - -[6] His little article on it in the _Contemporary Review_ is a mere -circular. - -[7] _Victorian Review_, February, 1885, in a series of articles on -contemporary English poets. - -[8] It is gratifying to notice at the Technological Museum, where one -would least expect it, the number of sunday visitors more than halves -that of all the other days put together. - -[9] A volume of his, in which is included his “Miscellaneous Poems” and -“Convict Once,” has lately appeared—at last another book, out of so much -of this hopelessly worthless colonial literature, which counts! - -[10] Three of Miss Ironsides’ pictures were, when I was in Sydney, housed -in a sort of shed behind the temporary Picture Gallery. On one side of -it the windows were open to the dust and rain! One of the pictures, the -“Ars Longa, Vita Brevis,” was much spoiled; another, the “Adoration of -the Magi,” a little. I did what I could to alter this state of affairs, -but I could do nothing. The Trustees do not know to whom the pictures -belong, and there is not room enough in the Gallery, as it is, for even -the purchased pictures. Perhaps when these three pictures are permanently -spoiled, something will be done. For me, I must confine myself to -pointing out the wonderful depth of quiet feeling which is the chief -characteristic of the work of this remarkable girl. This is to be noticed -most in the “Marriage” picture and the “Ars Longa.” At the same time -there is something of passionate—of passion suppressed, but none the less -existent and strong, which adds a peculiar flavour and attraction to her -work. The mother’s face in the “Adoration” and the girl playing on the -harp in the “Marriage” are really beautiful in thought and execution. -For pure execution, however, I would direct attention to the drapery of -the angel in the former picture, or, in a particular shape, the thorns -in the “Ars Longa.” I suppose that there is such a plethora of work like -this of Miss Ironsides’ in both Sydney and Melbourne that only one or two -mentally impoverished people like myself can be expected to trouble about -it, and it is in the hope of attracting the attention of one or two such -that I write this. There are, however, three pictures by Mr. Folingsby in -the Melbourne Gallery which would, I am sure, look quite nice in one of -our new æsthetically furnished hotels, Mr. Hosie’s (say) or the Grand, -and then perhaps someone might put Miss Ironsides’ in their places. This -would be a gain for both the Hotels and the Gallery. - -[11] Crescat et proficiat tam singulorum quam omnium, tam unius hominis -quam totius Ecclesiæ, Intelligentia Scientia Sapientia. - -[12] “In Memoriam,” cxiv. - -[13] In the Land Act that came into force in March, 1885. - - MELBOURNE: - WILLIAM INGLIS AND CO., PRINTERS, - FLINDERS STREET EAST. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS *** - -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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 will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/64692-0.zip b/old/64692-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 87432d5..0000000 --- a/old/64692-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64692-h.zip b/old/64692-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 6f2284b..0000000 --- a/old/64692-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64692-h/64692-h.htm b/old/64692-h/64692-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 37c55c5..0000000 --- a/old/64692-h/64692-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9157 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Australian Essays, by Francis W. L. Adams. - </title> - - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - -<style type="text/css"> - -a { - text-decoration: none; -} - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -h1,h2,h3 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -h2.nobreak { - page-break-before: avoid; -} - -hr.chap { - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - clear: both; - width: 65%; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; -} - -div.chapter { - page-break-before: always; -} - -ul { - list-style-type: none; -} - -li { - margin-top: .5em; - padding-left: 2em; - text-indent: -2em; -} - -p { - margin-top: 0.5em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - text-indent: 1em; -} - -table { - margin: 1em auto 1em auto; - max-width: 40em; - border-collapse: collapse; -} - -td { - padding-left: 2.25em; - padding-right: 0.25em; - vertical-align: top; - text-indent: -2em; -} - -.sub { - padding-left: 4.25em; -} - -.tdpg { - vertical-align: bottom; - text-align: right; -} - -.antiqua { - font-style: normal; -} - -.black { - color: black; -} - -.blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 10%; -} - -.center { - text-align: center; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; -} - -.footnotes { - margin-top: 1em; - border: dashed 1px; -} - -.footnote { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; - font-size: 0.9em; -} - -.footnote .label { - position: absolute; - right: 84%; - text-align: right; -} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: none; -} - -.front-matter { - margin: auto; - max-width: 35em; -} - -.gothic { - font-family: 'Old English Text MT', 'Old English', serif; -} - -.hanging { - padding-left: 2em; - text-indent: -2em; -} - -.larger { - font-size: 150%; -} - -.noindent { - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - right: 4%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; -} - -.poetry-container { - text-align: center; - margin: 1em; -} - -.poetry { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; -} - -.poetry .stanza { - margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em; -} - -.poetry .verse { - padding-left: 3em; -} - -.poetry .indent0 { - text-indent: -3em; -} - -.poetry .indent2 { - text-indent: -2em; -} - -.poetry .indent4 { - text-indent: -1em; -} - -.poetry .indent6 { - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.poetry .indent8 { - text-indent: 1em; -} - -.poetry .indent12 { - text-indent: 3em; -} - -.poetry .indent16 { - text-indent: 5em; -} - -.poetry .indent18 { - text-indent: 6em; -} - -.poetry .indent24 { - text-indent: 9em; -} - -.red { - color: red; -} - -.red-border { - border: double red; - padding: 0.25em; -} - -.right { - text-align: right; -} - -.smaller { - font-size: 80%; -} - -.smcap { - font-variant: small-caps; - font-style: normal; -} - -.titlepage { - text-align: center; - margin-top: 3em; - text-indent: 0em; -} - -.u { - text-decoration: underline; -} - -@media handheld { - -img { - max-width: 100%; - width: auto; - height: auto; -} - -.poetry { - display: block; - margin-left: 1.5em; -} - -.blockquote { - margin: 1.5em 5%; -} -} - - </style> - </head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Australian Essays, by Francis W. L. Adams</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Australian Essays</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Francis W. L. Adams</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 04, 2021 [eBook #64692]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Nick Wall and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS ***</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_i"></a>[i]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage"><i>TWO SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE</i></p> - -<div class="front-matter red-border"> - -<p class="titlepage larger red"><span class="smcap u">A<span class="black">ustralian</span><br /> -E<span class="black">ssays.</span></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -FRANCIS W. L. ADAMS.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>AUTHOR OF<br /> -“LEICESTER, AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.”</i></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage gothic red">Contents:</p> - -<ul> -<li>PREFACE.</li> -<li>MELBOURNE AND HER CIVILIZATION.</li> -<li>THE POETRY OF ADAM LINDSAY GORDON.</li> -<li>THE SALVATION ARMY.</li> -<li>SYDNEY AND HER CIVILIZATION.</li> -<li>CULTURE.</li> -<li>“DAWNWARDS:” A DIALOGUE.</li> -</ul> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smcap">Printed and Published by<br /> -William Inglis & Co., 37, 38, & 39 Flinders Street East,<br /> -Melbourne.</span></p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">London: Griffith, Farran & Co.</span></p> - -<p class="center">1886.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ii"></a>[ii]</span></p> - -<p class="center larger">AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="front-matter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iii"></a>[iii]</span></p> - -<p class="center"><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</i></p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Leicester, an Autobiography.</span> (<span class="smcap">Redway</span>, Publisher, York Street, -Covent Garden, London; 6<i>s</i>.)</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Poems.</span> (<span class="smcap">Elliot Stock</span>, Publisher, Paternoster Row, London; 5<i>s.</i>)</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">The Bruces</span>, A Novel. (<i>Shortly</i>).</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Modern English Poets.</span> (<i>Shortly</i>).</p> - -<p class="hanging"><span class="smcap">Voyage on the Adelaide.</span> (<i>Shortly</i>).</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="front-matter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_iv"></a>[iv]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage larger">AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS.</p> - -<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> -FRANCIS W. L. ADAMS.<br /> -<span class="smaller"><i>AUTHOR OF<br /> -“LEICESTER, AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.”</i></span></p> - -<p class="titlepage">Melbourne:<br /> -<span class="smcap">William Inglis & Co., Flinders Street East.</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">London Publishers: Griffith, Farran & Co.</span></p> - -<p class="center">MDCCCLXXXVI.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_v"></a>[v]</span></p> - -<p class="titlepage smaller">MELBOURNE:<br /> -WILLIAM INGLIS AND CO., PRINTERS,<br /> -FLINDERS STREET EAST.</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vi"></a>[vi]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak"><i><span class="smaller">TO</span><br /> -MATTHEW ARNOLD<br /> -<span class="smaller">IN ENGLAND.</span></i></h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">‘<i>Master, with this I send you, as a boy</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>that watches from below some cross-bow bird</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>swoop on his quarry carried up aloft,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>and cries a cry of victory to his flight</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>with sheer joy of achievement—So to you</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>I send my voice across the sundering sea,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>weak, lost within the winds and surfy waves,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>but with all glad acknowledgment fulfilled</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>and honour to you and to sovran Truth!</i>’</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse right"><i>January, 1886.</i></div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_vii"></a>[vii]</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_viii"></a>[viii]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak">CONTENTS.</h2> - -</div> - -<table summary="Contents"> - <tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdpg"><span class="smcap">Page.</span></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">Preface</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#PREFACE">ix.</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">Melbourne and Her Civilization</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#MELBOURNE_AND_HER_CIVILIZATION">1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">The Poetry of Adam Lindsay Gordon</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_POETRY_OF_ADAM_LINDSAY_GORDON">11</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">The Salvation Army</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#THE_SALVATION_ARMY">27</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">Sydney and Her Civilization</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#SYDNEY_AND_HER_CIVILIZATION">50</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">Culture</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#CULTURE">73</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td><span class="smcap">“Dawnwards,” a Dialogue</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="sub"><span class="smcap">Introduction</span></td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#DAWNWARDS_INTRO">90</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="sub">I.</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#DAWNWARDS_I">97</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="sub">II.</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#DAWNWARDS_II">105</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="sub">III.</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#DAWNWARDS_III">114</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="sub">IV.</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#DAWNWARDS_IV">122</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="sub">V.</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#DAWNWARDS_V">138</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="sub">VI.</td> - <td class="tdpg"><a href="#DAWNWARDS_VI">146</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_ix"></a>[ix]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE">PREFACE.</h2> - -</div> - -<p>It would be absurd to suppose that it will not seem clear, to -whatever readers this little book may find here, that one of -the principal characters of the Dialogue is a man for whom -we all, I think, feel more interest, admiration, and respect than -any other among us. That this is so in reality, I must beg to -deny, and I hope that, when I state that I neither have myself, -nor know anyone who has, the honour of his acquaintance—nay, -that I have never even <i>seen</i> him—I hope that I shall -stand acquitted of all charges of personality. As for the other -characters, there will too, I daresay, be found people ready to -declare who are the originals, and to explain everything which -is inconsistent with their theory by ascribing it to designed -mystification on the part of the Author. For this, it seems, is -an occupation like another. The Author believes that so -much of a man’s life as is public belongs to the public, and is -at the fair use of the public’s literary analysts, <i>videlicet</i> the -critics, and that it is by no means an unfair use, to take such a -life and freely present it in that individual form which it -actually has to us in our moments of imagination and reflection. -It seems, then, to him foolish, in considering, (to take it in the -form of a well-known example), a book like D’Israeli’s “Lothair” -or “Endymion,” to be trying to identify the characters with -actual men. D’Israeli simply uses as much of actual men and -actual events as he requires for his criticism of the time he is -portraying, and is careless of the rest. I see here no attempt -at mystification. I simply see an artist picking out the -choicest materials he has to hand.</p> - -<p>As regards both the Dialogue and the Essays, I would like -to point out that they are professedly didactic, and, as such, -are of course cast into the form which I believe most calculated -to achieve their object. I am sure that I have neither the -intention nor the wish to impugn the competency of the -australian Press to deal with things australian. I am myself<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_x"></a>[x]</span> -a member, a very humble member of it, and am quite ready to -do myself the sincere pleasure of praising it. At the same -time I cannot blind myself to the fact that its criticism is not -(let us say) ideal. The “business of criticism,” says the first -of living critics, “is simply <i>to know the best that is known and -thought in the world, and by in its turn making this known, to -create a current of true and fresh ideas</i>.” Well now, I cannot, -I say, look upon this australian Press, of which I am so humble -a member, as the creator of such a current; and, (I will make -a clean breast of it at once!), bright and charming as I have -always found him in the “Echoes of the Week” and places of -like resort, I have viewed the triumphal approach of Mr. Sala -to us, and his even more triumphal progress among us, with -(as someone will presently be saying of me)—“with a jaundiced -eye.” And why? The truth, the real truth, is, (May I be -forgiven for saying so?), that I do not believe that even Mr. Sala -can help us australian pressmen, (since I dare to place myself -in a company which includes such stupendous personages as -“The Vagabond” and the Editor of the Melbourne <i>Herald</i>), -to create that “current of true and fresh ideas” to which we -have alluded. Truth, alas, is the private property of no man—not -even of Mr. George Augustus Sala. And I confess to -finding myself at the point of wishing that, even for mere -variety’s sake, we should hear more than we do of the ideas of -such personages as Goethe, Emerson, Renan, Arnold, and so -on: writers, of course, familiar to us all, and whom I, at any rate, -must still continue to consider as not wholly exhausted. They -may not have the depth of thought, the accuracy of detail, -the exquisite tact of expression which distinguish the genial -<i>littérateur</i>, and make his work, as one of my fellow pressmen -said the other day, “epoch-making,” but I really do still -continue—I <i>must</i> still continue—to think that, despite all -these disadvantages, they are still capable of helping us a little -to that critical haven where our souls would be—to the source -of “a current of true and fresh ideas.”</p> - -<p class="right"><i>September, 1885.</i></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> - -<h1>AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS.</h1> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MELBOURNE_AND_HER_CIVILIZATION">MELBOURNE, AND HER CIVILIZATION, -AS THEY STRIKE AN ENGLISHMAN.</h2> - -</div> - -<p>It is difficult to speak of Melbourne fitly. The judgment of -neither native nor foreigner can escape the influence of the -phenomenal aspect of the city. Not fifty years ago its first -child, Batman’s, was born; not forty, it was a city; a little -over thirty, it was the metropolis of a colony; and now (as the -inscription on Batman’s grave tells us) “<i>Circumspice!</i>” To -natives their Melbourne is, and is only, “the magnificent city, -classed by Sir George Bowen as the ninth in the world,” -“one of the wonders of the world.” They cannot criticise, -they can only praise it. To a foreigner, however, who, -with all respect and admiration for the excellencies of the -Melbourne of to-day as compared with the Melbourne of -half-a-century ago, has travelled and seen and read, and -cares very little for glorifying the <i>amour-propre</i> of this class -or of that, and very much for really arriving at some more -or less accurate idea of the significance of this city and -its civilization; to such a man, I say, the native melodies in -the style of “Rule Britannia” which he hears everywhere and -at all times are distasteful. Nay, he may possibly have at last -to guard himself against the opposite extreme, and hold off -depreciation with the one hand as he does laudation with the -other!</p> - -<p>The first thing, I think, that strikes a man who knows the -three great modern cities of the world—London, Paris, New -York—and is walking observingly about Melbourne is, that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span> -Melbourne is made up of curious elements. There is something -of London in her, something of Paris, something of New -York, and something of her own. Here is an attraction to -start with. Melbourne has, what might be called, the <i>metropolitan -tone</i>. The look on the faces of her inhabitants is the -<i>metropolitan look</i>. These people live quickly: such as life presents -itself to them, they know it: as far as they can see, they -have no prejudices. “I was born in Melbourne,” said the wife -of a small bootmaker to me once, “I was born in Melbourne, -and I went to Tasmania for a bit, but I soon came back again. -<i>I like to be in a place where they go ahead.</i>” The wife of a -small bootmaker, you see, has the <i>metropolitan tone</i>, the <i>metropolitan -look</i> about her; she sees that there is a greater pleasure -in life than sitting under your vine and your fig-tree; she likes -to be in a place where they go ahead. And she is a type of -her city. Melbourne likes to “go ahead.” Look at her public -buildings, her New Law Courts not finished yet, her Town -Hall, her Hospital, her Library, her Houses of Parliament, and -above all her Banks! Nay, and she has become desirous of -a fleet and has established a “Naval Torpedo Corps” with -seven electricians. All this is well, very well. Melbourne, I -say, lives quickly: such as life presents itself to her, she knows -it: as far as she can see, she has no prejudices.</p> - -<p><i>As far as she can see.</i>—The limitation is important. The -real question is, <i>how</i> far can she see? how far does her civilization -answer the requirements of a really fine civilization? what -scope in it is there (as Mr. Arnold would say) for the satisfaction -of the claims of conduct, of intellect and knowledge, of -beauty and manners? Now in order the better to answer this -question, let us think for a moment what are the chief elements -that have operated and are still operating in this Melbourne -and her civilization.</p> - -<p>This is an English colony: it springs, as its poet Gordon (of -whom there will presently be something to be remarked) says, -in large capitals, it springs from “<i>the Anglo-Saxon race ... -the Norman blood</i>.” Well, if there is one quality which distinguishes -this race, this blood, it is its determined strength. -Wherever we have gone, whatever we have done, we have gone -and we have done with all our heart and soul. We have made -small, if any, attempt to conciliate others. Either they have had -to give way before, or adapt themselves to us. India, America, -Australia, they all bear witness to our determined, our pitiless<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span> -strength. What is the state of the weaker nations that opposed -us there? In America and Australia they are perishing off the -face of the earth; even in New Zealand, where the aborigines -are a really fine and noble race, we are, it seems, swiftly destroying -them. In India, whose climate is too extreme for us ever to -make it a colony in the sense that America and Australia are -colonies; in India, since we could neither make the aborigines -give way, nor make them adapt themselves to us, we have simply -let them alone. They do not understand us, nor we them. -Of late, it is true, an interest in them, in their religion and -literature, has been springing up, but what a strange aspect do -we, the lords of India for some hundred and thirty years, -present! “In my own experience among Englishmen,” says -an Indian scholar writing to the <i>Times</i> in 1874, “I have found -no general indifference to India, but I have found a Cimmerian -darkness about the manners and habits of my countrymen, an -almost poetical description of our customs, and a conception -no less wild and startling than the vagaries of Mandeville and -Marco Polo concerning our religion.” Do we want any further -testimony than this to the determined, the pitiless strength of -“the Anglo-Saxon race ... the Norman blood?”</p> - -<p>Well, and how does all this concern Australia in general and -Melbourne in particular? It concerns them in this way, that -the civilization of Australia, of Melbourne, is an Anglo-Saxon -civilization, a civilization of the Norman blood, and that, with -all the good attendant on such a civilization, there is also all -the evil. All? Well, I will not say all, for that would be to -contradict one of the first and chief statements I made about -her, namely that “as far as she can see Melbourne has no -prejudices,” a statement which I could not make of England. -“<i>This our native or adopted land</i>,” says an intelligent Australian -critic, the late Mr. Marcus Clarke, “<i>has no past, no -story. No poet speaks to us.</i>” “<i>No</i>,” we might add, “<i>and -(thus far happily for you) neither, as far as you can see, does -any direct preacher of prejudice</i>.” And here, as I take it, we -have put our finger upon what is at once the strength and the -weakness of this civilization.</p> - -<p>Let us consider it for a moment. The Australians have no -prejudice about an endowed Church, as we English have, and -hence they have, what we have not, religious liberty. As far -as I can make out, there is no reason why the wife of a clergyman -of the Church of England should in this colony look<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span> -down upon the wife of a dissenting minister as her social -inferior, and this is, on the whole, I think, well, for it tends to -break up the notion of caste that exists between the two sects; -it tends, I mean, to their mutual benefit, to the interchange of -the church’s sense of “the beauty of holiness” with the chapel’s -sense of the passion of holiness. Here, then, you are better -off than we. On the other hand, you have no prejudice, as we -at last have, against Protection, and consequently you go on -benefiting a class at the expense of the community in a -manner that can only, I think, be defined as short-sighted and -foolish. Here we are better off than you. Again, however, -you have not the prejudice that we have against the intervention -of the State. You have nationalized your railways, -and are attempting, as much as possible, to nationalize your -land.<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> You are beginning to see that a land tax, at any given -rate of annual value, would be (as Mr. Fawcett puts it) “a -valuable national resource, which might be utilized in rendering -unnecessary the imposition of many taxes which will otherwise -have to be imposed.” Here you are better off than we, better -off both in fortune and general speculation. Again, you have -not yet arrived at Federalism, and what a waste of time and all -time’s products is implied in the want of central unity! Now -the first and third of these instances show the strength that is in -this civilization, and the second shows a portion of the weakness, -at present only a small portion, but, unless vigorous measures -are resorted to and soon, this Protection will become the great -evil that it is in America. There is just the same cry there as -here: “Protect the native industries until they are strong enough -to stand alone”—as if an industry that has once been protected -will ever care to stand alone again until it is compelled to! as -if a class benefited at the expense of the community will ever -give up its benefit until the community takes it away again!</p> - -<p>On one of the first afternoons I spent in Melbourne, I -remember strolling into a well-known book-mart, the book-mart -“at the sign of the rainbow.” I was interested both in -the books and the people who were looking at or buying them. -Here I found, almost at the London prices (for we get our -twopence or threepence in the shilling on books now in -London), all, or almost all, of the average London books of the -day. The popular scientific, theological, and even literary<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span> -books were to hand, somewhat cast into the shade, it is true, -by a profusion of cheap English novels and journals, but still -they were to hand. And who were the people that were -buying them? The people of the dominant class, the middle-class. -I began to enquire at what rate the popular, scientific, -and even literary books were selling. Fairly, was the answer. -“And how do Gordon’s poems sell?” “<i>Oh they sell well</i>,” -was the answer, “<i>he’s the only poet we’ve turned out</i>.”</p> - -<p>This pleased me, it made me think that the “go-ahead” -element in Victorian and Melbourne life had gone ahead in -this direction also. If, in a similar book-mart in Falmouth -(say), I had asked how the poems of Charles Kingsley were selling, -it is a question whether much more than the name would -have been recognized. And yet the middle-class here is as, and -perhaps more, badly—more appallingly badly—off for a higher -education than the English provincial middle class is. Whence -comes it, then, that a poet like Gordon with the cheer and -charge of our chivalry in him, with his sad “trust and only -trust,” and his</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“weary longings and yearnings</div> - <div class="verse indent0">for the mystical better things:”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Whence comes it that he is a popular poet here? Let him -answer us English for himself and Melbourne:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“You are slow, very slow, in discerning</div> - <div class="verse indent2">that book-lore and wisdom are twain:”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Yes, indeed, to Melbourne, such as life presents itself to her, -she knows it, and, what is more, she knows that she knows it, and -her self-knowledge gives her a contempt for the pedantry of the -old world. Walk about in her streets, look at her private buildings, -these banks of hers, for instance, and you will see this. -They <i>mean</i> something, they <i>express</i> something: they do not (as -Mr. Arnold said of our British Belgravian architecture) “only -express the impotence of the artist to express anything.” They -express a certain sense of movement, of progress, of conscious -power. They say: “Some thirty years ago the first gold nuggets -made their entry into William Street. Well, many more nuggets -have followed, and wealth of other sorts has followed the -nuggets, and we express that wealth—we express movement, -progress, conscious power.—<i>Is that, now, what your English -banks express?</i>” And we can only say that it is not, that our -English banks express something quite different; something, if -deeper, slower; if stronger, more clumsy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span></p> - -<p>But the matter does not end here. When we took the -instance of the books and the people “at the sign of the rainbow,” -we took also the abode itself of the rainbow; when we -took the best of the private buildings, we took also the others. -Many of them are hideous enough, we know; this is what -Americans, English, and Australians have in common, this -inevitable brand of their civilization, of their determined, their -pitiless strength. The same horrible “pot hat,” “frock coat,” -and the rest, are to be found in London, in Calcutta, in New -York, in Melbourne.</p> - -<p>Let us sum up. “The Anglo-Saxon race, the Norman blood:” -a colony made of this: a city into whose hands wealth and its -power is suddenly phenomenally cast: a general sense of -movement, of progress, of conscious power. This, I say, is -Melbourne—Melbourne with its fine public buildings and -tendency towards banality, with its hideous houses and -tendency towards anarchy. And Melbourne is, after all, the -Melbournians. Alas, then, how will this city and its civilization -stand the test of a really fine city and fine civilization? -how far will they answer the requirements of such a civilization? -what scope is there in them for the satisfaction of the claims of -conduct, of intellect and knowledge, of beauty, and manners?</p> - -<p>Of the first I have only to say that, so far as I can see, its -claims are satisfied, satisfied as well as in a large city, and in a -city of the above-mentioned composition, they can be. But of -the second, of the claims of intellect and knowledge, what -enormous room for improvement there is! What a splendid -field for culture lies in this middle-class that makes a popular -poet of Adam Lindsay Gordon! It tempts one to prophesy -that, given a higher education for this middle-class, and fifty—forty—thirty -years to work it through a generation, and it will -leave the English middle-class as far behind in intellect and -knowledge as, at the present moment, it is left behind by the -middle-class, or rather the one great educated upper-class, of -France.</p> - -<p>There is still the other claim, that of beauty and manners. -And it is here that your Australian, your Melbourne civilization -is, I think, most wanting, is most weak; it is here that one -feels the terrible need of “a past, a story, a poet to speak to -you.” With the Library are a sculpture gallery and a picture -gallery. What an arrangement in them both! In the sculpture -gallery “are to be seen,” we are told, “admirably executed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span> -casts of ancient and modern sculpture, from the best European -sources, copies of the Elgin marbles from the British Museum, -and other productions from the European Continent.” Yes, -and Summers stands side by side with Michaelangelo! And -poor busts of Moore and Goethe come between Antinous and -the Louvre Apollo the Lizard slayer! But this, it may be said, -is after all only an affair of an individual, the arranger. Not -altogether so. If an audience thinks that a thing is done -badly, they express their opinion, and the failure has to vanish. -And how large a portion of the audience of Melbourne city, -pray, is of opinion that quite half of its architecture is a failure, -is hideous, is worthy only, as architecture, of abhorrence? -how many are shocked by the atrocity of the Medical -College building at the University? how many feel that -Bourke Street, taken as a whole, is simply an insult to good -taste?</p> - -<p>“Yes, all this,” it is said, “may be true, as abstract theory, -but it is at present quite out of the sphere of practical application. -You would talk of Federalism, and here is our good -ex-Premier of New South Wales, Sir Henry Parkes, making it -the subject of a farewell denunciation. ‘I venture to say -now,’ says Sir Henry Parkes, ‘here amongst you what I said -when I had an opportunity in London, what I ventured to say -to Lord Derby himself, that this federation scheme must prove -a failure.’ You talk of Free-trade and here is what an -intelligent writer in the <i>Argus</i> says <i>apropos</i> of ‘the promised -tariff negotiations with Tasmania.’ ‘In America,’ he says, -‘there is no difficulty in inducing the States to see that, whatever -may be their policy as regards the outside world, they -should interchange as between each other in order that they -may stand on as broad a base as possible, but we can only -speculate on the existence of such a national spirit here.’—These -facts, my good sir,” it is said, “as indicative of the -amount of opposition that the nation feels to the ideas of Free-trade -and Federalism, are not encouraging.”—They are not, -let us admit it at once, but there are others which are; others, -some of which we have been considering, and, above and -beyond everything, there is one invaluable and in the end -irresistible ally of these ideas: there is <i>the Tendency of the Age</i>—<i>the -Time-Spirit</i>, as Goethe calls it. Things move more -quickly now than they used to do: ideas, the modern ideas, are -permeating the masses swiftly and thoroughly and universally.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span> -We cannot tell, we can only speculate as to what another fifty—forty—thirty -years will actually bring forth.</p> - -<p>Free-trade—Federalism—Higher Education, they all go -together. The necessities of life are cheap here, wonderfully -cheap; a man can get a dinner here for sixpence that he could -not get in England for twice or thrice the amount. “There are -not,” says the <i>Australasian Schoolmaster</i>, the organ of the State -Schools, “there are not many under-fed children in the Australian -[as there are in the English] schools.” But the luxuries -of life (and let us remember that what we call the luxuries of -life are, after all, necessities; they are the things which go to -make up our civilization, the things which make us feel that -there is a greater pleasure in life than sitting under your vine -and your fig-tree, whatever Mr. George may have to say to the -contrary)—the luxuries of life, I say, are dear here, very dear, -owing to, what I must be permitted to call, an exorbitant tariff, -and, consequently, the money that would be spent in fostering -a higher ideal of life, in preparing the way for a national higher -education, is spent on these luxuries, and the claims of intellect -and knowledge, and of beauty and manners, have to suffer for -it. Here is your Mr. Marcus Clarke, for instance, talking -grimly, not to say bitterly, of “the capacity of this city to foster -poetic instinct,” of his “astonishment that such work” as -Gordon’s “was ever produced here.” He is astonished, you -see, that the claims of intellect and knowledge, and of beauty -and manners are enough satisfied in this city to produce a -talent of this sort; he is astonished, because he does not see -that there is an element in this city which, in its way, is making -for at any rate the intellect and knowledge—an element which -is a product, not of England but of Australia; a general sense -of movement, of progress, of conscious power.</p> - -<p>Free-trade—Federalism—Higher Education, they all, I say, -go together; but if one is more important than the other, then -it is the last. Improvement, real improvement, must always be -from within outwards, not from without inwards. All abiding -good comes, as it has been well said, by evolution not by -revolution. “Our chief, our gravest want in this country at -present,” says Arnold, “our <i>unum necessarium</i>, is a middle-class, -homogeneous, intelligent, civilized, brought up in good -public schools, and on the first plane.” How true is this of -Australia too, of Melbourne! There are State schools for the -lower-class, but what is there for the great upper educated<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> -class of the nation? The voluntary schools, the “private -adventure schools.” And what sort of education do <i>they</i> -supply either in England or here? “The voluntary schools,” -says a happy shallow man in some Publishers’ circular I lit on -the other day, “the voluntary schools of the country” [of -England] “have reached the highest degree of efficiency.” -This, to those who have taken the trouble to study the question, -not to say to have considerable absolute experience in the -English voluntary schools—this is intelligence as surprising as -it ought to be gratifying. To such men, the idea they had -arrived at of the English voluntary schools was somewhat -different; their idea being that these schools were, both -socially and intellectually, the most inadequate that fall to the -lot of any middle class among the civilized nations of Europe. -“Comprehend,” says Arnold to us Englishmen, and he might -as well be saying it to you Australians, “comprehend that -middle-class education—the higher education, as we have put -it, of the great upper educated class—is a great democratic -reform, of the truest, surest, safest description.”</p> - -<p>“But there are many difficulties to be overcome—so many, -that we doubt these abstract theories to be at present within -the sphere of practical application. There is such a mass of -opposition to the idea of Federalism. And, as for the idea of -Free-trade, we can only speculate on the existence of a national -spirit here. The thinking public is quite content with its State -schools for the lower class, and cares little or nothing about -State schools and a higher education for the upper class. -They are much more interested in the religious questions of -the day—the Catholic attitude, the conflict between Mr. Strong -and his Presbytery on the subject of Religious Liberalism or -Latitudinarianism, as you may please to call it, etcetera, -etcetera, etcetera.”—All this is so, let us admit it at once, -but it does not discourage us. We know, or think we know -(which is, after all, almost the same thing), that these three -questions—Free-trade, Federalism, Higher Education—are the -three great, the three vital questions for Australia, for Melbourne. -We know that, sooner or later, they will have to be -properly considered and decided upon, and that, if Melbourne -is to keep the place which she now holds as the leading city, -intellectually and commercially, of Australia, they will have to -be decided upon in that way which conforms with “the -intelligible law of things,” with the <i>Tendency of the Age</i>, with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> -the <i>Time-Spirit</i>. For this is the one invaluable and, in the -end, irresistible ally of Progress—of Progress onward and -upward.</p> - -<p class="right"><i>December, 1884.</i></p> - -<p class="smaller"><span class="smcap">Note.</span>—No one, speaking of Free-trade and Federalism in Australia, -can omit a tribute of thanks to the <i>Argus</i> and the <i>Federal Australian</i> for -what they have respectively done for the two causes. The cause of -Higher Education, however, still waits for a champion in the Press.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/deco1.jpg" width="400" height="250" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_POETRY_OF_ADAM_LINDSAY_GORDON">THE POETRY OF ADAM LINDSAY GORDON.</h2> - -</div> - -<p>“In the whole range of English literature,” says an Australian -critic reviewing the complete edition of Gordon’s poems, “in -the whole range of English literature there have been few poets -possessed of a finer lyrical faculty than Adam Lindsay Gordon.... -‘Ashtaroth,’” continues our critic now warm at his -work, “‘Ashtaroth’ is worthy to rank with any of Tennyson’s -songs, and is far more musical than the best of Browning’s.” -Then there is “the beauty of his ballad poetry, such as -‘Fauconshawe’ and ‘Rippling Water,’ which are perfect of their -style;” and so on in the same strain, more or less, until the -reader is surprised that our critic ends up with no further claim -for his poet than that he “deserves to be ranked with the -genuine poets of his generation.” One does not propose to -criticise, verbally, criticism of this sort: it would be unkind to -do so, and, above all, it would be useless. This is a native -melody in the style of “Rule Britannia:” “Australia, and -especially Victoria, is great and therefore her poet must be great -also. Let us say that Melbourne is the equal of any English -city save London, and Gordon the equal of any English poet -save Shakspere and Milton!”</p> - -<p>Now let us hear what another Australian critic, one who -cares more about finding out the real deep true significance of -Gordon and his poetry than of glorifying the <i>amour-propre</i> of -this class or of that: let us hear what Mr. Marcus Clarke has -to say. “Written as they were” (as Gordon’s poems were) -“at odd times in leisure moments of a stirring and adventurous -life, it is not to be wondered at if they are unequal and -unfinished. The astonishment of those who knew the man, -and can gauge the capacity of this city to foster poetic instinct, -is, that such work was ever produced here at all.”—What a -different tone is this from that of our first and enthusiastic -critic! “<i>Unequal and unfinished</i>”—“<i>astonishment that such -work was ever produced here at all!</i>” But this is not all that Mr. -Clarke has to say about Gordon’s poetry: he has also to notice<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span> -what influence was at work in it, and (most important of all!) -what is its real deep true significance. He talks of Gordon -“owning nothing but a love for horsemanship and a head full -of Browning and Shelley,” and follows this up by saying that -“the influence of Browning and of Swinburne” (who, as we all -know, has been, creatively and demonstratively, the chief -prophet in his generation of the poet who, he likes to think, is -‘beloved above all other poets, being beyond all other poets—in -one word, and the only proper word,—divine’)—“the -influence of Browning and of Swinburne upon the writer’s taste -is plain. There is plainly visible also, however, a keen sense -of natural beauty and a manly admiration for healthy living.” -Well, and the conclusion of the whole matter? “The student -of these unpretending volumes will be repaid for his labour. -<i>He will find in them something very like the beginnings of a -national school of Australian poetry.</i>”</p> - -<p>Let us hasten to offer up our small tribute of praise and -thanks to Mr. Clarke for his critical sagacity here, and let us -venture to hope that the “Poems of Adam Lindsay Gordon” -may go down to posterity accompanied always by this small -“Preface” of Mr. Clarke, who both “knew the man” and was -yet the first to appreciate this aspect of his work.</p> - -<p>What, however, Mr. Clarke has to say about the facts of -Gordon’s life is, at best, inaccurate. It is Mr. Sutherland to -whom our gratitude is due here, gratitude for having discovered -for us all the details of the poet’s life which it is necessary for -us to know.<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p>What, then, remains for any other critic to do? There -remains to him, as it seems to me, the task of doing what Mr. -Clarke tells us he did not propose to do, “of criticising these -volumes,” and also of trying, as befits one who comes later, -and to whom, therefore, the events of the past have fallen into -that symmetry and proper proportion that the events of the -present can scarcely ever fall into: of trying, I say, to bring -out more clearly (one aspect of which he has done little more -than indicate), the real, deep, true significance of the poet’s -work; in a word, of trying to understand, instead of being -“astonished” at it.</p> - -<p>The first thing to notice about Gordon’s poetry is, that it is -almost all in regular and rymed rhythms. There is not a line<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> -of blank verse in it. Now, a “fine faculty” for regular and -rymed rhythms is by no means a synonym for a “fine lyrical -faculty.” Shelley, our greatest master in poetry of pure -melody, has a “fine faculty” for regular and rymed rhythms, -but has also a fine faculty for irregular rhythms: lines in -which the regular rhythm is broken, in order that a more -subtle melody may be expressed, are frequent in him. In Mr. -Swinburne such lines are rare—he has a fine faculty for regular -and rymed rhythms, but his faculty for irregular rhythms is (let -us say) less fine. Gordon, who is the disciple of this first side -of Mr. Swinburne’s technical talent, who, in his turn, is a -disciple of the first side of Shelley’s—Gordon, I say, is in this -respect to Mr. Swinburne what Mr. Swinburne is to Shelley.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hammersley, one of the few survivors of that peculiar -phase of colonial and Victorian feeling which produced the -poetry of Gordon, and who “may say he knew him intimately” -—tells us<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> how he “was often amused to hear him quote from -the poets, and his recitations used to make me laugh outright. -One day I said, ‘Hang it, Gordon, you can write good poetry, -but you can’t read.’” What was the matter with his “reading,” -then? He used to “read” in “a sing-song fashion.” Mr. -Woods, too, tells us<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> that “Gordon had an odd way of -reciting poetry, and his delivery was monotonous; but,” he -adds, “his way of emphasising the beautiful portions of what -he recited was charming from its earnestness.” Gordon’s -criticism on his own verses was: “They don’t <i>ring</i> so badly -after all, old fellow, do they?” He had no faculty for -irregular rhythms. He cannot, then, be said to possess a -“fine lyrical faculty;” he possessed a fine faculty for regular -and rymed rhythms. (As for his rymes, as rymes, they are -as a rule excellent, although there is often too little of the -“poet or prophet,” as he says, in them, and too much of the -“jingler of rymes,” the dealer in “verse-jingle chimes.”) -Since, however, this faculty of his is a fine faculty, it must not -be described as (in the usual and bad sense of the word) -imitative. There are, I think, passages in him that Byron -might have written (“To my Sister”), that Lord Tennyson -might have written (“The Road to Avernus,” scene x.), that -Mr. Swinburne might have written (“A Dedication”), and -the latter are frequent. In no other poets, save Wordsworth -and the earlier works of Mr. Arnold, do I find precisely this<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> -same sort of (shall I say) parallelism of feeling and expression -on certain subjects that I do in Mr. Swinburne and Gordon. -But it is, I think, very open to question whether Gordon -would have grown, as Mr. Arnold has, into a purely distinctive -style of his own. Gordon is terribly lacking in variety: to live -with a close study of him for several days is one of the most -trying of critical tasks. “My rymes,” he asks—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“My rymes, are they stale? If my metre</div> - <div class="verse indent2">is varied, one chime rings through all;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">one chime—though I sing more or sing less,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I have but one string to my lute.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">I doubt, I say, whether under any circumstances Gordon -would have produced, as Mr. Hammersley thought, “poems -worthy to be ranked with some of the masterpieces of the -English language.” He had not patience enough, he had not -clear-sightedness enough! “A more dare-devil rider,” says -Mr. Hammersley, “never crossed a horse.... As a steeplechase -rider he was, of course, in the very first rank, and his -name is indelibly associated with many of the most famous -chases run in Victoria, although in my opinion, and I think in -that of many good judges too, he was deficient in what is -termed ‘good hands,’ and when it came to a finish was far -behind a Mount or a Watson.” (And, considering his shortsightedness, -which Mr. Woods designates as “painful,” this is -not to be wondered at). It is the same with his poetry. All -in his poetry that is good has been done at a rush; the rest is -inferior, poor, and sometimes quite worthless. He has little, if -any, sense of real artistic workmanship either in whole or in -parts: “he is deficient in what is termed ‘good hands.’” -Take, for instance, his dramatic lyric, “Ashtaroth.” It is -worth reading. There are two beautiful songs in it, “On -the Current,” and “Oh! days and years departed.” There -are a few fine passages, a few fine dramatic touches, in it, and -one splendid outburst of Orion’s (“I hate thee not, thy grievous -plight”), but the poem, taken as a whole is, I say, worth -reading. Many of the speeches are weak, and some are -not poetry at all, but rymed prose, and bad at that. A sustained -effort, such as a piece like this requires, was impossible -to him. I say nothing of the ludicrous attempt at an adaptation -of Faust, Mephistopheles and Margarete, which is the -basis of the poem: I merely remark that, judged by its own -poor standard of judgment, it is quite a failure. Perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> -some day we shall have a selection from the poet’s work, from -which what is worthless will be eliminated, in order that all -our attention may be fixed on what is good, and perhaps the -selector will have the courage to dismiss all this poem, save -some dozen or so of extracts, into the gulf of oblivion or -an appendix. Encumbered as Gordon at present is with such -an amount of worthless work, there is a danger that much of -what is good may perish also.</p> - -<p>All his poetry that is good, I say, has been done at a rush. -The dramatic touches in it are as frequent as they are fine. -Take, for instance, this from the “Rhyme of Joyous Guard.”—Lancelot, -old, worn-out, feeling that “there is nothing good -for him under the sun but to perish as” (his bright past) “has -perished,” is thinking of the close of his career and Arthur’s: -of the discovery of his amour with Guinevere, his siege in -Joyous Guard, his encounters with “brave Gawain,” whom he -virtually slew, and then “the crime of Modred,” and “the -king by the knave’s hand stricken”—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“And the once-loved knight, was he there to save</div> - <div class="verse indent2">that knightly king who that knighthood gave?</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Ah, Christ! will he greet me as knight or knave</i></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><i>in the day when the dust shall quicken?</i>”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>This is splendid! And, as I have said, it by no means -stands alone. As a set-off against this excellence of his, is the -defect of prolixity. Byron had it, but Byron was an unsurpassed -improviser, not an artist. Like, too, his technical -master of the “Poems and Ballads” when he gets hold of a -regular or rymed rhythm that pleases him, Gordon will go on -making it “ring,” listening as the “verse-jingle chimes,” -till we are all quite weary of it. He is regardless of what Goethe -calls “the æsthetic whole.” Indeed, it may justly be said that -few, very few, of his poems are “æsthetic wholes” at all, but -only passages.</p> - -<p>So much, then, for the outward form of his poetry. We -have now to consider what is the significance to us of his life -and work, of his personality, and of his “criticism of life.”</p> - -<p>In the first place, let us begin by stating that Gordon <i>has</i> a -personality. Mr. Hammersley tells us how “at times Gordon -was the strangest, most weird, mysterious man I ever saw, and -I could not help feeling almost afraid of him, and yet there -was a fascination about him that made me like to see him.” -There was the fascination of his converse. “He was one of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span> -the few men I have known in the colonies,” asseverates Mr. -Hammersley, “that never made me tire of listening to him.” -And there was the fascination of his individuality: “His wild -haunting eye,” “a look something like what is termed the evil -eye.” (This reminds one of what Mr. Clarke has to say about -“the dominant note of Australian scenery: Weird Melancholy.”) -Mr. Woods’ whole article bears witness to this -personal fascination of Gordon’s. Well, it is the same in his -poetry: I mean, that it is the same as Mr. Hammersley <i>means</i>. -There is attraction in Gordon. We want to go to see anything -that he has had to do with. We seek out his grave and -brood over it.<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> He is the Australian fellow to Baudelaire and -James Thomson, the last martyrs, let us hope, to our terrible -period of transition from the Old World into the New, from -Mediævalism into Modernity. There is attraction in Gordon. -We should like to have seen and known the original of -Laurence Raby, of Maurice, of the man of the “Sea-spray -and Smoke-Drift,” and “Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes.” -He is an individuality, and a modern and a colonial individuality. -He looks at life as it is, not as it is represented.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“In thy grandeur, oh sea! we acknowledge,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">in thy fairness, oh earth! we confess,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">hidden truths that are taught in no college,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">hidden songs that no parchment express.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">And, as for the pedants of the Old World, why! (as we know)</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“They are slow, very slow, in discerning</div> - <div class="verse indent2">that book-lore and wisdom are twain.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Here, then, is the first charm in Gordon, and his work; they -are modern, they represent the main-current of the age, not -some side-water or back-water, that are perhaps nice enough -in their way, but still—side-waters or back-waters, and <i>only</i> -side-waters or back-waters.</p> - -<p>Gordon and his work are modern, but not wholly modern; -he belongs, as I have said, to a period of transition. Like<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span> -Mary Magdalene, he feels that “they have taken away my -Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him.” He has -lost the Old, and he has not won the New Faith. He is a -poet of the twilight and the dawn. “On this earth so rough,” -he says,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“on this earth so rough, we know quite enough,</div> - <div class="verse indent2"><i>and, I sometimes fancy, a little too much</i>,”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">and so, we have to suffer! Burns, Byron, Leopardi, Heine, -Musset, Baudelaire, Clough, Thomson—greater and lesser, this -is true of them all! Their early life is embittered by it, their -later life made desperate. “Years back,” says Gordon,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Years back I believed a little,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">and as I believed I spoke.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Years back he could utter prayer, years back when he was a -child. He cannot utter it now: “For prayer must die since -hope is dead.” <i>Now</i> he can only wonder</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Is there nothing real but confusion?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">is nothing certain but death?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">is nothing fair, save illusion?</div> - <div class="verse indent2">is nothing good that has breath?...”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">“I can hardly vouch,” he says, again,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent16">“I can hardly vouch</div> - <div class="verse indent0">for the truth of what little I see....</div> - <div class="verse indent0">On earth there’s little worth a sigh,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">and nothing worth a tear.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But ah,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“the restless throbbings and burnings</div> - <div class="verse indent2">that hope unsatisfied brings,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">the weary longings and yearnings</div> - <div class="verse indent2">for the mystical better things....</div> - <div class="verse indent0">There are others toiling and straining</div> - <div class="verse indent2">’neath burdens graver than mine—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">They are weary, yet uncomplaining—</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I know it, yet I repine.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I know it, how time will ravage,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">how time will level, and yet</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I long with a longing savage,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I regret with a fierce regret....”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">We are sorely tired, “we, with our bodies thus weakly, with -hearts hard and dangerous.”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent8">“We have suffered and striven</div> - <div class="verse indent0">till we have grown reckless of pain,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">though feeble of heart, and of brain.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span></p> - -<p class="noindent">Who has expressed the malady of our time better? “Our -burdens are heavy, our natures weak,” he says again. We -cannot escape from them:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Round about one fiery centre</div> - <div class="verse indent2">wayward thoughts like moths revolve;”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">We cannot write a description of a horse-race without letting -them come in, without calling our description by a name expressive -of them—“<i>Ex fumo dare lucem:</i>”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“<i>Till the good is brought forth from evil,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><i>as day is brought forth from night.</i>—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Vain dreams! for our fathers cherished</div> - <div class="verse indent2">high hopes in the days that were;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and these men wondered and perished,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">nor better than these we fare;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And our due at least is their due,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">they fought against odds and fell;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">“<i>En avant les enfants perdus!</i>”</div> - <div class="verse indent2">We fight against odds as well.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"><i>Enfant perdu</i>: so the dying Heine calls himself. <i>Enfants -perdus</i>, that is what they were! The storms of our terrible -period of transition raged about them: “they could not wait -their passing,” as Arnold says—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“they could not wait their passing, they are dead.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">“I am slow,” says Gordon,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“I am slow in learning, and swift in</div> - <div class="verse indent2">forgetting, and I have grown</div> - <div class="verse indent0">so weary with long sand-sifting!</div> - <div class="verse indent2">T’wards the mist, where the breakers moan</div> - <div class="verse indent0">the rudderless bark is drifting,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">through the shoals of the quick-sands shifting—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In the end shall the night-rack lifting,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">discover the shores unknown?”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The idea of killing himself seems to have been with him from -almost the first. It was not “bitter” to him: “man in his -blindness” taught so; but, to him that</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent24">“mystic hour</div> - <div class="verse indent0">when the wings of the shadowy angel lower,”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">was not without its charm. “When I first heard the sad -news,” Mr. Hammersley tells us, “I was not the least surprised. -I really expected that what did happen would -happen.” We all know Gordon’s poem, “De Te.” The last -two verses of it are the best criticism that we have to offer “of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span> -him,” “found dead in the heather, near his home, with a bullet -from his own rifle in his brain:”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“No man may shirk the allotted work,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">the deed to do, the death to die;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">at least I think so—neither Turk,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">nor Jew, nor infidel am I—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And yet I wonder when I try</div> - <div class="verse indent2">to solve one question, may or must,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and shall I solve it by-and-bye,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">beyond the dark, beneath the dust?</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>I trust so, and I only trust.</i></div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Aye what they will, such trifles kill.</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Comrade, for one good deed of yours,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">your history shall not help to fill</div> - <div class="verse indent2">the mouths of many brainless boors.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">It may be death absolves or cures</div> - <div class="verse indent2">the sin of life. ’Twere hazardous</div> - <div class="verse indent0">to assert so. If the sin endures,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">say only, ‘<i>God, who has judged him thus,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>be merciful to him, and us:</i>’”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>And his work, his “criticism of life?” Is there nothing in -it but this “<i>trust and only trust</i>?” There is more, much -more! “There is plainly visible,” says Mr. Clarke, “a keen -sense of natural beauty, and a manly admiration for healthy -living ... a very clear perception of the loveliness of duty -and of labour.” Let us see if this, too, is so, or if any -qualification of this remark is needed; and, if so, what qualification.</p> - -<p>Gordon’s life and work were a failure. He himself would, I -am sure, have been the first to admit it and have assigned the -cause, and rightly, to bad luck in general and certain failings -in himself in particular. Is it not bad luck to be born into an -age that makes of its poets its martyrs? Gordon struggled -and schemed. He was a livery-stable keeper, a landowner, a -member of assembly, a keeper of racehorses, and a failure in -all. It was only as jockey and stockrider that he was a success—that -is to say, an object of admiration to others and of -happiness to himself. “He sometimes,” says Mr. Woods, -“compared the lot of a bushman with that of other states of -mankind, saying that it was in many ways preferable to any -one,” and for himself he was right. Let us not lament his -failure in what he was not meant to be a success. Gordon, -happy in life and love, might well have become at best a -<i>dilettante</i>, at worst a materialized blockhead, he has so little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span> -patience, so little clear-sightedness! Perhaps it is, after all, -better as it is. The axe cuts down the sandal tree, and the -tree sheds forth its perfume.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Our sweetest songs are those which tell of saddest thought.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">We love a poet more for what he has suffered than what he has -done, and yet ultimately, if we will only see it, what he suffers -and what he does are the same. As boys we love our Byron -and our Shelley; as men our Goethe and our Shakspere. -Gordon, I say, as poet and failure is better than prose-man and -success. But see now what he has to say about this life in -which he failed so.</p> - -<p>Firstly, there is all the doubt and bewilderment of a period -of transition:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“We are children lost in the wood.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">“Lord,” prays this woman that loves Laurence Raby,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Lord, lead us out of this tangled wild,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">where the wise and the prudent have been beguiled,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">and only the babes have stood.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Meantime,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Onward! onward! still we wander,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">nearer draws the goal;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Half the riddle’s read, we ponder</div> - <div class="verse indent2">vainly on the whole....</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Onward! onward! toiling ever,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">weary steps and slow;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">doubting oft, despairing never,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">to the goal we go!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">To what goal? Well,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“The chances are I go where most men go.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Let us leave the rest with God—God whose “dealings with us” -are unfathomable, God who is “fathomless.” Thus he achieves -his resignation. But he never blinds himself to things; he -never answers “the painful riddle of the earth” by “stopping -up his mouth with a clod” (as Heine says). This world is a</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent4">“world of rapine and wrong,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">where the weak and the timid seem lawful prey</div> - <div class="verse indent2">for the resolute and the strong.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Sometimes there rises in him the</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs he never can right,”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">for the brothers, and ah for the sisters, he cannot help. But -sometimes, also, he bursts forth into “a song of gladness, a -pæan of joyous might.” Both are in him: the wail for the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> -lost Lord and the thanksgiving to God for his “<span class="smcap">glorious -oxygen</span>.” (The capitals are his own.) With the first, we -have done: let us look at the second and see what he has to -show us of living and loving, of action and women, and then -see what he has to show us of life as a whole, “the conclusion -of the whole matter.”</p> - -<p>I have said elsewhere that there is in Gordon the cheer and -charge of our chivalry. There is. He was well worthy of a -place in the charge of our cavalry at Waterloo, or Balaclava. -There is in him that “magnificence” which now, alas, as the -Frenchman truly said, “is not war.” These men “glory in -daring that dies or prevails.” And when, as at Balaclava, they -die, their poet exclaims (in capitals)—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent12">“not in vain,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">as a type of our chivalry!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">What exclamations of rapture such a sight draws from him!</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Oh! the moments of yonder maddening ride,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">long years of life outvie!...</div> - <div class="verse indent0">God send me an ending as fair as his,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">who died in his stirrups there!...”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Here is a race:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“They came with the rush of the southern surf,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">on the bar of the storm-girt bay;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and like muffled drums on the sounding turf</div> - <div class="verse indent2">their hoof-strokes echo away.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">I know no poetry that describes the rush of horsemen quite as -Gordon does. Take this description of the Balaclava charge -from his “Lay of the Last Charger.”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Now we were close to them, every horse striding</div> - <div class="verse indent2">madly;—St. Luce pass’t with never a groan;—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sadly my master look’d round—he was riding—</div> - <div class="verse indent2">on the boy’s right, with a line of his own.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">while from his wrist the sword swung by a chain,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">kiss’t it (I think) and replaced it again.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Burst, while his fingers reclined on the haft,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">jarring concussion and earth-shaking din,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Horse counter’d horse, and I reel’d, <i>but he laugh’t,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><i>down went his man, cloven clean to the chin</i>!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Lord Tennyson has watched his charge through Mr. Russell’s -field-glass, and we follow his view of it, but Gordon has ridden -it and takes us with him. Old and miserable, the friend of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span> -man who had ridden this “Last Charger,” offers up the same -prayer as the man who had “visioned it in the smoke:”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Would to God I had died with your master, old man,”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">for—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“he was never more happy in life than in death.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">What I find so admirable in Gordon, and in almost all his -characters is, that they are <i>men</i>, I mean <i>men</i> as opposed to -dreamers or students. His Lancelot <i>is</i> Lancelot, the knight -who has lived and loved largely. Tennyson’s is not. I must -confess that I really think that “The Rhyme of Joyous Guard” -is worth all the other “Idylls of the King,” save “Lancelot -and Elaine,” and “The Passing of Arthur,” put together. I -mean that I really think it has more real deep true significance. -Take this conclusion, the last prayer of Lancelot, old and -passed from the world:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“If ever I smote as a man should smite,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">if I struck one stroke that seem’d good in Thy sight,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">by Thy loving mercy prevailing,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Lord! let her stand in the light of Thy face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">cloth’d with Thy love, and crown’d with Thy grace,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">when I gnash my teeth in the terrible place</div> - <div class="verse indent2">that is fill’d with weeping and wailing.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">This is splendid! His men, I say, are <i>men</i>, men such as we -find in Byron. Orion (Satan) says that</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">“The angel Michael was once my foe;</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>He had a little the best of our strife,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><i>yet he never could deal so stark a blow.</i>”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">The lover in “No Name,” thinking of meeting “the slayer of -the soul” he loved, says:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“And I know that if, here or there, alone,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">I found him fairly, and face to face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>having slain his body, I would slay my own,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent2"><i>that my soul to Satan his soul might chase</i>:”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">a remark in the strain of Heathcliff. Most of his lovers love -passionately and sensuously, and only passionately and sensuously: -The poet “revels in the rosy whiteness of that golden-headed -girl:” if one thing is harder to forgive to a successful -rival than another it is that</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">“he has held her long in his arms,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and has kissed her over and over again:”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">his chief regret over a dear dead girl is</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“for the red that never was fairly kiss’d—</div> - <div class="verse indent2">for the white that never was fairly press’d:”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span></p> - -<p class="noindent">and, when he leaves his love for ever, he is in anguish at the -thought that</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“’twill, doubtless, be another’s lot</div> - <div class="verse indent4">those very lips to press:”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">a remark in the more morbid strain of Keats to Fanny Brawne.</p> - -<p>When Lancelot first kisses Guinevere, he, the mighty knight, -“well nigh swoons.” Love, with Gordon’s lovers, “consumes -their hearts with a fiery drought.” “Laurence,” says Estelle to -her lover,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Laurence, you kiss me too hard:”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">and the man of “Britomarte” is at hand with the appropriate -criticism that</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“men at the bottom are merely brutes.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But we must not think that <i>all</i> Gordon’s lovers love in this -way, any more than that all his men merely charge and cheer. -The battle is over.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“And what then? The colours reversed, the drums muffled,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">the black nodding plumes, the dead march and the pall,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">the stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">the slow sacred music that floats over all.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">This is beautiful, and no less beautiful is the tenderness of his -love.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“A grim grey coast, and a sea-board ghastly,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">and shores trod seldom by feet of men—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">where the batter’d hulk and the broken mast lie,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">they have lain embedded these long years ten.</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Love! when we wandered here together,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>hand in hand through the sparkling weather,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>from the heights and hollows of fern and heather,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent6"><i>God surely loved us a little then.</i>”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">Nor is it rare to find passages in him</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“with the song like the song of a maiden,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">with the scent like the scent of a flower.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">For “dark and true and tender is the north” with all its storm -and stress.</p> - -<p>Poor “sick stock-rider” and poet, with his wild eyes and -wild words, and that “shyness and reserve which kept him -locked up, as it were, in himself!” Our proud, passionate -heart “out-wore its breast” as “the sword outwears its sheath,” -and so we “took our rest,” but not before we had won our -resignation and known, or almost known, the truth, even as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span> -Empedocles did, and yet died because “he was come too late”—or -too soon—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“and the world hath the day, and must break thee,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">not thou the world.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Gordon won his resignation, and knew, or almost knew, the -truth. The “criticism of life” that we find in the first two -scenes of “The Road to Avernus” is almost ripe: pessimistic, -it is true, but almost ripe. Laurence has lost his love, (and -Laurence, let us remember, is the lover that “kisses too -hard!”) Does he despair in the strain of “Rolla,” or -“bluster,” and take refuge in the breast of “the wondrous -mother age,” and the “vision of the world” in the strain of the -man of “Locksley Hall?” No, he has lost his love, and the -loss is bitter, but</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“such has been, and such shall still be, here as there, in sun or star.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These things are to be and will be; those things were to be and are.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">“As it was so,” he says again,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“as it was so in the beginning,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">it shall be so in the end.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">There is the feeling here of a man who is striving to see things -as they are. He will not blind himself to things: he will not -answer “the painful riddle of the earth” by “stopping up his -mouth with a clod.” He will have true faith, or no faith. -Fate rules us, he sees:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Man thinks, discarding the beaten track,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">that the sins of his youth are slain,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">when he seeks fresh sins, but he soon comes back</div> - <div class="verse indent2">to his old pet sins again....</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Some flashes like faint sparks from heaven,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">come rarely with rushing of wings;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">We are conscious at times, we have striven,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">though seldom, to grasp better things;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These pass, leaving hearts that have faltered,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">good angels with faces estranged,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and the skin of the Æthiop unalter’d,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">and the spots of the leopard unchanged.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">And yet life, life as life, independent of living and loving, of -activity and women, is not altogether hopeless:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Doubtless all are bad, yet few are</div> - <div class="verse indent2">cruel, false, and dissolute.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>He never gets any farther than this. He sees, or almost -sees, truth, as Moses saw Canaan, and then he fails. He has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> -not had patience enough, not clear-sightedness enough! He -cannot enter the Promised Land. “In defiance of pain and -terror he has pressed resolutely across the howling deserts of -Infidelity;” but he has not the strength left to do more than -reach “the new, firm lands of Faith beyond.” He has loved -life, living and loving, activity and women, and he has not -feared to look into the reality of things, man and Nature and -God, their sunshine and their shadow, their life and their -death, and there is no hesitation in his message to us—“Onward! -Onward!”—But that is all. He knows nothing of -<i>how</i> we are to go onward, or to <i>where</i>. He has had enough -to do to get himself as far as he has got, to achieve what he -has achieved. His life and work are a failure. We cannot -for a moment think of calling him a great poet: his claim on -our interest as a poet is that he is one of the poets, one of the -martyrs, of our terrible period of transition, and that in him is -to be found “something very like the beginnings of a national -school of Australian poetry.” Of this second aspect of him—of -how he is representative of what I have taken to be the -distinctive marks of this Australian, this Melbourne civilisation, -its general sense of movement, of progress, of conscious power: -of this aspect of him I have spoken elsewhere, too, and there -seems no need to do more here than to repeat the assertion. -But, for my part, I cannot lay the stress on either this aspect -of him, or the other which makes him “the poet of Australian -scenery,” that I do on the first aspect of him. Gordon’s life -and work are a failure, but they are a failure with enough -redeeming points to raise them from local, or even colonial, -into general interest. As our first and enthusiastic critic puts -it: “he deserves to be ranked with the genuine poets of his -generation,” and I feel sure that he ultimately will be. For he -is representative not only of Australian, but of modern feeling: -he tells not only of Australia from the fifties to the seventies, -but of our terrible period of transition from the Old World into -the New, from Mediævalism into Modernity.</p> - -<p>Poor “sick stock-rider” and poet, with his wild eyes -and wild words—Our proud, passionate heart “outwore its -breast,” as “the sword outwears its sheath,” and so we “took -our rest.” “Sleep!” says Mr. Swinburne, in the most beautiful -and satisfactory of his poems, “Ave atque Vale,” the lament -over another of the martyrs—the author of “Les Fleurs -du Mal:”—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Sleep; and, if life were bitter to thee, pardon,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">if sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">and to give thanks is good, and to forgive ...</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Content thee, howsoe’er, whose days are done;</div> - <div class="verse indent2">There lies not any troublous thing before,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">nor sight nor sound to war against thee more,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">for whom all winds are quiet as the sun,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">all waters as the shore.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="right"><i>January, 1885.</i></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/deco2.jpg" width="400" height="225" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SALVATION_ARMY">THE SALVATION ARMY.</h2> - -</div> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p>When a man speaks of Modern Europe, he is generally -taken to mean the Europe of steam and electricity. As a -matter of fact, Modern Europe really dates back to about the -middle of the last century, when certain ideas which we call -“modern” first began to be promulgated. And these ideas -were not, as in this expression “Modern Europe” it is tacitly -supposed, merely scientific; they were not only concerned -with steam and electricity; they were social. And thus, when -we use the expression, if we are to use it, in this particular -sense, we should remember that it means, not only that the -whole world is netted with railways and telegraphs, but also -that, speaking generally, the European races are no longer -governed by kings or aristocracies, but by middle-classes or, -as some prefer to put it, by peoples. And this, as I take it, is -far the more important fact of the two. I will go further, and -say that it is the most important fact of our civilization—nay, -that it <i>is</i> our civilization, and that, therefore, whoever would -seek to understand the meaning of any movement, great or -small, which is taking place in our civilization, must seek it -here, and here only! Our civilization is our government by -the Middle-class or, as some prefer to put it, by the People. -But that these individuals who prefer to put it so are, let us -say, if not mistaken, at any rate inaccurate, is precisely what I -want in this little article to try to show, and in as striking a -manner as I can, so that, not only may I try to do something -towards making clear to us the real deep true significance of a -much misunderstood movement, but also that of a much more -misunderstood power—the Middle-class of the European races. -I do not propose to go through my subject thoroughly: to do -so would require more time and more space than any editor -could afford me. I shall merely touch on one phase of the -great spiritual movement which is at present permeating the -European races, and then turn to consider another phase of it—a -phase which is of peculiar interest to us of England, America, -and Australia.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span></p> - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>In Europe there is but one country that still suffers the -despotism of an aristocracy, and that country is Russia. The -modern ideas, the modern social ideas, have taken all this -time to pass from France, Germany, and England into Russia, -and have seized on what, for lack of a better word, I might -call, its nascent middle-class. The results have been, and still -are, wonderful and terrible. A group of men (for they are -little more) has suddenly realised that the immense mass of -the People is being despotised over in the interest of a group -in reality little larger than itself. All, I will not say -freedom, but possibilities of freedom are resolutely withheld. -Russia at present has not the guaranteed protection of its -men’s and women’s liberties which the English of the fourteenth, -the thirteenth, the twelfth, the eleventh, the tenth -centuries had! This to-day is a state of things which cannot -continue. The group of men who see and feel this, not -clearly and quietly as we outsiders can, but intensely and -passionately, is waging a duel to the death with the other -group, with the despotism, for the bare principles of freedom. -On the one hand are knowledge and light, on the other -ignorance and darkness, the modern against the ancient -spirit. But, thanks to the fact that there are men whose whole -interest is to resist the one and support the other to the last, -the light has become lightning and not only irradiates but -strikes. It is considered by some a question whether this -despotism, armed with all resources of wealth and military -power, will be able to stamp out this group before the immense -mass of the People is awakened to the meaning of it all. -Others, however, merely consider whether the Russian government -will be destroyed by a revolution or constitutionalized by -a reform. We English, you see, consider it all clearly and -quietly as mere outsiders, and so, as regards the <i>aspect</i> of the -problem, we are; but not, not as regards the problem itself! -These modern ideas, these social ideas, are working not only -in Russia, where the abuses which surround them make them -burn so fiercely, but more or less all over Europe, and in -England rather more than less. Ireland, we all see, smoulders -with them. And why, pray? Because England and Ireland -are always snarling at one another, “it being their nature to?” -Not so. It is because that aspect of the problem which is -presented to Great Britain generally is a little more pressing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span> -in Ireland than in England or Scotland. The trouble in -Ireland is not national but social. The strife is not between -Irish and English: it is between peasants and landlords. -Unhappily many landlords are English: unhappily many -peasants believe that the English as a nation support the landlords -as a class. Hence whatever Irish hatred of England -there may be; but the trouble is not, I repeat, national, it is -social. It is the People rising against the Middle-class.</p> - -<p>Well, this movement, whether it be in Russia, in England, in -Germany, in France, in America, we are all pretty well agreed -to call the Socialistic movement. It represents the effort of -the People after social improvement. It took its rise not from -<i>within</i> the people, but from <i>without</i>. The French, English, -and German Socialists were originally groups of men who suddenly -realized that the immense mass of the People was being -despotized over in the interest of the Middle-class. Each -country has its peculiar aspect of this fact, but the fact is the -same in each. In France the Middle-class made and supported -the Empire, and, having stamped out the People’s wild -attempt at power in ’71, made and supports the Republic. In -Germany—dismembered Germany—the problem was pushed -back before the apparently greater one of national unity, but -now it arises again and demands solution. In England the -landed proprietors, and still more the capitalists, are beginning -to have qualms; but the real struggle does not lie between -them and the Socialists: they are but overgrown individuals of -a class. There will be no more Tories and no more Conservatives: -the future lies in the struggle between Liberals and -Socialists, the Middle-class and the People.</p> - -<p>This Socialistic movement, then, took its rise not from -<i>within</i> the People but from <i>without</i>, and not in connection -with Religion, the great ally of the powers that were, the -Middle-class, but on the whole antagonistic to it. This movement -took its rise in men of intellect who had little or no care -for Religion, and its tendency is intellectual and careless of -Religion. The Middle-class has shown nothing but dislike to -this movement: the Middle-class has understood enough of the -ideas of this movement to know that they are subversive of its -own superiority. As for the People, they have understood -little or nothing. Socialists tell them, what is indeed the -truth, that they are the masters: that to-morrow, if they -pleased, they could send a parliament up to Westminster that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span> -should dictate what terms they pleased to “their lords and -masters, the landowners and the capitalists.” The People does -not happily believe it. They are so hopeless: they have been -deceived so often by those who said they would help them. -(Bill here, you see, with a wife and six children, all living in a -den that the Zoological people would consider unfit for a -hyena—Bill cannot be made to understand how the question -comes home to <i>him</i>!) Besides which, let us say it at once -and insist upon it, the People is the most long-suffering of all -things: it desires to despoil no man, it only desires the happiness -which mere food, clothing, and a house will give it.</p> - -<p>In this state of affairs—the powerlessness of the Socialists to -bring home to the People the great idea of social improvement—lie -the causes of the religious movement whose best-known -and best representative is the Salvation Army.</p> - -<h3>III.</h3> - -<p>Consider it—first generally and then particularly.</p> - -<p>In Russia the People has religion and no freedom. In -England the People has freedom and no religion. (In both, -let us add, the People has misery unspeakable). The one -question presses for solution in the one country, the other in -the other. The two most piteous spectacles in Europe are the -religious People of Russia, and the free People of England. -The Aristocracy which governs the one, the Middle-class -which governs the other, both are equally indifferent to the -People. Add to the fact of the utter want of religion of the -English People (it is understood that by People I mean the -masses), the fact of their utter want of, I will not say the comforts, -but the necessities of life, and you have a field for revolution -such as nowhere else, I believe, presents itself save in -Russia herself.—I speak in the present, as if the problem -presented itself to me to-day just as it did years ago, and I am -delighted to notice that at last the English Middle-class is -awakening to the fact of the misery of the People, and also of -the danger of letting that misery continue. But it is quite a -mistake to suppose that either the one or the other is mitigated, -not to say ended, or that it will be so for years to come.</p> - -<p>Religion in England—and Religion has, inaptly enough, -become a synonym for Christianity, in which general sense of -the term I use it here—Religion in England, just like everything -else, is conducted in the interest of the Middle-class. Go<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span> -into the London back-streets on a sunday morning. You will -find the men leaning against the walls, the women at the -doors, the children in the gutters. The public-houses, you -observe, are closed: the Middle-class does not like that the -People should be drinking beer and spirits while they themselves -are indulging in religious worship. Enter the church or -the chapel. What are the services like? We all know them—a -performance on the part of the choir, or a discreet, sibilant, -half-articulate murmur on the part of the congregation. The -clergyman or minister reads out a portion of the wonderful and -beautiful history of Jesus in a fine meaningless monotone, and -“here endeth the second lesson.” But of the passion and the -peace of the Galilean story, what does <i>he</i> know? He has -forgotten or never known Jesus, but he can tell you plenty -about Christ. Listen to the sermons. What do they treat of? -Matters that are likely to interest the men and women outside -there? The sermons are empty of Jesus and full of Christ—empty -of the truth of the Master and full of the dogmas of the -Pupils. Theology, theological dogmas, Catholic or Protestant, -are perhaps interesting to men and women who are well to do, -and like to have something to argue about; but what does -poverty care for them? The man who has eaten a good -breakfast and is waiting for a good dinner may care to have it -shown to him, that he and his fellows are the one body of -Christians that is absolutely and entirely orthodox; but -the man with an empty belly, and little or no prospect of -filling it, may perhaps be forgiven for not caring a jot whether -these are blasts of true or false doctrine, or not. The matter -does not affect him: he stops outside. So should we.</p> - -<p>Now, I would not for a moment imply that there are not -priests, clergymen, and ministers who have done, and are -doing, fine and noble work among the People. There are -many such. But what I do say is, that, speaking generally, the -church and the chapel have both utterly failed to seriously -affect the mass of the People, and that they have done so for the -reasons I have given above.—“In the year 1865,” says Mr. -Booth in one of the Salvation Army pamphlets, “Mr. Booth -was led, by the Providence of God, by no plan or idea of his -own, to the East of London, where the appalling fact that the -enormous bulk of the population were totally ignorant and -deficient of real religion, and altogether uninfluenced by the -existing religious organizations, so impressed him that he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span> -determined to devote his life to <i>making</i> these people <i>hear</i> and -<i>know</i> God, and thus save them from the abyss of misery in -which they were plunged, and rescue them from the damnation -that was before them. The Salvation Army is the result.” -<i>The Salvation Army is the result.</i> He simply states the fact. -It was “by no plan or idea of his own.” He has, so far as I -know, never explained more than the phenomena of it.<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> I -have talked with one of his sons on the subject, and all he has -to tell me in explanation of 859 corps or stations, 2041 paid -officials, and <i>War Cry</i> newspapers with a weekly circulation of -550,000, is <i>how</i>, as he takes it, the Salvationists “get at” the -People; but he knows, and probably cares, absolutely nothing -about the <i>why</i>. “The grate was set,” I say, “You were the -match, and behold the fire!” “It is the Lord,” he says, and I -do not think of contradicting him. It is not natural that a -man who takes part in a movement should know more than the -<i>how</i> of it, should know the <i>why</i>. If he did, he would not be -as unhesitating as he is in his belief that his movement is so -good. To achieve little we must aim at much. He who lives -passionately in the present must leave the dead to bury their -dead and the babes unborn to consider their suckling: he must -create, he has not time to criticise. At the same time how -important it is that there should be not only doers but -watchers; not only creators but critics; not only those who -concern themselves with the <i>how</i> but also those who concern -themselves with the <i>why</i>, for the <i>why</i> unlocks the gates of both -the past and the future: it tells us not only the <i>whence</i> but also -the <i>whither</i>.</p> - -<p>Now, as I have said, in a certain state of affairs which we -have noticed lies <i>this why</i>, and there, if we can only look well -enough, we shall find it. The Salvation Army is, like everything -else an organism. It has its seed, and all its stages of -development up to its maturity and down into its decay, when -it, too, like everything else, will go to form nutriment for other -organisms, just as others have for its own.</p> - -<p>Now, nothing will help us more in our search after this <i>why</i> -than a knowledge of the <i>how</i>, and, since this knowledge is, at -any rate among the governing classes, wonderfully limited, I propose -giving a short account of how the Salvation Army and its -work has struck me personally. It seems almost needless to -state that I am an unprejudiced observer. The Salvation<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span> -Army, as the Salvation Army, is literally nothing to me: my only -interest in it lies in the influence which it exerts, whether for -good or evil, on the People. I have no cause to plead. If -anyone can point out mistakes of mine, or even demonstrate -to me that my whole view of this matter is an illusion, no one, -I am sure, will be more pleased and grateful than myself. -Those are our real benefactors who demonstrate to us an -illusion and open the way to a better view of things.</p> - -<h3>IV.</h3> - -<p>I propose, I said, giving a short account of how the Salvation -Army and its work has struck me personally. When I -was in England I studied it, as I study all movements that are -going on around me, with more or less care. Since I have -been in Australia I have done the same, and, as I have found -the differences between the English and Australian Salvation -Armies to be immaterial ones, and as I am now addressing an -Australian audience, I shall speak of the Salvation Army as I -have seen it here, so that he who cares may go and see for -himself whether I am correct or incorrect in my view of it. -This, too, will enable him more easily, if he desires it, to point -out my mistakes and even demonstrate to me that my whole -view is an illusion, and make me his pleased and grateful -debtor for life. First, however, let me just notice what these -differences between the English and Australian Salvation -Armies are. In one word the Australian is less exaggerative. -The People in Australia breathes free: it does not feel the -weight of the two great divisions of the Middle-class that is -above it, the well-to-do and the gentlemen. Workmen here -do not go slouching down the streets, as they do in England, -crushed under the sense of their inferiority. This is a true -republic, the truest, as I take it, in the world. In England -the average man feels that he is an inferior: in America he -feels that he is a superior: in Australia he feels that he is an -equal. This is indeed delightful. It is the first thing that -strikes a new arrival in this country, and although Australia’s -sins—sins against true civilization, I mean—are as many as they -are heinous, still a multitude of them, as it seems to me, is -covered by this—namely, that here the People is neither servile -nor insolent, but only shows its respect of itself by its respect -of others. Nowhere else but in France is there, I think, -anything quite like it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span></p> - -<p>There is, then, naturally less exaggerativeness in the Australian -than the English Salvation Army. When a man is, as -they say, “saved” there, it is from a far deeper “abyss of -misery” than it is here. The very atmosphere of England is -heavy with the degradation of the People. For a man to -become, no longer passively, but actively aware of this, is -almost overwhelming, and so is his feeling when he believes -that he has escaped from it. Hence those wild words and acts -of the Salvationists which have offended so many. Add to -this the excitement caused by a large gathering, religious -emulation, etc., etc., and the matter is a simple one.</p> - -<p>Now let us go to a Salvationist popular service, and see their -manner of work there. The hall is crowded. The great bulk -of the congregation is made up of the upper stratum of the -People, servants, small shopkeepers, etc. There are also a not -inconsiderable number of the lower stratum of the People, -labourers. Many outsiders have come from curiosity. On the -stage or platform are a certain number of the regular paid -officials in their uniforms, and of “hallelujah lasses” in their -straight dresses and poke-bonnets. Considering these men and -women attentively, what most strikes us is that the generality -are, as Jeffrey said lightly of Carlyle, “terribly in earnest.” -Some have the business-like air of all officials, religious or -otherwise: some have a somewhat disgusted air, as if they were -rather wearying of it all, now that the novelty has worn off. -But the generality of them are, there is no doubt of it, -“terribly in earnest.” Presently the head officials enter, and -the service is opened with a hymn. The Salvationists sing -well: I remember that, at the first Salvationist service at -which I was present, this singing of theirs was something like -a revelation to me. It was not its “go,” as we say, that -affected me: it was its depth and sweetness. It comes from -the heart and goes to the heart. This is the only language the -People can either use or understand.</p> - -<p>Just beside me a little boy of four or five, standing between -his father’s knees with shut eyes and waving arm, is shouting -and bawling out the words of the hymn, so that he may attract -attention and be an “edification.” It is painful. (Later on -during a prayer he lies along the floor on his stomach and eats -a green apple and pinches a bigger boy’s legs. Myself, I -prefer him like that.) During the prayers there are frequent -interruptions, chiefly from the platform, of “Hallelujah,”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span> -“Praise God,” and so on, for the most part in a business-like -fashion, quite formal. A man cannot repeat the same words -and acts for long with impunity.—These, and things like these, -are the inevitable accompaniments of all services, religious or -otherwise. We take them for granted, and pass on.</p> - -<p>Presently a man is brought forward to give his testimony. -He begins by saying that he never thought to address such a -gathering as this, that he is a poor ignorant man, and so on, -but that he trusts in Jesus to help him through alright. He -tells his tale. It is a tale for ever old and for ever new. He -was a drunkard, he was debauched, a blasphemer. He used -his wife and children ill, he paid no heed to the clergyman and -the minister. Then a Salvationist came to him and told him -about Jesus. And that converted him, and now, etc., etc., -etc. His excitement grows: his voice rises to a high-pitched -monotone. He implores, he begs, he entreats, he abjures. -“Come to Jesus, come to Jesus! It’s only him can make you -happy! You don’t know how he loves you!—O dear people,” -he bursts out at length, “I could <i>die</i> for you, if you would only -come to him!” In the end, it is painful: the high-pitched -monotone oppresses us, and we are glad when he has ended.</p> - -<p>Another follows, but with little or no variety. Then a girl -speaks, “happy Janet” (say). She has just the same tale to -tell: it is all Jesus, nothing but Jesus! “To think,” I heard -one of these girls say, hushed and awed, “to think that the -Son of God loved us so that he suffered all this for <i>us</i>! To -think of the thorns wounding his beautiful brow!” and her -voice broke.—Janet cannot say too much about the suffering -of Jesus, because it was because he loved us all so, that he -suffered. Then she tells how she had a brother, and the -brother thought he was old enough to be by hisself, and do -for hisself, and he went away, away to Màn-chester, and they -were all very sad about it, e-specially mother. And the days -and the weeks and the months went by, and they never heard -anythink about him, and they went out and up and down the -town, hoping he might come back and they might see him -again, for he might be ashamed, they thought, to come into -the house. And sometimes mother’d come to wake her up -early in the morning, and say: “Come, Janet, let’s go out and -look for Tom: maybe we’ll find him <i>this</i> morning.” And -they used to go out and look for him in the early morning, and -they couldn’t find him. But at last he <i>did</i> come back, and O,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> -dear people, how thin he was! Yes, he’d had enough of it! -He found he couldn’t do for hisself after all, so he came back -to mother and us, and we loved him more than ever.—And O, -dear people, that’s the way with <i>us</i> and Jesus. We think we’re -old enough to be by ourselves and to do for ourselves. But -we ar’n’t: we’re never old enough to do without Jesus! He’s -always loving us and strengthening us and giving us peace. -So come to him; don’t wait any longer but come to him! -Don’t think you’re too wicked. No one’s too wicked for -Jesus: he suffered for us and he died for us, for <i>you</i> and <i>me</i>, -and he loves us more than all the others do, and we can’t tell -how glad it makes him when we come to him! Here, as in -the singing, it is not the “go,” the excitement, which affects us -most, it is the depth and sweetness. It comes from the heart -and goes to the heart. It is the only language the People can -either use or understand.</p> - -<p><i>Jesus!</i>—It is always Jesus, I say, never or very rarely Christ. -These Salvationists feel and know their Master. With them -he lives: with us he exists. And Jesus is to them as some one -dowered with all the possibilities of mortal happiness who yet -renounced everything from his great love for the People, and -suffered and died for them a cruel death. Herein is the secret -of the sempiternal influence of Jesus: he is the great Lover. -I do not for a moment think that these Salvationists have any -connected scheme of the character or life of Jesus. They -cannot argue about him, they would say: they know that he -<i>lives</i>. They lay little or no stress on the risen Jesus, the -Christ. Their concern is with the living Jesus, him who loved -the flowers and the children and the publicans and the harlots, -him who showed his love by his life and above all by his cruel -death. This Jesus was not a philanthropist: he was better, he -was a lover. “He, who might have been a great king, actually -preferred to come and suffer and die a cruel death because he -loved us so!” This love, this pity seems to them unique, -godlike. “<i>To think of the thorns wounding his beautiful brow.</i>” -Hence the power of Jesus to awaken in men a sense of sin, -and, still more, a hope of salvation. “Why,” they ask, “did -this wonderful beautiful Jesus suffer all this?—<i>why?</i>” Then -comes the answer. “<i>Because he saw that I was a sinner and -he loved and pitied me so, that he suffered all this for my sake.</i>” -It is an overwhelming fact. Once get a man to see it and his -life is revolutionised: he believes in Love.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span></p> - -<p>Napoleon, we remember, was puzzled by this sempiternal -influence of Jesus. He remarked that he himself understood -how to awaken in his own behalf the enthusiasm of men, but -he was alive, whereas Jesus was dead. “<i>O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, -thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are -sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children -together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, -but ye would not!</i>” Yearning love like this was a mystery to -our wonderful destructive Emperor: he would have called it -foolish. And to many others beside him this sempiternal -influence of Jesus has been, is, and will be the same. Here is -our good Man of Science, the immortal dunce who dates -knowledge from “Social Statics” and the “Origin of Species,” -who thinks Jesus was a very fine character, you know, -but full of superstition and delusion. And here is our -most irrational of Rationalists who has a pathetic faith in the -method of the late lamented Bishop Colenso, a method which -consists in the profound consideration of the geometry of -the empyrean and the colour of mathematical figures. And -lastly, here is our dear blatant Secularist whose discourse so -pleasantly shows us how a man who was a blockhead as a -Christian can be doubly a blockhead as a Secularist.—Here, I -say, are these three types, or let us take them as individuals. -Here is our good friend Mr. Caffyn, who was writing such -brilliant letters to the <i>Argus</i> the other day, letters which -show a nice acquaintance with the books of Dr. Maudsley -and the rudiments of modern physiology; and here is -the late lamented Sir Richard Hanson of Adelaide, whose -mantle is just now descending on Mr. Justice Williams; and, -lastly, here is our loquacious friend at the Hall of Science, Mr. -Joseph Symes. All these gather around the poor ignorant -labourer who is “saved,” and demonstrate to him his foolishness -in believing in such an outworn piece of nonsense as -Christianity. “As for this Jesus of yours, my good man,” -they say after their several fashions, “he was a very fine -character, you know, but—<i>he was only a man just like you or -me</i>!” To whom the poor ignorant labourer answers with a -smile: “Whether he be a fine character or not, I know not: -one thing I know, that, <i>whereas I was blind, now I see</i>.” Come -away, Mr. Caffyn: come away, ghost of Sir Richard: come -away, Mr. Symes. It is quite useless to talk with a besotted -Christo-maniac like this. Why, he absolutely believes that he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span> -has a spiritual experience of which you are ignorant, and can -afford to smile at you! After this, the deluge!—Gentlemen, -hadn’t you better go home to dinner, and leave the poor devil -alone?</p> - -<p>To return to the meeting, which is not yet concluded.—When -the testimonies are all given, those who feel that they -have been leading a life of sin are exhorted to come forward -and profess. The hall empties. Ten or twelve, men and -women, young men and girls, come forward and kneel down at -a bench in front of the platform. Some are inclined to be -hysterical. The Salvationists, men and women, come and -talk to them, leaning against them, their arms round their -shoulders, exhorting and encouraging. This, you see, is -Religious Socialism. No one can love Jesus, “the divine -Communist” (as Heine calls him), with impunity. If you -love, and to love is to know, Jesus, you must get others to -love and to know him, and your desire to get others fills you -with the same yearning love for them that Jesus has for you: -“<i>O dear people, I could <span class="antiqua">die</span> for you, if you would only come to -him</i>!”</p> - -<p>Then, when no more will come forward, the service concludes -with each of those who is “saved,” speaking before -them all—saying what has come to him to make him repent, -and expressing his firm determination to lead a better life. -The first step has now been taken—the man by his public -confession is compromised. He cannot now so easily fall -back. He is known to his fellows, who will exhort and -encourage him. He has every incentive to date a new life -from to-day, not to put it off over and over again to “to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>What, is all this, then, a trap? Yes, if you care to call it -so. Men, to whom the “saved” and the “unsaved” life, the -bliss of heaven and the anguish of hell, is a passionate reality, -speak of it passionately to the ignorant or the careless, and -then (like true guilefully guileless religionists) take advantage -of the moment of realization which they have aroused in a soul, -to compromise that soul before the world to lead a new life of -continual realization. You see, these Salvationists are of the -men and women of the People and they know the men and -women, not only of the People, but of each and every class of -us: they know how frail is unaided resolution, and they act on -their knowledge. Do not think, though, that they believe that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span> -weakness of will is to be found only among the People. Far -from it! They attack Respectability, they attack the hypocrisy -of the Middle-class, as fearlessly as they attack the open sin of -the People. Our good clergymen and ministers, for whom I -have, in many respects, so much admiration, are afraid to -attack the Middle-class: the Middle-class is the payer of pew-rents. -Alas, alas, ye cannot serve God and Mammon! It is -really a great nuisance; but ye cannot! Now these Salvationists -do not happen to have pews: so they need not stand -hat in hand before Respectability. They can say boldly that -the Publican is as good as the Pharisee: that hypocrisy is no -better, if it is not far worse, than open sin. Look, to it, my in-so-many-respects-admirable -clergymen and ministers, you are -not masters here but pupils!</p> - -<h3>V.</h3> - -<p>I am not going to discuss the question of Salvationist ritual. -Brass bands and concertinas give but a poor idea of “the -beauty of holiness:” a dissenting chapel does the same. -Banners and handkerchiefs and so on are apt to be tawdry: so -are dressed statues, standards, incense, and the rest. But who, -considering the hideousness of Protestantism and the tawdriness -of Catholicism, would therefore call Protestantism hideous -and Catholicism tawdry? Certainly not I who am so sincere -an admirer of them both. Neither, then, considering what we -hear called the Christy-Minstrelism and Music-Hallism of the -Salvation Army, must we think that, when we have called their -meetings Christy Minstrels or Music Halls, we have quite disposed -of them. Alas, my dear Middle-class, cannot you see -that the People is what you, who govern the People, have -made it? Might I, a humble unit of your millions, suggest to -you that it is just because, what you call, your Upper Ten -Thousand is hideous that you are more hideous? and that it -is just because you, my dear Middle-class, are more hideous -that the People is most hideous? Will it be many ages, I -wonder, before you can be got to see this?—to see that you -had better take the mote out of your own eye before you are -so enthusiastic about taking the beams out of the eyes of your -neighbours?</p> - -<p>If, however, anyone wants to see what Mr. Booth himself -has to say in defence of his “Colours, Bands of Music, Processions, -and other sensational methods employed” (as he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span> -says), I would refer him to a little penny pamphlet called -“All about the Salvation Army,” which can be got at the -Salvation Army Head-quarters in Russell Street. For myself, I -have nothing to do with this side of the question: I profess that -I consider most church-bells are as bad as most brass-bands, -and am profoundly indifferent as to whether they are, as Mr. -Booth would like to know, “unscriptural” or not. I am of -opinion that the admirers of church-bells and brass-bands had -better fight it out among themselves.</p> - -<p>I have as good as said that what makes the outer strength of -the Salvationists is their realization of Jesus as liver and lover. -Love, yearning love, is undoubtedly the chief characteristic of -Jesus. But, just as the sun gives forth not only heat but -light, so did he. His life was love: his death was peace. -“<i>My peace I leave with you.</i>” And it is just here, just in -their realization of “the mildness and sweet reasonableness” of -Jesus that the Salvationists are apt to be lacking: and it is just -here that the Church of England more than any other Christian -sect is, as it seems to me, so strong. The <i>Hymns Ancient and -Modern</i> are, on the whole, the best song-book extant of this -“mildness and sweet reasonableness.” We must not, however, -think that this demand for the peace as well as the love of -Jesus is not recognised by the Salvationists: it is, but I cannot -think that it is recognised adequately. As soon as a man is -“saved” and has “professed,” there are open to him, what -they call, the Holiness Meetings. These are the answer to the -demand for peace. But they differ only particularly from the -other meetings. They are smaller, and hence quieter, than -the others; but there is, so to speak, too much heat and too -little light in them. Here is the weak point in the Salvationist -movement, just as it is the strong point in (I always take the -best example our Christianity can give us) the Church of -England. Here it is the turn of the Salvationists to be not -masters, but pupils. Let us hope that they will see this, and -not only teach, but also (which is so much more difficult) be -ready to learn from, us.</p> - -<h3>VI.</h3> - -<p>There are still two parts of the work of the Salvationists to -consider—their work with the inmates of the prisons, and their -work with the inmates of the brothels. Here again we have -everything to learn from them, from them the true disciples of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span> -“the divine Communist.” The former work they have made -a speciality of, and they are rapidly making the latter. I -doubt very much that our churches and chapels (I am not -speaking now of the Catholics, whose work is almost exclusively -among the Irish, and the Irish are of a race that, -save in the matter of agrarian crime and a curious cruelty to -dumb animals, is truly admirable for the honesty of its men -and the chastity of its women): I doubt very much, I say, that -our churches and chapels will ever get much at either the -criminals or the prostitutes. Our clergymen, who are so -gentlemanly, and our ministers who are so respectable, can -neither speak nor understand much the language of the -People, the language of the heart. The clergymen are -shocked by the foulness, the ministers by the ferocity, of the -People. Both feel that they are condescending—the one -from the height of refinement, the other from the height of -righteousness. The people has no love for condescension of -this sort. There are few words that stink more in its nostrils -than that of charity, and indeed charity, when it means a gift -from a superior to an inferior, is hateful enough. It is a popular -delusion with the “charitable” that street beggars and the -inmates of the workhouses are the People. Far otherwise is -it, O “charitable” ones: these are not independent animals, -they are parasites: they are (if you will pardon me saying so) -your spiritual lice; so please make the best of them, since it is -not only on account of, but <i>on</i>, you that they live.</p> - -<p>Well, now, wherein is it that these fanatical ignorant Salvationists -<i>do</i> get at the People? One of them answers us at -once: “<i>No one’s too wicked for Jesus, and so no one’s too -wicked for me who am the simple follower of Jesus.</i> If <i>he</i> -could do with publicans and harlots, why cannot I?” They -say, as Walt Whitman says to “a common prostitute,”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for you.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">This, you see, is Religious Socialism. It proclaims the spiritual -equality of all men. The <i>spiritual</i> equality, let us notice; it -will have nothing to do with the social equality. “<i>My kingdom -is not of this world.... Give unto Cæsar the things -which be Cæsar’s, and to God the things which be God’s.</i>” -“Honour all men,” says Peter, “love the brotherhood, fear -God, honour the king.” And more: Religious Socialism has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span> -a tendency to be careless of the dogmas of the creeds. “Is -the Army hostile,” asks Mr. Booth, “to the existing evangelical -denominations? Just the contrary. Numbers of its converts -go to swell the membership of the churches. More than 400 -persons, converted and trained in its ranks, have been engaged -by other different religious organisations as Evangelists, Ministers,” -etc., etc., etc. We notice that he says “<i>evangelical</i> -denominations?” The Catholics, of course, from (who shall I -say?) Augustine to Pascal and Newman, are poor belated -idolaters, only slightly better than the heathen. This, you -see, is where Mr. Booth, like Mr. Spurgeon and the rest, so -pleasantly shows us what nonsense an earnest short-sighted -man is capable of believing and brandishing about the world -with a godless blatancy. Personally, I cannot make myself -angry with any of them for it. For what would an earnest -man be without his faults? without, as D’Israeli puts it, a -single redeeming vice?</p> - -<p>In Melbourne there is a tendency now to let the Salvation -Army have its own way unmolested with the criminals and the -prostitutes. “It can’t do any harm,” people say, “and it may -do good, and really, you know, the—the Social Evil wants -looking to.” Nay, more: having made this nice expression -“Social Evil,” we are at last plucking up courage to acknowledge -that it exists, and that it is not necessarily a sign of -filthy-mindedness to wish to discuss it. We speak of it now in -papers which come under the eye of those dear creatures about -whose stainless purity of mind we are all so anxious (even that -Puritanic print, the <i>Melbourne Bulletin</i> is anxious, and the -<i>Sydney Bulletin</i>, also, for all I know to the contrary)—“our -wives and daughters.” Why, possibly there are those among us -who will live to see the day when the expression “fearful -sinner,” as applied to some poor girl driven out into the miseries -of the streets, will be confined to the utterance of our good -friends of the Scotch Presbytery, and other few such like. -Then, it will be amusing: at present, it is only detestable.</p> - -<h3>VII.</h3> - -<p>Now let us go to the Barracks of the Prison Brigade, and -see what has to be seen there. The officials (all, I believe, old -criminals) and the men that they have just got hold of, are -gathered for a sort of home service. Man after man, boy after -boy, rises to give his “experience.” The “experiences” can<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span> -be pretty easily imagined. Then there are hymns, choruses, -addresses by the higher officials present. All, or almost all -here, there is no doubt of it, are “terribly in earnest.” The -interruptions, “Hallelujah,” “Praise God,” and so on, are all -earnest. One boy with a maimed face gets up and says: “I -was miserable in the streets, I’m very happy now. God bless -the Major,” and sits down again. For me, I confess that, over -and over again, I have not known whether to answer the -word and acts of these men, or shall I say children, with smiles -or tears. Now and then I have answered them with both.</p> - -<p>Afterwards we are shown the bedrooms, observing that we -do not want to see them. I have seen many bedrooms that -were delightful, and many keepers thereof whose hearts were -as clean and hard as the floors. Also I have seen bedrooms -that were poor and crowded, and the keepers thereof whose -hearts were as rich as love and as soft as pity. I prefer the -latter, myself, if I must choose between them, but tastes of -course are different. Then the boy with the maimed face is -brought in, to tell his tale and show his wounded leg. The -People like you to look at their wounds and sores and casualties -generally. It is painful. It is like the young ladies of the -Middle-class who like you to look at their drawings and -paintings, or listen to their playing and singing. I do not -know which habit is the more painful of the two—perhaps, -on the whole, the latter. The first only hurts my senses: -the second hurts my soul. It makes me lose hope in my -ideas for the future of the Middle-class: it makes me think it -is doomed to the hideousness of clap-trap for ever. It is like -a visit to the sculpture at the Melbourne Public Library.</p> - -<p>They show us the rooms and bring us the boy, you notice, -in that practical English spirit which is intent on making it -clear that their cry is proportionate to their wool, a fact of -which we are not altogether ignorant. Hence our carelessness -about more than a glance at the rooms, or a short talk with -the boy with the maimed face. I think I could tell him as -much about himself as he can tell me. I have known him -many times before.</p> - -<p>It is pleasing to notice here how much they insist on the -new life, how comparatively little stress they lay on the “conversion,” -on the being “saved.” Also, that the Salvationists -know how to laugh. It is only men who keep their religion -for a fine heavy diet on sunday who cannot pray at one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span> -moment and laugh at another. If my religion is a part of <i>me</i>, -it is also clearly a part of my laughter.</p> - -<p>Now let us go the rounds of the opium dens and brothels -round about Little Bourke Street. We walk, my Salvationist -and I, into any house that we wish. No one opposes us: only -once in the whole evening are we spoken to other than -respectfully. “<i>You see</i>,” says the mistress of the most facially -contorted Chinee I have yet seen, “<i>You see, the Salvationists -helps the girls, that’s why we likes ’em!</i>” Here we are in a -den, a girl lying on one side of the bed (the Chinese beds are -like large alcoves. In the middle is the opium-tray, containing -the pipe, a lamp, etc.), a Chinee on the other, -getting her pipe ready for her. We sit and chat with -her. She tells us about herself simply enough, showing -no signs of wishing to alter her condition. Then the -other girl comes in, and we chat with her. My Salvationist -recognises her: she was at Bella’s funeral. (Bella was a girl -who fell down dead in the brothel opposite, and the Army -buried her. All “the girls” about clubbed together, hired cabs, -and went to the funeral.) “O yes,” says the girl to him, “you -said the service for Bella.” She too tells us about herself -simply enough. Her mother is at Ballarat.—“Does she know -you’re here?”—“O yes, she knows.”—“Does she think you’re -in service?”—“O no, <i>she</i> knows what I’m doing;” and so on. -Presently I go into the other room and talk pigeon English -with the remarkable spectacled Chinee, who is like a venerable -old ape. Why will the English girls come and live with the -Chinese? The answer is simple: the Chinese both pay -them well and are kind to them. These girls are not bruised -on the face and arms as most of the others are.</p> - -<p>You perceive now how the Salvationists work here? They -are the “friends” of the girls: they “help” them. Find out -from a girl if she is miserable: find out if she would sooner go -back to a respectable life. Go everywhere fearlessly: Find -out if any girl is being detained against her wishes. Be gentle -with them as with equals. Make them feel that you care for -them for their own sakes. Work upon their feelings—speak of -their home, their mother, their father, their brothers, their -sisters. Offer them a new start. Then, the moment that of -their own free will they are ready to come, put them into a cab -and drive straight away with them to the Home. Here they -come under the influence of the women officials of the Army,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span> -(some of whom, however, also do visiting work), the same -system being pursued with them as with the men. They are -not made to feel that they are dealing with people more loftily -refined or more loftily righteous than themselves. They are not -made to feel that they are “fearful sinners.” They are made -to feel that sin is fearful and that they have sinned fearfully, -but that they have every hope before them, hope of a new life -before God and man. As for the women officials of the Salvation -Army, I will say this, that in no body of female religionists, -except the Catholic Sisters, have I found so many -sweet true women. I have also known Anglican Sisters who -were well worthy of a place beside them. Such women are -the essence of Christianity. They are the true children of -Mary Magdalene and Monica, of the love and of the affection -of the soul. Preference for any one of these three classes, -there can be none. I cannot exalt true love above true affection -any more than I can exalt heat above light: their joy is -equal. But in one respect the Salvationist women have an -advantage over the others, just as the Salvationist men have -over the celibate priests—in just that, in the fact that they need -not be celibates. Many of these Salvationist girls and women -are the sweethearts or wives of their fellow-workers. This, I -think, is as it should be. He who neglects or despises that -great law of Nature and God, passion, will be assuredly -punished for it. To make a large body of men and women -celibates is to put a premium on immorality and hypocrisy. -This great rock the Salvation Army has avoided, and herein it -has done most wisely. Here, where Rome is weak, it is -strong. We must not, however, think that there is nothing to -be said in behalf of celibacy: there is much, very much. If -we were all men like Francis of Assissi or Vincent de Paul, it -would be perfect; but unfortunately we are not. At the same -time, he who has seen the work of Catholic priests and of -Protestant clergymen or ministers in times of plague and pest -must feel how great a clog to perfect courage are those -hostages a man has given to fate in wife and children. On the -other hand, observe that times of pest and plague are comparatively -rare, and that every great idea when put into -practice is but a mixed good. What we have to do is to -choose that which has least evil, or shall we say most good, -and this can, we feel sure, be only chosen in conformity with -all of those few great primeval laws which are the guides of life, -which are the direct words of Nature and of God.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span></p> - -<h3>VIII.</h3> - -<p>So much, then, for the <i>how</i> of the Salvation Army. Let us -now consider if it has helped us to the <i>why</i>—nay, if it has -not absolutely told us the <i>why</i>! Did we not instinctively catch -at something we saw two or three times rising before us as with -small but teleological significance in it? Did we not feel, as -we uttered that expression with which this something inspired -us, that here was the <i>why</i> in propria persona? <i>Religious -Socialism.</i></p> - -<p>In this state of affairs—the powerlessness of the Socialists -to bring home to the People the great idea of social improvement: -in the misery unspeakable of the People; in the -atmosphere heavy with the degradation of the People—what is -it that the People has done? <i>It has evolved a movement</i>, <i>no -longer from</i> without, <i>but from</i> within <i>itself</i>. <i>It has sought for -consolation for its unspeakable wretchedness in the perennial -spring of Religion, of the yearning love of Jesus. It has, at the -touch of the first match that came to it, blazed up into the flaming -fire of Religious Socialism.</i></p> - -<p>In the early part of the thirteenth century the People did -the same, the People of Italy. But what a heaven lies between -the man who led <i>that</i> movement and the man that is leading -this! O my eloquent Rationalists, O my loquacious -Secularists, both of you whom I esteem so much—how ready -are you to talk of the degradation which that gigantic superstition -and delusion, Christianity, wrought upon the People! -Whenever are you tired of brandishing “starry Galileo” and -scattering the scattered dust of poor old Copernicus in the face -of Catholicism, making it to tremble and sneeze fearfully? -Does it never occur to you that that divine Goddess Scientia, -whom you worship with such noble devotion, has wrought a -far deeper degradation on the people than Catholicism ever -did? Have you never seen, crouching under the shadow of -your railways and your telegraphs and all your improved -machinery, the unspeakable wretchedness of London, of Birmingham, -of Manchester, of Glasgow? And now that this -People, whose lives your Goddess has made of such a sort that -they will not stand too favourable a comparison with those of -dogs—now that this People, in its passionate searching after -some consolation, however slight, of whatever sort, seizes on this -creature of superstition and delusion, this Jesus who is <i>only a -man, just like you or me</i>, and whom you have so triumphantly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span> -proved so, and makes him the text for this flaming fire of -Religious Socialism—has it never struck you, O my eloquent -Rationalists, O my loquacious Secularists, what an appalling -difference there is between Salvation Army banners, handkerchiefs, -brass-bands, and concertinas, and the “green boughs, -flags, music, and songs of gladness” that came forth from the -Umbrian towns and villages to welcome Francis of Assissi? -have you never felt that there is any essential difference -between the perpetual Revivalist hymn of “My Jesus to know -and to feel his blood flow,” and the “Canticle of the -Creatures?” But, above all, have you never felt that it is -more to that divine Goddess Scientia, whom you worship with -such noble devotion, than to anything else that this appalling -difference is due?</p> - -<p>And you, O my Middle-class, of whom I am so humble a -unit, did it ever occur to you that it is rather a foolish thing to -paint a boy’s face black and then be shocked at it? If the -People, its foulness and its ferocity, makes you shiver and -shudder, who pray made it foul and fierce but you who govern -it?—What do you say? “It was no business of yours?” -That was what Cain said, but respectable Christians like you -are not surely going to take that eminent casuist as your -mouth-piece? If you were Atheists or Agnostics, now, worshippers -of “the struggle for existence and survival of the -fittest,” of course that would be another matter, but you are -Christians, respectable Christians who always wear black coats -on Sundays, and object to having the Library and Picture-Gallery -open.</p> - -<p>Well, there! I cannot make myself angry with you, my dear -Middle-class. I admire your good qualities too much for that—too -much indeed, as I often tell myself; for who shall say -but that my belief in your ultimate regeneration and new birth -unto a really glorious place in a true civilization be not, after -all, but infatuation? Here is Carlyle, whom we all love and -admire so, trying to be our benefactor by demonstrating to us -our illusions on this matter, and telling us, ever since 1830, of -the “steady approach of democracy with revolution (probably -explosive) and a finis incomputable to man; steady decay of -all morality, political, social, individual; this once noble -England getting more and more ignoble, and untrue in every -fibre of it, till the gold (Goethe’s composite king) will all be -eaten out, and noble England will have to collapse in shapeless<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span> -ruin, whether for ever or not none of us can know.” Really -there are hours when I am made quite to suffer by thinking of -what is going to happen to my dear Middle-class when the -People rise unanimously against it,—“roaring million-headed -unreflecting, darkly suffering, darkly sinning ‘Demos’” (as -Carlyle says again), “come to call its old superiors to account -at its maddest of tribunals.” It will, I fear, be little good for -the Mr. Caffyns of those times to write letters to the <i>Argus</i> of -those times, explaining the physiological aspects of the movement. -On such an occasion in Paris, in 1793, Mr. Caffyns -went up into the arms of La Guillotine for much less heinous -offences than that, and who would be left capable of recording -whether, in this case, they went up “with a tripping movement” -(as Mr. Caffyn tells us the fanatical “Hallelujah lasses” -go), or whether they marched, as perhaps Mr. Caffyn himself -marches to church or chapel every Sunday morning, to the -edification of all beholders? But let us not think of such an -appalling spectacle. Mr. Caffyn is still with us, and the <i>Argus</i> -is still with us, and perhaps some morning we shall have some -more brilliant letters on the physiological aspects of Mr. -Caffyn’s friends, the hallelujah lasses.</p> - -<p>I cannot, I say, make myself angry with you, my dear -Middle-class of England (and you might plausibly suggest that -it would not matter much if I did), and how then shall I even -frown at this Middle-class of Victoria, about whom (if Carlyle -is right) I am more infatuate still? Does not the People -breathe free in Australia? Are we not liberated here from -that charming “Upper Ten Thousand” which monopolises the -best of the bad education England has to offer, the Public -Schools and the Universities? Is there not a hope that, now -that the primary education of the People is progressing so -satisfactorily, some of our young rising politicians, (or even -some of the old ones), may bring home to us the fact that we -want equally—nay, far more!—a secondary education for the -Middle-class? so that Victoria may step forward as a competitor -with the most universally civilized nation in the world, -France, and teach England the unspeakable glory and advantage -of (we should call it) an Upper-class, “homogeneous, -intelligent, civilized, brought up in good public schools” (and -not, as now, in more or less good, or more or less bad, denominational, -and “private adventure” schools) “and on the first -plane.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span></p> - -<p>If only this Upper-class of Victoria and of Australia generally -could be brought to see it! If only it would confess its sins, -many and heinous, against true civilization and be “converted” -and lead a new life! Nothing, I think, strikes an Englishman -more, coming out here, than the brightness and intelligence of -the Victorian girls! (“Our daughters,” you know.) And -how heart-rending to discover that all this brightness and intelligence -is wasted on the mere accidents and incidents of -every-day existence! Two-shilling novels are her idea of -literature: “Some day” and “Ehren on the Rhine” her idea -of music: the coloured illustrations of the illustrated papers, -her idea of art. And her brother is in a worse state! The -tortoise English girl is, after all, better than the Australian -hare, and the young male bull-dog than the kangaroo.</p> - -<p>Everything cries out for the education, for the civilization, of -the Upper-class, the ruling class. Educate it, civilize it, let it -know what Truth is and what Beauty is, and abolish the bells -and the brass-bands for ever! If the Upper-class is beautiful, -its beauty will react on the Lower-class. Give us public -schools for the Upper-class, as there are public schools for the -Lower-class. Fight tooth and nail against any attempts after -an “Upper Ten Thousand,” whether it be of land or of wealth. -Keep clearly before us the ideal of an Upper-class that is -<i>homogeneous</i>. Let us have the man of business as cultured as -the professional man, and the professional man as cultured as -the man of means. Let us be a true Republic, offering every -opportunity to the intelligence of the Lower-class to attain to -the culture of the Upper. Let us not have ten thousand -aristocrats, but ten hundred thousand, ever more and more, -and never less and less! On the other hand, let us learn from -the People the great lesson which they have to teach us—the -lesson of the language of the heart. Let us learn from them -the softness of pity, yea and the richness of love. Let us give -them our <i>Social Socialism</i> and let us take their <i>Religious</i>; for, -in the perfect marriage of light and heat, is the perfect day, the -true civilization, the beauty of the truth of Nature and of God.</p> - -<p class="right"><i>February, 1885.</i></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="SYDNEY_AND_HER_CIVILIZATION">SYDNEY AND HER CIVILIZATION, -AS THEY STRIKE AN ENGLISHMAN.</h2> - -</div> - -<p>It was in 1770 that Cook entered the bay to which he gave -the name of Botany: in ’88 that Philip landed in Port Jackson -with his convict settlement: in 1849 that the settlers refused -to receive any more convicts: and in ’56 that the settlement -was acknowledged as a colony and dowered with a constitution. -These few facts have a very different significance to -those which correspond to them in the history of Melbourne. -The epithet phenomenal cannot be applied to the former in -the same sense as to the latter; nor yet, let us hasten to add, -the epithet premature. English people, who carry to a quite -quaint degree their modern representative poet’s dislike of</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay,”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">find Melbourne “too American,” as they say, and reserve all -their praise for “picturesque Sydney” and the harbour about -whose description Mr. Trollope went (as we are all never likely -to be able, at any rate in Sydney, to forget) into diffuse -despair. “The business thoroughfares,” says a simple English -traveller, “as well as the shops themselves, have a far more -English appearance than those of the capital of Victoria,” and -shuns all comment as superfluous. Let us not think of contradicting -him. That elemental characteristic of the British -architect, “the impotence to express anything,” is in no -danger of disappearing in Sydney, nor yet, let us again hasten -to add, in Melbourne; but, if it be possible to distinguish the -matter thus, I should say that in Sydney he had found his -happy hunting-grounds, whereas in Melbourne he was just -beginning to feel that there was a rival about.</p> - -<p>No, it is just where Sydney is <i>un</i>-English that she has charm. -I do not now refer to her natural position, nor to her age—age -which will tone down, and perhaps some day almost mellow, -the masterpieces of even the British architect. I refer to those -buildings in the town, few and far between enough, it is true,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span> -in which the Sydney perception of its individual life has striven -to express itself. The Sydney perception of its individual life -is not strong. As a local guide-book puts it more particularly, -“in the nomenclature of the streets Sydney shows intense -loyalty, and the lover of history will be delighted by the -associations which some of the names will summon to his -memory. For instance, his historical predilections will be -gratified in noticing that the principal street is named after -George the Third, during whose reign the colony was -founded.” Of course, when the local guide-book tells us that a -thing is so, it <i>is</i> so; and when it says that our predilections, -historical or otherwise, will be gratified and delighted, they <i>are</i> -gratified and delighted. But these Sydney men and women, -with their intense loyalty, or rather what the writer in the local -guide-books means thereby, have not, what we called, the -metropolitan look—have not the metropolitan feeling. Mr. -Marcus Clarke, in the cleverest and also the most fantastic of -his clever but often fantastic criticisms, “The Future Australian -Race,” says boldly: “It is more than likely that what -should be the Australian Empire will be cut in half by a line -drawn through the centre of the continent.... All -beneath this line will be a Republic, having the mean climate, -and, in consequence, the development of Greece. The -intellectual capital of the Republic will be in Victoria; the -fashionable and luxurious capital on the shore of Sydney -Harbour.” Then he adds that “the Australians will be a fretful, -clever, perverse, irritable race,” showing us what, under all -their superficial differences, the people of Victoria and of New -South Wales have, he thinks, in common. I do not believe -that the whole secret of the matter is here laid open before us. -Mr. Marcus Clarke had an admirable acuteness of perception, -but he was apt, having swiftly perceived one aspect of a thing, -to write it down at once as <i>the</i> aspect without staying for a -second or third look at the thing itself. The consequence is -that he rarely reaches the whole secret of a thing: witness, for -instance, his view of Christianity, (but Mr. Arnold notices -how even a critic of Sainte-Beuve’s calibre was capable of -illusion here), or of the significance of Gordon’s poetry, which -I have spoken of elsewhere; and it is lamentable to think how -much of this false tendency in him was due to the circumstance -that he was a man of letters, and an Australian man of letters. -I do not believe, I say, that, when he tells us that the really<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span> -distinctive characteristic of Sydney is (for “will be” is only -“is” unmaterialized) fashion and luxury, and Melbourne -intellect, he has laid open before us the <i>whole</i> secret of the -present tendencies of these cities, or yet when he sees them -united with the common characteristics of fretfulness, cleverness, -perverseness, irritability. But here, undoubtedly, is one -aspect of the matter expressed admirably. The men and -women of Sydney do not live so fast mentally as the men and -women of Melbourne: they give more free play to their -emotional passions. As we say, they “take things easier.” They -cling to the past which Melbourne throws away: they consider -the present, which Melbourne has very little time for. Their -attachment to “the old country” is deeper; they have intense -loyalty, as the writer in the local guide-book says. They are -much more possessed by the affairs of Melbourne than Melbourne -is about theirs. The <i>Sydney Morning Herald</i> and the -<i>Sydney Mail</i> do not hold the same position in Melbourne as -the <i>Argus</i> and the <i>Australasian</i> do in Sydney. The Sydney -people are captious in their criticism on the younger capital, -just as Boston is on New York: they talk about being -“dragged at the chariot wheels of Victoria,” and asseverate -that they will not endure it. Melbourne people criticise Sydney -good-humouredly, and justly so, since in that aspect of them -both, which people seem to think is alone worth criticising, -Melbourne is undoubtedly far superior. Intellect in the -modern world is the master: emotion is the handmaid. -Or, to put it in another way, our best average work at present -is being done in clear, nervous prose, while poetry is praised and -left to starve. Science is a better paymaster than Art, and -nearly all the best average intelligence of the world has turned -to the rising, and from the setting, sun. And Melbourne, I -say, Melbourne with her perception of movement, progress, -conscious power, has out-stripped this Sydney, whose perception -of her individual life is so weak that all she has to point to -are her natural advantages, her age, and the meagre fact that -her “business thoroughfares, as well as the shops themselves, -have a far more English appearance than those of the capital of -Victoria.” And yet, undoubtedly, Sydney has—or so it seems -to me—a rich and rare possession of her own, and one which -is worth as much as that of Melbourne, even as emotion is -worth as much as intellect, as poetry is worth as much as prose. -And there are, as we know, good judges who would change the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span> -“as much” into “more.” I, however, who have no pretentions -to be a good judge, and am, as an acute English critic of -mine so aptly put it once, only “Whitman and water:” I must -still cling to the belief that perfection is to be found, and only -to be found, in the <i>union</i> of these two qualities—of emotion -and intellect, of poetry and prose. Or, as I said the other day,<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> -true science (which is essentially intellectual) and true faith -(which is essentially emotional) are to be, as they must be, -harmonies, eternal harmonies, the “perfect music” and “noble -words” of truth.</p> - -<p>Well now, let us try and find out a little more definitely -wherein these men and women of Sydney, these who have not -the metropolitan look, the metropolitan feeling, show themselves, -at any rate to the disinterested seeker after a really fine -civilization, as the equals of our intellectual men and women of -Melbourne. (“Intellectual,” we are agreed, is here used as -meaning that spiritual quality which is opposed to emotional). -First of all, however, let us examine this phrase of ours, -metropolitan look, metropolitan feeling, for fear it should -be nothing but a phrase, a mere catchword, and, as such, -worthy only the places where sawdust is stored.</p> - -<p>Nothing is more certain than that our individual lives form, -if not our faces, the expression of them. Our eyes and all the -facial muscles are at the command of our natural inherited -dispositions as modified by the circumstances of our lives. -The average man who spends his days in the open air in companionship -with the inanimate things about him, or in the -settled intercourse of country life, married or single, will have -a quite different look, a quite different <i>tone</i>, from the man -whose days are passed in the brisk interchange of words and -thoughts of the life of the city. And how much will this -difference be accentuated by the fact that the city is a seat of -large and intense ideas, that the very air is impregnated -with the passionate thoughts, words, and acts of the whole -civilized world! It is in such men that we find the metropolitan -look, the metropolitan feeling. Their faces seem -stripped of all useless flesh like the body of an athlete: -their eyes are quick and clear, ready servants of the quick -clear brain behind them. This is what we call the average -intelligent man, the labourer of the past, the partner of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span> -the present, the master of the future! Put this man, however, -into a state of stress, intellectual or emotional, in his business -or in his private life, and that fine nervous face of his will -become lean and rigid, those quick clear eyes hard and naked. -And, just as it is the pleasure of our civilization to see this -man in the first stage, so is it the pain thereof to see him, alas -too often, in the second. These are the most dread spectres -that haunt metropolises: their anguish wrings the heart with -an intensity, with an abidingness that the sight of mere misery -brutal and degraded does not and cannot inspire us. London -and New York swarm with such, and our miniature Australian -intellectual capital, too, knows them only too well. They press -the stamp of their struggle into the very brow of their city. It -is they who bring home to us the lean and rigid, the hard and -naked side of the best life of their city. While it is to their -successful brothers that we owe what of us is phenomenal, it is -to them, the unsuccessful, that we owe what of us is premature. -They are the men who have formulated that exceeding bitter -cry of “<i>Cruel London</i>.” Yes, London is cruel in this sense of -the word, and so, to a less degree (In a hundred years shall -we be able to say this?) is Melbourne. I do not think anyone -would call Sydney cruel.</p> - -<p>“Well,” retorts the metropolitan, “perhaps not; but, on the -other hand, the provincial look, the dull look of intellectual -death, is far more common with such towns than with us. -For me, I would sooner have heaven with hell than purgatory -by itself.—Pah,” he says, “Sydney is the city of smells -and shopkeepers!” And I for my part, with all my admiration -for the intellect of the average intelligent metropolitan in -general and the Melbourne metropolitan in particular, should -not think of contradicting him here. My only wish here is, as -I have said, to find out wherein these people whom he calls, -with such fine scorn, “provincials” and “shopkeepers,” show -themselves his equals, and whether they <i>do</i> show themselves -his equals, or that I shall stand convicted of a delusion on the -subject.</p> - -<p>I believe much in first impressions (good ones, that is) provided -only that we bring, what I have called, a second and -third look to bear on the thing which has impressed us. And -since I am graceless enough to speak of my own little private -beliefs, let me add that I often find some difficulty in making -my last impressions as good as my first, which is provoking to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span> -anyone who has a dread and dislike of “impressionists” and -an attraction and affection towards “students.” Hence I find -myself quite ready, when in the latter humour, to call my first -impressions shallow and careless, and when in the former, to -call my last impressions dead-dark and pedantic, so that Mr. -Marcus Clarke delights me not nor (some laborious scholar of -the Australasian future) neither, and all is vanity and vexation -of spirit! Let me, however, on this occasion retail my first -impressions with a trustful pen, for, as they were unselfconscious -and therefore unconnected with any theory on the -subject in hand, I believe they are really the best offering I -have to make on its altar.</p> - -<p>The first thing, then, that struck me on walking about -Sydney one afternoon, looking at the place and the -people, was the appalling strength of the British civilization. -In Melbourne, for reasons spoken of elsewhere, -this fact is not so striking. Melbourne, I have said, has -something of London, Paris, New York, and of its own. -The prevailing characteristic of Sydney is its Britishness—the -happy hunting grounds of the British architect with -his “impotence to express anything,” the intense and gratifying -and delightful loyalty of the nomenclature of the streets, and -the rest. Everywhere are the thumb marks and the great toe -marks of the six-fingered six-toed giant, Mr. Arnold’s life-long -foe, the British Philistine! I call this strength appalling; for -observe that this is a country lying in a band of some five or -six degrees south of the tropic of Capricorn, whereas England -is a country lying in a band of some twenty-five or six degrees -north of the corresponding tropic of Cancer, and yet here are -the two peoples living lives almost identic! Rome changed -her Jupiter into Ammon when the Tiber flowed into the Nile: -Woden and the God of the Christians blended into one -another; but the Jehovah (or shall we say the Moloch?) of -Puritanism, of Calvinism, is the same in Sydney as in London, -in Melbourne as in Edinburgh! There is nothing like it, save -in the history of that wonderful people which produced this -God that is “a jealous God.” And further. These people in -Sydney have clung, not only to the faith but to the very -raiment of their giant. The same gloomy dresses, cumbrous -on the women, hideous on the men, that we see in England! -Now in Melbourne, where those dear “old-country” days, -wherein spring, summer, autumn, and winter alternate with a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span> -fifth season excruciatingly peculiar to the place itself, are not -infrequent; in Melbourne, I say, an attachment to the very -tricks of one of the worst climates in the world might not be -so unnatural; but in Sydney such an attachment becomes -positively monstrous. The same food, the same overeating -and overdrinking, and (observe how careful we are) at the -same hours! If there is one thing, I believe, that the people -of Sydney really grudge to Melbourne, it is her factories. If -they could only make the atmosphere of Sydney (they do -their best, however, with their steamers for the harbour) as -supremely filthy as that of London, Birmingham, Manchester, -Glasgow, the people, the intensely loyal people of Sydney, -would be happy. As it is, they have reluctantly to concede a -point in favour of, what the newspapers call, “her younger -rival.” And yet how can I say this in the face of their -eminently successful pollution of their harbour and their very -streets with their drainage?</p> - -<p>It is no wonder, then, we see, that, unlike Melbourne, -Sydney’s perception of her individual life is weak, miserably -weak, all but imperceptible. She has to point to her natural -advantages and her age. Now it is very nice to have a fine -harbour, and Mr. Trollope is in his grave and we may safely -say that he had a profuse literary talent, like many writers who -lived before and many who will live after him; but the chief -point of interest in the harbour, at any rate to your disinterested -enquirer into the present and future social state of -the owners, is, <i>what effect does it, and the climate generally, have -upon them?</i> not whether Mr. Trollope or anyone else “despairs -of being able to convey to any reader his own idea of the -beauty” of either. Now we all know what effect the “sabbath -rest” has on the Middle class and People of England, and we -all know how zealously all those “pious and simple-minded” -people who, as Dr. Moorhouse puts it so well, live “entrenched -in the old fortifications of unintelligent orthodoxy,” are striving -that that effect should not be in any way lessened—striving, -not only in London but in Melbourne, and, so far, with considerable -success in both. But here in Sydney, where, at first -sight, one would least expect it, they are more liberal in these -matters: their public institutions, Museums, Picture Gallery, -and so on, are thrown open to the public on sundays.<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> No<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span> -neighbouring town, so far as I know, partakes in the virtuous -hatred of Geelong to sunday boats. The harbour is plied by -a large number of small steamboats. The Middle-class and -the People, thanks to the short hours of work (hence in large -part Australia’s excellence in sports) and the saturday half-holiday, -can disport themselves on its banks or where they -please. “Our harbour,” then, and <i>our parks</i> too, are of more -real use than merely, as they say, to blow about; and so far, so -good. Pleasure, that light fair Pleasure which should find its -natural home in every fine climate, is undoubtedly drawing -breath in the Sydney air. Mr. Marcus Clarke’s acuteness of -perception did not deceive him when he followed up this -pallid plant into the full-grown tree with its flower and -fruit of fashion and luxury. Yes, climate will ultimately -work a transformation upon even the six-fingered six-toed -giant. Moloch’s fire will cease to burn and brand: Jehovah’s -jealousy will lose its harshness, and the sweet bright love -of the White Christ will brood over and temper the -hearts of this people to beauty and melody. Meantime, -down there in Melbourne, Pleasure when it opens its mouth -to breathe, will also open it to bite: the taint of cruelty will -be upon it as it is upon all things purely intellectual, all things -in which emotion has no part. “Melbourne,” the wise -man of Sydney will say then, “Melbourne is the city of stew-pans -and stockbrokers. They know how to make money, but -not how to spend it. If they have pleasure, it borders on pain -as lust does on love. All the beauty they know is the beauty -of light; heat is a stranger to them. Their music lacks the -minor keys. Years ago their one poet, Gordon, ran away -from the city, and took refuge in the bush: if he were alive -now, he would come to Sydney. No poet, no painter, no -musician will be brought forth out of Melbourne.—You will -make fine logicians, you Melbournians, and it does a man’s heart -good to think of your cog-wheels; but believe me that you -know no more of life than that it is an existence, or of death -than that it is the stopping of a mouse-wheel.” Thus our -problematical “provincial,” returning fine pity for the fine -scorn of our problematical “metropolitan.” Or, to drop the -symbolism, thus my first impressions of the actual or inherent -melody and beauty of the Sydney life, as evolved from my last -impressions of the leanness and rigidness, the hardness and -nakedness that is to be found so easily in life in Melbourne.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span></p> - -<p>More than once that afternoon did this melody of beauty -come back to me wandering, like a sweet far-off chime. It is -years since I heard that chime, the chime of Pleasure light and -fair, breathing around me—years ago, in its imperial haunt of -Paris. Other chimes have their several melodies and beauties, -melodies and beauties perhaps above compare with this one, -but this one is pre-eminent for sweetness, and sweetness is a -rich and rare offering to the soul. The afternoon was not a -fine one, and I had just been spending two months in peerless -weather by the Riverina. I had, then, no meteorological -“pathetic fallacy,” as Mr. Ruskin says, to help me to a -thoughtless faith in the actual or inherent melody of Sydney. -On the contrary, the rain rained, and the wind blew, and the -bursts of sunshine were few and far between, so that the -Genius of the place had to speak out if he wished to be heard. -And, as we have noticed, he did speak out, and was heard, -and was, and is, approved of.</p> - -<p>Pass now from the outer public world into the inner: pass -from the parks and streets into the Picture Gallery, and think -of a similar passage in Melbourne. It is quite useless to -murmur here, “<i>Melbourne</i>—<i>movement</i>—<i>progress</i>—<i>conscious -power</i>;” the words only pass into a dry tuneless jingle, like -Gordon at his worst, wherein nothing can be heard but, “<i>Leanness -and rigidness</i>—<i>hardness and nakedness</i>.” We see the -throng of the virtuous wives of the Bourke Street tradespeople -and of “our wealthy lower orders” moving about in that -badly constructed room, with its badly chosen and badly hung -pictures. We think of the low, low ebb at which the intellect -of the metropolis has left its sense of melody and beauty. We -wonder what Adelaide Ironsides, whom Mr. Brunton Stephens -has told us of in some charming verses,<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> would have made of -that people, of that city, whose capacity to foster poetic -instinct was “gauged” with such grimness by Mr. Clarke.<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span> -And then we turn to this room, this people, and this city, and -the fatuity of their intense loyalty seems a venial offence beside -the arid barrenness of their intellectual neighbours. Such a -construction (and, alas, not a merely temporary but a quite -everlasting one) as the Melbourne Picture and Sculpture -Galleries, such a choice, such an arrangement of pictures and -statues, would not satisfy these men and women of Sydney, as -it does the virtuous wives of the Bourke Street tradespeople and -of “our wealthy lower orders.” I do not say that the <i>Morning -Herald</i> would burst out into correspondence on the subject, -nor yet that that company of eminent men who legislate for an -ungrateful country would speak with scorn or pity of these -things. The chime of melody and beauty here is, if sweet, far -off. Pleasure light and fair is as yet but drawing breath. The -outer public life and the inner are but feeling their way to a -perception of an individuality, to an individuality that seeks -after that form of happiness whose chief expression is in -melody and beauty. But in Melbourne there is nothing, or -scarcely anything, of this. If no one would think of calling -Sydney cruel, neither would anyone think of calling Melbourne -sweet. The average intelligent man in Melbourne -worships at the master-shrine alone: Intellect is his god, -Intellect with its speech of clear nervous prose and its poetry -of vigorous, if rather meretricious metres and “galloping -rymes.” He has no, or very little, care for Art as Art: that is -an affair for women, and, as the only organised female public -opinion is that of the virtuous tradeswoman and the wife of the -wealthy lower orders, spiritual leanness and rigidness, hardness -and nakedness are the popular product of the day.</p> - -<p>Now there is, I will venture to say, not one social -phenomenon, good or evil, in Victoria and New South Wales -that cannot be traced to these their spiritual conditions which -I have been trying to express. Let us take, what I have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span> -called, the three vital questions of the day—Free Trade—Federalism—Higher -Education. New South Wales is in -favour of Free Trade. Her perception of her individual life is -weak: she clings to the past, she considers the present. -Whereas Victoria—Victoria with her swarm of intelligent -labourers and men of business—strong in her reliance on her -intellect, resolutely turns to the future from which she thinks -she will be able to carve out all her desires. Like America, -she wants no help from without, she will brook no interference. -She will not let her mineral products lie idle as New South -Wales does. She is impatient of the true British characteristic, -the slow patient evolution of things, the</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent8">“broadening down</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From precedent to precedent.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">She believes in the modern scientific spirit, and in none -other. “Let us, then,” she says, in her heart, “let us, then, -by all means, move towards Federalism. Union is strength.” -But the eager grasping nature of her swarm of intelligent -labourers will not let her see that the wisdom of her penny -tariffs is but the foolishness of the pounds to come. New -South Wales, on the other hand, is adverse to Federalism. -She does not understand this modern scientific spirit—she -dreads it, is jealous of it, and admires it! It is so self-reliant, -so self-confident! And she, poor thing, is too much under -the sway of the ancient historical spirit to perceive that there is -also a modern historical spirit, and that it is good and at her -doors. Hence her changeableness, hence her irresolution in -the matter. Like her clever unscrupulous politician, Sir Henry -Parkes, yesterday she wanted Federalism, to-day she does not: -she will not be dragged at the chariot wheels of this dreadful -modern scientific spirit which she does not understand, with -Victoria shouting and cracking a stockwhip to urge on the -horses faster and faster. Is she not the “Queen of the -Pacific?” did not Governor Philip tell her she would be -“the centre of the southern hemisphere—the brightest gem of -the Southern Ocean?” and who shall say he counted her -chickens before they were hatched?</p> - -<p>To the disinterested seeker, then, after a really fine civilization, -it is hard to say which is the more painful sight—Victoria, -with her resolute pursuit of a purely intellectual -future, which must end in arid barrenness, or New South<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span> -Wales with her fatuous attachment to the monstrous aspect of -the past and present. Which, after all, is the better or the -worse, illusion or delusion? Is Victoria never going to -perceive that logicians and engineers are not the highest -product of civilization? Will New South Wales never shake -off the British architect, spiritual and material, and begin to -evolve an individual life of her own? Is Mr. Marcus Clarke -right when he tells us that “in another hundred years the -average Australasian will be a tall, coarse, strong-jawed, greedy, -pushing, talented man, excelling in swimming and horsemanship. -His religion will be a form of Presbyterianism, his -national policy a democracy tempered by the rate of exchange. -His wife will be a thin, narrow woman, very fond of dress and -idleness, caring little for her children, but without sufficient -brain-power to sin with zest.” Yes, this is indeed the future of -the two tendencies, which are represented by the illuded -progress of Victorian, the deluded stagnation of New South -Wales. “<i>The virtuous tradeswoman and the wife of the wealthy -lower orders, walking in the happy hunting-grounds of the -British architect!</i>” What a picture! It is a satisfaction to -think that, if it is to be, we shall never live to see it. But the -question arises, “Is <i>it to be</i>?” Has not this acute perceiver of -ours been once more writing down one aspect of the thing as -<i>the</i> aspect, without staying for a second or third look at the -thing itself? is not this a clever view of a part, but a fantastic -view of the whole? has not Mr. Clarke, in a word, been leaving -us this appalling picture of our future in much the same spirit -as the world-wounded Hamlet left his cruel dowry to Ophelia? -This, we are agreed, was indeed the future of the two tendencies, -which are represented by the illuded progress of -Victoria, the deluded stagnation of New South Wales; but we -should add—<i>only if they are left to themselves</i>.</p> - -<p><i>Only if they are left to themselves</i>; and it is our hope, our -trust that they will not be. We hope, we believe, that these -two countries will learn from one another, each the lesson -which the other will be competent to teach: that Victoria will -awake to the vital importance of giving her Upper Class a -Higher Education to correspond to the Elementary Education -that she is giving her Lower Class, and that this Higher -Education may be one filled with what we have called the -modern historical spirit, with culture, with literary Culture: that -New South Wales, leading and instructing Victoria here, having<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span> -first learned from her example to have the courage to evolve an -individual life of her own, will in her turn imbibe the modern -scientific spirit, will imbibe what I may call scientific Culture; -and thus we shall be brought on to the day in which the people -of Victoria and New South Wales shall, from their superficial -differences, be united by common qualities better than those of -fretfulness, cleverness, perverseness, irritability: For in this -people lies the possibility of a really fine civilization, in the -marriage in them of emotion and intellect, of poetry and -prose.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Is the goal so far away?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Far, how far no tongue can say.</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Let us dream our dream to-day.</i>”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>One last word on the last of the three vital questions of the -day—Higher Education. When, on 1st April, Mr. Patterson, -who presides over the Victorian Education Department, went -down to Malmsbury to lay a foundation-stone for the Wesleyan -denomination, and favoured us with his views on this question, -or rather on the education system as it at present stands in -Victoria, we had a hope (a faint hope) that he would do something -more than sing the praises of the denominational schools -in general, and the state schools (“those majestic monuments -to enlightenment,” as he says in his profuse political way, “that -adorn and bless even the remotest portions of this colony”)—the -state schools in particular. Our hope was destined to disappointment. -Mr. Patterson had something to say about “the -only legitimate checks on the abuse of political power when -conferred upon the masses,” and about “the unscrupulousness, -as well as the boldness beyond reason” of that man who -“would deny that the rising Australians, for sobriety and -unassuming intelligence, would compare favourably with -the old stock,” so that he “was bound to record his conviction -that the future of Australia would be quite safe in the -hands of the Australians.” He had also ready a defence of the -secular character of the teaching in the state schools, and -some nice little left-handed compliments for our good Wesleyans, -<i>et hoc genus omne</i>, but not a word, and apparently not a -thought, for the legitimate checks on “the abuses of <i>educational</i> -power when conferred” on a middle-class as unprepared -for rule as the worst education in the world can make it. -“The Australian public,” he says, “desires, above all things, -to ensure good citizenship.” The Australian public cares<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span> -little that, in the state schools which it has founded for that -especial purpose, dead dry intellectual knowledge is rampant—“that -asinine feast of sow-thistles and brambles,” as Milton -disgustedly puts it, “which is commonly set before our youth -as all the food and entertainment of their tenderest and most -docile age”—“inanimate mechanical gerund-grinding,” as -Carlyle equally disgustedly called it—gerund-grinding and -spiritual cockatoo screeching. Nor yet does it care that, in -the denominational schools in which its own children are being -brought up, the only supplement to the dead dry educational -knowledge of the gerund and the cockatoo, is the merest flimsy -smattering of Science caricatured and Literature misunderstood. -Let us not, however, despair because our sucking -colonial statesmen cannot see more than a few educational -inches in front of their noses. Have we not got Dr. Moorhouse, -our good Bishop of Melbourne, with us, “a mighty man -with broad and sinewy hands?” And does he not, on every -available opportunity, batter against the brazen walls of the -gerund and the cockatoo, and bid them leave off grinding and -screeching, and listen to reason? And here, too, is our good -Roman Catholic Bishop of Sydney, Dr. Moran (whom we are -all so sorry to think of losing), expressing his “fears that the -atmosphere of the public schools is too chilly for a great many -of our youth?” Perhaps one of these mornings the Victorian -public will wake up, tired of listening to the chatter of the -religious and secular dogmatists gathered together like eagles -over the carcase of “Religion without Superstition,” and there -may arise a curiosity and a care for Higher Education and -High Schools; and we will hope, then, that no one will be -foolish enough to say that they have been a very doubtful -success in New South Wales and in Sydney—in Sydney, the -home-elect of the six-fingered and six-toed giant of British -Philistinism! And, perhaps, some day poor little Culture, -putting off the cumbrous armour with which the gerund and -the cockatoo want to load him, taking his sling in his hand and -a few smooth stones from the brook, may smite great Goliath -in the forehead, and cut off his head, and there be a signal -rout of all the Philistines, even unto Gath and Gaza and the -utmost borders of the land.</p> - -<p class="right"><i>May, 1885.</i></p> - -<p class="smaller">[<span class="smcap">Note.</span>—I am tempted to republish here a letter, which I sent lately to -the <i>Sydney Morning Herald</i> wherein one aspect of the secondary education<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span> -question was (more or less unconsciously) being discussed. No one, so -far as I am aware, thought the letter worth serious consideration: at any -rate no one thought it worth replying to, perhaps the reasons for its -insertion were simply those which the “able Editor” assigned to me for the -insertion of all his correspondence, namely that it be not either too illiterate -or too offensive for publication. Well, I am sure that for my own part I -am grateful for even so much toleration as this, and shall strive, as -becomes my humble position in this great Australian press, to continue to -deserve it.]</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="center">A RUGBY FOR NEW SOUTH WALES.</p> - -<p class="center">(<i>To the Editor of the Herald.</i>)</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—In your issue of Saturday, May 9th, Mr. Edwin Bean, -of All Saints’ College, Bathurst, brought under serious consideration -the suggestion made by your correspondent “A. N.,” -as regards what he called “A Rugby for New South Wales.” -Anything that a schoolmaster of Mr. Bean’s talent and experience -has to say must be interesting to those of us (alas, too -few!) to whom the question of secondary education, whether -in England or Australia, is a care. He will understand, then, -that when I pass over, almost without notice, his criticisms on -the individual aspects of the “reproduction” here “of that -which is certainly best,” as he says, “in the English Public -schools, viz., what is called the Public school spirit”—that the -only reason of my doing so is the fear of encroaching too much -on your “valuable space.” For, interesting as these criticisms -are, the interest which lies in what I take to be the two real -points at question here is, I must think, greater: these two -points being (<i>1</i>), <i>the growing sense in all competent judges of -discontent with the present condition of middle-class secondary -education in Australia</i>; (<i>2</i>), <i>the means of ameliorating this -condition</i>.</p> - -<p>As regards the first point, I must here almost take it for -granted, in the face of the fact that, so far as I am aware, -there is not a single colonial politician who seems to realise -that if the education of the People, the rulers of the future, is -of vital importance to us all, the education of the Middle-, -or, as we should say now, the Upper-class, the rulers of -the present, is of importance at least quite as vital. The -mass of intelligent men here, then, or, as we are wont to -say, the intelligent public, naturally enough, holds the same -opinion about upper-class secondary education that their -political representatives do. “It is all right,” they say. -“What are you grumbling at in these ‘private adventure<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span> -schools,’ as you call them? They do well enough, we think, -for us upper-class people; and if you want your son to have a -really first-rate education, why, are there not plenty of fine -Denominational schools about—the King’s School, Newington, -and so on, and our splendid Grammar-school?” The only -answer to “prophesyings” of this sort is, that the Upper-class, -as a class, are, whatever they may think themselves, simply -abominably educated; their education is, even when judged by -its own miserable standard, superficial, incoherent, impalpable; -and the sole necessary proof of this is, that a good three-quarters -of the knowledge acquired by an average boy at an -average private adventure school is of no subsequent use whatever -to him, either in the culture of himself or in the prosecution -of his business or trade. As for the best Denominational -schools where a secondary education is to be obtained, if -inadequate, at any rate much superior to that of the private -adventure schools, these are out of the reach of the pockets of -the average upper-class people, who, even if they appreciate -this misfortune (which, as a rule, they do not), are unable to -remedy it.</p> - -<p>Here, then, as it seems to me, lies the difficulty; and we -have now to look at the solution which the apparent tendency -of things is proffering to us. “If ‘A. N.,’” says Mr. Bean, -“had resided in Victoria, he would have learnt that the Public -schools (as they are there called) of Geelong and Melbourne -are already taking something of the position, and aspiring to -fulfil the functions, of the English public schools.... -And,” he goes on, “at Paramatta, Stanmore, Bathurst, Bowenfels, -and elsewhere, there are already boarding-schools, not -private, but belonging to Denominational corporations, which, -if fostered by private assistance, will eventually grow into -something resembling the Public schools of England.” Mr. -Bean is, of course, right. If things progress in the way in -which they are now progressing, if our colonial statesmen turn -all their attention, and as much of ours as we will give them, <i>to</i> -the education of the People, and <i>from</i> that of the Upper-class, -then, I say, more and more will the Upper-class be thrown into -the hands of schools which are mere private speculations, which -are really under no control but that of personal caprice (and -the personal caprice, great heavens! of what a stamp of intellectual -and spiritual man), which, accordingly, provide an -education, even when judged by its own miserable standard,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span> -superficial, incoherent, impalpable. And these other schools, -I say, the best Denominational and Corporation schools, the -Australian Public schools of the future, will become more and -more the educational monopoly of the professional and -wealthy portion of the Upper-class, just as in England they -have become that of the aristocracy and these portions of the -Middle-class. These “<i>great schools</i>,” exclaims Mr. Bean justly -of the English Public schools—“<i>which have done so much to -form the character of the English gentleman</i>.” Of the English -gentleman? Yes, and alas! of the English middle-class man, -that terrible and pathetic being whom Mr. Arnold has taught -us to know as the British Philistine. “I declare,” says General -Gordon, the hero-elect of this very class, “I declare I think -there is more happiness among these miserable (Soudan) -blacks, who have not a meal from day to day, than among our -middle-classes. The blacks are glad of a little handful of -maize, and live in the greatest discomfort. They have not a -strip to cover them; but you do not see them grunting and -groaning all day long as we see scores and scores in England, -with their wretched dinner-parties and attempts at gaiety where -all is hollow and miserable.”</p> - -<p>What a future for the Upper-class, the by far largest class -of Australia! What an appalling solution to an educational -difficulty is this:—<i>A small class made up of our squatters, -professional men, and wealthy tradesmen, forming a sort of intellectual -and spiritual aristocracy; our Upper-class not only itself -intellectually and spiritually dull and debased, but debasing and -dulling all the better spirits which, in their social ascension, pass -into it from the ranks of the People.</i> The thought of such a -future to those of us to whom the progress onward and -upward, whether of England or of Australia, is a care, is -appalling, heartrending, unendurable! There is nothing that -we could do, by the devotion of our powers, energies, and -means, that we should not, would not, do to prevent it. And -we should be, and are, encouraged in our struggle against it by -the reflection that the real deep true spirit of the time is -against all monopoly, practical and physical, intellectual and -spiritual—that once the Upper-class, and after them the -People, is aroused to the realisation of the fact that there is a -danger here of the formation of a new aristocracy, an aristocracy -which, with all its charm (let us suppose) of social -manners and of intellectual and spiritual culture (and this is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span> -supposing a very great deal), means nothing less than the -materialisation, the dulling and the debasing, of everything -beneath it—when the Upper-class and the People, I say, are -aroused to the realisation of this, we may be sure that they will -not rest till they have prevented it.</p> - -<p>And how, it is asked, is such a future to be prevented? -how such a present to be ameliorated? By the formation, -not of Denominational and Corporation schools at a charge -which places them out of the reach of all save the richer -among us, but by the formation of Public State schools that -provide a secondary education as good, and, we will hope, -better, than that of these others, and at a charge that is within -the reach of the average upper-class people. “Yes, but,” at -once is answered, “such schools already exist in the High -schools, and they have not been a success.” I will not here -contest, although I well might, the first assertion; but I -cannot, if I would, contest the second. I began by noticing -the cause of it, this general satisfaction of “the intelligent -public” with the educational pabulum provided for its offspring. -I deplore it; I hope for the day of its removal to the -gulf of oblivion. In the meantime all that can be done is to -strive to assist this “consummation devoutly to be desired” -earnestly and perpetually.</p> - -<p>One word more. No one is more in sympathy (if I may be -pardoned for speaking of such an unimportant entity) than <i>I</i> -am, with the efforts of such men as “A. N.” and Mr. Edwin -Bean to reproduce, or try to reproduce, in Australia as far as -may be, “that which is certainly best in the English Public -schools, viz., what is called the Public school spirit.” I have -not the least prejudice against English Public schools, at one -of the oldest and most conservative of which I was myself -educated, and from which I almost entirely derived the circle -of my most valued friends; nor yet against the Denominational -and Corporation schools here. I have only to remark -to Mr. Bean, what I am sure he will at once admit, that if the -danger of State schools is the excessive interference of the -State, the danger—nay, the absolute abuse—of endowed -Public schools is that they become mere feeders of the universities; -and in England to such an appalling extent was this -the case that the State absolutely had to alter and narrow its -Indian Civil Service examinations in order to bring them -within reach of the Public schools, which were being quite left<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span> -out in the cold! Doubtless, then, the Australian endowed -Public schools would have their danger too, a danger which -“even no less a thinker than Herbert Spencer,” as Mr. Bean -says, has not perhaps, in the application to artificial civilization -of the laws of the natural “struggle for existence and survival -of the fittest,” quite comprehended.</p> - -<p>With all apologies to you for the amount of your “valuable -space” on which I have encroached in even this far too perfunctory -consideration of the matter in hand,</p> - -<p class="center">I am, etc.,</p> - -</div> - -<p>There is no one whose opinion on this question of -secondary education is more worthy of our attention than that -of Mr. Matthew Arnold. Our debt of gratitude to him for the -general advancement of the Idea of Culture, not only at home, -but everywhere where our language is spoken, is so great that -we have begun to accept it almost as an impersonal fact. The -work which he did long ago, and has never ceased to recapitulate, -for the cause of middle-class secondary education, can only -be appreciated by those whose attention has been turned to it -more especially. This, I hope, will hold me excused to him -for quoting here from a letter of his to me, some expressions of -his, and the more so as they seem to show something like a -modification of the view he has so far publicly enunciated. -“I think,” he says, “I see signs that the education question is -likely to present itself at no distant date in this wise: ‘Shall -the majority give public money for any education except the -education necessary for every citizen?’ The education necessary -for every citizen will be somewhat extended in scope, but -no account will be taken of the higher culture hitherto deemed -necessary for a leisured and governing class, and to which so -great a mass of endowment has been made to contribute. On -the Continent of Europe a great change will be produced if -this new view prevails, for the endowments have in general -been seized by the State, and the State has directly subsidised -secondary and superior instruction. In England it has not, -but the endowments which these instructions enjoyed have -been left to them. Probably they will not be taken away, but -further public aid will hardly be given. Nor do I think it will -be given in the Colonies; and as there the endowment of -secondary and superior instruction is inconsiderable, these -instructions will be, as they are now, at a great disadvantage.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span> -The wealthiest people will send their sons to be educated in -England; private schools will, of course, exist locally, but I do -not think they will have influence enough to create a class and -a power out of those they train. Society will thus be, on the -whole, much more homogeneous than with the old nations of -Europe; but, as in the United States, this condition of things -will have its own dangers and drawbacks. The best way to -meet them is for individuals to keep up a love of genuine -culture in themselves, and so to create an even larger force in -the nation to favour it.” Of the truth, or very probable truth, -of the educational future here drawn out, there can, alas, be -little question. M. Renan, whose work for France can well be -paralleled with that of Mr. Arnold for us, takes an even -gloomier view. We may count ourselves lucky, he says, if -Democracy will consent, not to encourage, but to tolerate -independent study. Democracy, he says, again, is the -advent of universal mediocrity, of that most terrible of mediocrities, -the aggressive. “Great qualities,” cried Empedocles, -facing the same problem as we do,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Great qualities are trodden down,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and littleness united</div> - <div class="verse indent0">is become invincible.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">If this, then, is to be the case in Europe, what will it be in -America, and still more in Australia? Aristocracies may not -be ideal, but they have their use: they establish a certain high -tone of social intercourse which is certainly valuable as one -element in a really fine civilization; and, when they have -passed away, it still lives as a tacit influence. France to-day, -for instance, is a republic, but her outward manners, despite -all that has happened, bear something of the mark of the -Grand Siècle. England, again, is swinging away with heavy -speed from her old ideal of Puritanism, and yet, as Mr. Arnold -says so well, “the seriousness, solemness, and devout energy of -Puritanism are a prize once won, never to be lost; they are a -possession to our race for ever.” But America? but Australia? -America is not leavened by Puritanism as England is, -neither has she any hereditary tone of social intercourse to be -compared with that of England, not to say of France. America -must settle her own problem for herself, despite all the outer -influence which is brought to bear on her: two hundred miles -out from the Amazon mouth the water is still fresh, but it is -salt at last. But consider this Australia where the Puritanism<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span> -only began to operate when its sincerity was souring into cant, -where the tone of social intercourse flourishes in the hands of -those who attain to it as the imitation of an imitation! What -can be so disastrous for Australia as the thrusting into power of -a class of this sort, to be followed by a class which is to the -first as the first is to its prototype in England? How this -future presents itself has already been considered here. Mr. -Marcus Clarke’s picture of it stands like a perpetual nightmare. -What hope, then, remains to us except in that very “higher -culture hitherto deemed necessary for a leisured and governing -class,” which Mr. Arnold tells us our local private schools will -not have influence enough to create as “a class and a power?” -Is the only aristocracy possible to us to be, not a broad one -like that of Athens, but a narrow one like that of Rome? We -all know the picture Juvenal has painted of the decadence of -this last, and Johnson’s application of it to the London of his -time is not a memory altogether pleasant. “The lustre of a -capital,” says M. Renan, with his eye on that of his own -country, “springs from a vast provincial dung-heap, where -millions of men lead an obscure life, in order to bring forth -some brilliant butterflies which come to burn themselves in the -light.” And if for capital we substitute plutocracy, and for -butterflies creatures of a nature less savoury, we see something -like the sort of future with which we are threatened here. -Political life at present in Europe can scarcely be called noble, -but here in Australia it is positively so base that there is a -danger of its becoming the monopoly of men whose verbose -incompetence is only equalled by their jovial corruption. The -Plutocracy, such as it is, is being thrown in upon itself. Its -present generation, it is true, is content to work—and, indeed, -can find its only happiness in work; but this will not be so with -the next, and still less with the third, generation. The desire -to enjoy will grow into a lust, and this lust will spread. The -end of this we know, and there will not lack writers to look -back upon the present, even as so many of us look forward to -the future, with a sort of eager envy. Well, and what is to be -done to prevent this, if it is to be prevented? To cease from -trying to obtain a secondary education for the Upper-class? to -obtain Australian Rugbies, not only for the Plutocracy, but for -the Upper-class, and for any one of the People that has the -care to climb up to them and the best education which his age -and country can afford him? to create a class and power that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span> -shall, in their turn, create a really fine civilization?—are we to -cease from all direct struggle for this, and meet the present -crisis by simply trying “to keep up the love of genuine culture -in ourselves, and so to create an ever larger force in the nation to -favour it?” I cannot believe that this is so; I cannot even believe -that, good way as it is, it is “the best way.” We have all been -reading lately what Mr. Arnold had to say in favour of this -indirect method, this creation of a Remnant that should at last -become a power, and I am sure I should be the last person to -say a word against it. All I have to say is, that I have too -much belief in the power of institutions (a power “the benefits -of which,” Mr. Arnold has just been telling us, “he had not -properly appreciated” before his trip to America) to neglect -anything that could bring them to the side of Culture. I -appreciate the indirect method, and I believe that, in the long -run, it is the method which gives permanent solidity, but I cannot -blind myself to the immense importance of the direct -method. If it is necessary to conduct a river into a city, the -pipes must first be made, and care taken that they are not too -small. The French Revolution was a violent attempt and a -premature one, and yet, such as it was, it brought a greater -volume of happiness into France than the abortive attempt that -we made in England. <i>We</i> have still to face the problem of the -happiness of the few and the debasement of the many, and I -cannot see that it is an easier problem to resolve than that -which is presenting itself to the French just at present. I -still, then, must continue to believe that it is not wise in -England, and how much more in America, and how much -more in Australia, to refrain from the direct struggle for a higher -education for our Upper-class. Our aim is not for the few but -for the many, and not for elementary Culture for the many, -but for the possibilities of a really fine Culture. We have, too, -our distrust of Remnants. We dread their tendency to take to -lotus-eating. They are apt to care so little for the propagation -of either their species or their Culture.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Let us alone! What pleasure can we have</div> - <div class="verse indent0">to war with evil? Is there any peace</div> - <div class="verse indent0">in ever climbing up the climbing wave?”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">It is with difficulty, with great and perpetual difficulty, that a -Goethe can keep his duty to his art and his duty to his neighbour -at the perfect poise. It is so hard to keep your duty to -yourself from running into your duty to your selfishness.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span> -Light, and the love of light, and the love of bringing light to -others, is after all impossible without a certain admixture of -heat. Let us, then, still continue to nourish our enthusiasm -for a direct purpose, which shall be the future to that great -mass of average human beings who are thoughtlessly moulded -by whatever they find is strong enough to mould them. Let -us be jealous of individuals. “<i>Non Angli, sed angeli.</i>”</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“<i>Leave not a human soul</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>to grow old in darkness and pain!</i>”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="right"><i>October, 1885.</i></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/deco3.jpg" width="400" height="350" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CULTURE">CULTURE.</h2> - -</div> - -<p>Everyone nowadays has something to say about Culture. -Even the politicians have heard of it, and some morning we -may read in our newspapers that one of them is of opinion that -there is some meaning in the term. Naturally enough we have -all of us for some time been groping after the thing itself. -The Time-Spirit is like a skilful driver of sheep. He may -have considerable trouble with his flock, but, thanks to his -unruffled intelligence and the ceaseless exertions of his dog -Genius, he brings them all in in time for the market. It is -now almost a century since the Idea of Culture took definite -shape in the mind of a single man, and ever since then the -number of its followers has kept on increasing, until at last -everyone, as I remarked, has now something to say about it. -If, however, one enquires of people, not what they <i>think</i> of -Culture, (For everyone from the Vatican Œcumenical Council<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> -to the author of “In Memoriam”<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> is agreed as to the -advantage of it), but what culture <i>is</i>, one may go far for a -satisfactory answer. Women are growing dissatisfied with the -sphere of their work. What is it that they need? “More -breadth of culture,” answers the Prince of Tennyson’s Princess -readily enough, “more breadth of culture!” And it will be -said that it is easy to see that what the Prince means is, that -women should have thrown open to them the education that -has so far been the monopoly of men. But is this Culture? -is this the whole truth about it?—simply the giving to the -many—to women, to the Middle-class and to the People—what -is the education of the few? would that man in whose -mind the Idea of Culture first took definite shape have been -satisfied with the sight of ubiquitous Harrows and Etons and -Grammar Schools of Melbourne and Geelong? There can be -no doubt but that such a sight would have pleased, but it -certainly would not have satisfied him. “Schools,” he would -have said, “are of high importance, but what is taught in them -is of importance still higher.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span></p> - -<p>And so we come back again to our question as to what -Culture <i>is</i> with a sense that the ready answers to it are only -half answers. Now everyone has heard of Goethe, and everyone -has read some of his writings—“Faust,” at any rate—and, -as it is to Goethe that we owe the Idea of Culture (as indeed -most things that are really good in the sphere of modern -thought), it would be best to at once quote his own words on -the matter, and see if we cannot find a definition, or at any -rate a description, of Culture that shall satisfy us. Poetry, however, -does not exactly lend itself to definitions of such things as -this, or even to descriptions. In Faust himself the idea may -be more or less, as they say, incarnated, but we plain practical -people, who like things put as much in black and white as may -be, have some difficulty in these matters, and would far rather -hear of them in simple English prose which means what it says -and says what it means, than in poetry (and particularly -German poetry) which seems to us to do exactly the reverse. -Well, then, let us turn away from this parabolic Goethe for a -little, and see if we cannot find someone who shall be his -expounder to us. And who else should this be, at any rate in -this case, than he whom the newspapers like to call the Apostle -of Culture, Mr. Matthew Arnold? Let us go to Mr. Matthew -Arnold, and say: “Sir, you are constantly talking about -Culture, and you have said many uncomplimentary things to -us all about our want of it. Now would you be so kind as to -tell us precisely what you <i>mean</i> by it? And we warn you that -we are plain practical people who like things put as much in -black and white as may be, and that we have a decidedly poor -opinion of your efforts to make us believe that ‘the Eternal -not ourselves that makes for righteousness’ is the same thing -as our ‘loving and intelligent Governor of the Universe,’ and -that it makes no difference to us when we eat our Christmas -goose and plum-pudding whether we believe that we do so -because those shepherds and those Three Kings <i>did</i> come that -day to Christ in the Bethlehem manger, to the accompaniment -of an angelic concert, or did not. We want, Sir, a definition -of this Culture of yours, or, if you cannot give us that (But, -really now, you are so clever at definitions that we shall be -quite disappointed if you cannot!), then you must give us a -good description of it, so that we may be able to arrive at -a proper decision about it.” Then an expression of bland -patience would cross Mr. Arnold’s countenance, as he sat in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span> -his study chair, listening with that “native modesty” of which -he has told us all, to the words of our curious foreman; and, -after a short pause, he would perhaps answer: “Gentlemen, I -am much honoured by this deputation and inquiry. Long ago -in some remarks of mine on translating Homer.... But -I will refer you to a more recent period. A new and revised -edition of a little book of mine called ‘Literature and Dogma’ -has just been issued in a cheap form by Messrs. Smith, Elder -and Co. You will find that in the Preface to it the following -words occur, which I venture to think may, on investigation, -be found to answer the question with which I am now -honoured. But, as you possibly may not remember it, (for I -cannot expect you, any more than myself, to be always studying -my works), I will quote it to you. ‘<i>Culture</i>,’ I said (Culture -in italics)—‘<i>Culture</i>, knowing the best that has been thought -and known in the world.’ I can give no better definition than -this. ‘True Culture,’ I say again, ‘true Culture implies not -only knowledge, but right tact and justness of judgment, -forming themselves by and with judgment.’ Or, yet again: -‘Culture is <i>reading</i>’ (Reading in italics), ‘but reading with a -purpose to guide it, and with system.’”—And with this, and a -renewal of compliments on both sides, our jury bows itself out, -and presently the sound of the closing hall-door mounts up to -the silent chamber.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“But an awful pleasure bland</div> - <div class="verse indent0">spreading o’er the Poet’s face,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">when the sound climbs near his seat,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">the encircled library sees;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">as he lets his lax right hand</div> - <div class="verse indent0">which the lightnings doth embrace</div> - <div class="verse indent0">sink upon his mighty knees.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>This, then, it seems, is Culture—<i>knowing the best that has -been thought and known in the world—not only knowledge, but -right tact and justness of judgment, forming themselves by and -with judgment</i>—reading, <i>but reading with a purpose to guide it, -and with system</i>. And is not this something like what Goethe -meant in that enigmatic sentence of his, which we have heard -so often quoted by people who understood it as much as we -did: “Vom Halben zu entwöhnen; Im Ganzen, Guten, Schönen -resolut zu leben.” “I resolved to wean myself from halves, and -to live for the Whole, the Good, the Beautiful.” But even -now, even now that we know what it is (And after all, we say, -what much more is it than saying that we ought to try for the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span> -best article, and not rest content with anything but the best -article?), wherein are we, we plain practical people with our -attachment to black and white, helped to the attainment of it? -Culture, we are told, is reading, but reading with a purpose to -guide it and with system. The purpose, it is presumed, is -attainment, but what is the system? We are to have knowledge, -and not only knowledge but right tact and justness of -judgment, forming themselves by and with judgment. All -very nice, we say, but how are we to get them? You say to a -man who hobbles, “Run:” he is quite as capable of saying it -as you are. Either show him how to run, or hold your -tongue!—unless it be that he thinks he <i>is</i> running, and even -then it seems useless enough to undeceive him without you -can teach him how to do what he now thinks he is. What, -then, is this system of which you speak? what is the receipt -for it? is it a system possible to <i>us</i>?</p> - -<p>Well, I really have not the courage to go and face Mr. -Arnold again. Handlers of the lightnings like he is can be so -disagreeable when they please. Where is the joy of figuring -in some ludicrous or contemptible attitude in their writings for -the next few hundred years or so? It is all very well to say -that we shall all of us be in our graves presently, and all -equally ignorant of what our descendants may think of us, but -the truth is no one likes to be held up to the nations as a fool -or a knave, and especially if he be both. I see nothing for it -but to let the oracle alone. I for one will have nothing to do -with stirring up Phoibos again. I have done so more than -once already, and am too grateful for a whole hide to tempt -the arrows further. We must be our own Oidipous. At most -we can reverently finger the Sibylline leaves, and see if anything -of “pleasant to the eye and good for food” can be -extracted therefrom.</p> - -<p>To begin with, however, does it not seem best to say at -once that, after all, there is no receipt for not saying -and doing foolish things except not to be foolish? No -system in the world will give wings to a worm. On the -other hand, there is really no reason why the descendants -of that worm should not one day navigate the sky; and, -as a matter of fact, they do. Similarly with the stupidest -and the most degraded of us, I cannot see why a single -moment should be lost in attempting to better them. The -earth is likely to be inhabitable for the next eight millions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span> -of years or so, it seems, and I am sure that is long enough for -us. We need not be in such a hurry as the Socialists would -have us, nor yet creep along on all fours in the Conservative -manner; but we must not, of course, undervalue either fashion -or progress, since both wheels and a drag are important parts -of a carriage in uneven country. But here again, as is always -the case, we are brought face to face with the question, not -only of the wheels and the drag, not only of the carriage -itself, and not only of even the driver of it, but of the end -of the journey. “The purpose,” we said a moment ago -in our ready way, “is, it is presumed, attainment, but what -is the system?—Never mind,” we say, “about where we -are going to: let us hear about the carriage we are going -in! Let us have Etons and Harrows and Melbourne and -Geelong Grammar Schools everywhere, and then we shall be -alright. Let us resolve to have the best article, and not rest -content with anything but the best article, and that’s all!”</p> - -<p>Alas, for the impatience of mankind! In order to <i>try</i> for -the best article, not to say to <i>have</i> it, must we not first know -what the best article <i>is</i>? should we not know where we are -going to, before we construct our carriage and purchase our -horses? And yet, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, are -we not content to <i>go</i>, and leave more or less to chance where -we are going <i>to</i>? do we not waste half our lives in overcoming -difficulties with which we ought to have had nothing -to do? It is so easy to talk and to act: it is so difficult to -think, and mould your words and actions to your thoughts -rather than your thoughts to your words and actions. It is the -weary old tale of the more haste and the less speed, the weary -old tale that is for ever new. And yet we will not listen to it. -Sooner than trouble ourselves with the <i>whys</i> of things, we will -throw ourselves with energy into the first <i>hows</i> that present -themselves, and leave the rest to chance, or, as Dr. Moorhouse’s -good “unintelligent orthodox” people say, to God. But nothing -real, nothing lasting, is achieved in this way. Nature does not -work in this way: God does not work in this way. The beasts -do and the vast majority of men do, and that is why, in -Hamlet’s words, life is such “an unweeded garden that grows -to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.” -No, if we are to understand, not only Culture but anything at -all, we must begin at the very beginning: we must learn the -<i>whys</i>. Take care of the <i>whys</i>, we might say, and the <i>hows</i><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span> -will take care of themselves. And let us not for a moment be -deceived by those who tell us that our fathers got along very -well without inquiring into the <i>whys</i>, into the causes of things, -and so can we. This is not so. Whatever success has been -achieved has been achieved by a recognition, conscious or -unconscious it may be, of the causes of the thing worked -upon. Instead of our fathers having had any success from -their ignorance of causes, or their reliance on good fortune, -they have had success in despite in these, and only so far as they -banished the one and knew how to turn to account the other.</p> - -<p>And Culture? what has this to do with Culture? Everything!—In -this, as in so many other cases, we concentrate all -our attention on the <i>how</i> and leave the <i>why</i> to take care of -itself. “More breadth of Culture, more breadth of Culture,” -cry the Princes and the Priests, and everyone else, in emulous -chorus. But when they are asked what they <i>mean</i> by Culture—what -Culture <i>is</i>, then they have no answer ready save one -(as Shelley says),</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“pinnacled dim in the intense inane;”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">and this sort of thing will, in the end, satisfy no man.</p> - -<p>Well, we have heard what Culture <i>is—knowing the best that -has been thought and known in the world</i>. But we have been -brought up sharply at the very next step: <i>Culture is reading, -but reading with a purpose to guide it</i>. What is the purpose? -Attainment. Yes, but <i>how</i>? <i>how</i> and <i>why</i>?</p> - -<p>But before we try to answer that, let us think a moment -whether the expounder of our parabolic Goethe has given us a -definition that is quite satisfactory. We have nothing to say -against his definition of Culture itself. It expresses Goethe’s -“the Whole, the Good and the Beautiful” perfectly. But what -about this second definition? what about Culture being reading, -but reading with a purpose to guide it? Is this a pure -parallel equivalent of the first, or has it something of a -limitation in it? Can we, indeed (supposing us the happy -possessors of a certain purpose and system), achieve a knowledge -of the best that has been thought and known in the world—of -the Whole, the Good and the Beautiful—by reading, and -by reading only? is this what Goethe has to say to us? is -this the lesson of Goethe’s life? If it is, why is it that he lays -such stress on the absolute personal experience of things? If -Faust could have achieved Truth in his study, why does<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span> -Goethe show us his achievement of it by taking him away -from his reading, and flinging him in the arms, first of Love -and then of Life? Faust does not leave his reading and his -thinking behind him: they accompany him everywhere, from -Margarete’s bedroom to the witch-revel on the Brocken. And -what does this mean but that, to achieve a knowledge of the -best that the world has thought and known, two things are -necessary—reading and experience; or, in the same words, -thought and knowledge. No amount of reading will compensate -for want of experience. It is useless for me to think I -have attained to Truth, if I have never felt her absolute presence. -Is idealization the essence of true love? Is there a more real -inspiration to be found in the faëry princesses of Shelley, than -in the breathing women of Wordsworth? Idealization is good, -but it must have a firm foundation in reality, or it is barren of -anything but fantasticality. So it is with thought and knowledge. -No man who has not himself lived and loved can tell -us the truth of love and life. Gibbon had immense reading, and -a purpose and a system in it (I do not here enter upon their precise -nature), and his history of the Decline and Fall of Rome -is in many respects quite admirable, but he does not attain to -truth in it. And why? Because he has not experience, he -has not knowledge. All his reading, all his purpose, all his -system will not compensate for the want of their corollary. No, -Culture, the achieving of the best that has been thought in the -world, is not reading, not reading with any purpose or system -that has been or will ever be devised. Culture is the combination -of reading with experience, of thought with knowledge. -The one thing acts as a check on the other; the one is the -spirit and the other the body; the one, in Shakspere’s words, the -“judgment” and the other the “blood,” and in their “co-mingling” -is found the perfect man. The purpose, the system -remain unchanged. We have only, as it seems to me, to -develop our second definition: to say that Culture <i>is reading -and experience, but reading and experience with a purpose to -guide them, and a system</i>.</p> - -<p>And so, having disposed somewhat of the <i>why</i>, we come -back to the <i>how</i>, the purpose and the system. In reality the -two are one. Mr. Arnold speaks once of Goethe’s “profound -impartiality,” and elsewhere he lays the greatest -stress on that which alone can help criticism “to produce -fruit for the future”—<i>disinterestedness</i>. By <i>disinterestedness</i><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span> -he means the sincere endeavour, the pure and simple -endeavour, to get at the truth of things, to see them as -they really are. And what is this but Goethe’s determination -to “wean himself from halves,” from partial views of -things? Now nothing is easier than to say that you seek for -Truth and Truth only, and nothing is more difficult to do. -Who is there that does not make this profession? And yet -how few, how infinitely few, are those who turn it into practice! -And why is this? The answer of course is because, say what -they may, the pursuit of most men is merely relative. I no -more attain to Truth by saying “Go to, I will attain to it,” than -I should fly over the moon by a like formula. It is only the -really honest and sincere, the really pure and simple endeavour -to find Truth that makes me competent to even set out in -search of it, and it is only by the ceaseless use of a system of -resolute patience and clear-sightedness that I can hope to -proceed with any success upon my way. This is indeed a hard -saying; but who, except him who ought to feel it least, feels -that Truth is a goal to be won by rose-crowned processions to -the sound of cymbals and dances? Some people, indeed, -have a conviction that a special exception has been made in -their case, and that what has been hidden from the wise and -prudent has been revealed to babes and sucklings; and I am -sure it is a pleasant sight enough to see the way the babes and -sucklings enjoy this idea, and will continue to do so as long -as the milk lasts. (And, indeed, at this very hour when the milk -is running rather low, what a dismal howl the poor little things -are setting up, and how on earth are we ever going to wean -them?) No, it is only by utter and unwearying honesty, by -the obstinate determination to admit of no delusion or -illusion, however attractive, however pleasant to our souls, -that we can hope to attain to anything like Truth. How often, -when we think we have found the jewel, must we put it down -and remove ourselves, now to this side, now to that, to be sure -that the cutting is indeed flawless! how much must we give -up, and how much must we win, before our mind is trained to, -as it were, of itself, effortlessly, spontaneously, look at things -with that patient clear-sightedness which reaches to their -essence! This, then, is our purpose in Culture, and this our -system, and this is the fruit of it—a habit of thought which -shall have <i>not only thought and knowledge, but right tact -and justness of judgment, forming themselves by and with -judgment</i>. And so our scheme is complete.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span></p> - -<p>Now, leave this theoretical consideration of it for a moment, -and see with what result it has been applied to actual things. -It has been applied, it is being applied, everywhere and to -almost everything. Take the domain of Science, where it has, -so far, been applied in a manner which appeals most to most -people—practical success, as we call it. There is no need for -me to sing the praises of this practical success. It rises all -round me in choruses and peans and hosannas. What I want -to say about it is, that all this practical success is due solely -and entirely to the fact that its creators have applied that -purpose and system of ours on, it is true, a more virgin soil -than most, but also with a more thoroughness than any. Look -at the patience and clear-sightedness that breathes and shines -in every page Darwin wrote! It was well said of him, that -you could be sure no one would state the case against anything -he had to say more fully than he did himself. What a -serenity the man had, what depths of power and peace! It -was my privilege to have had for father one who, to his own -depths of serenity, and power, and peace, added those drawn -from his friendship with this great Darwin, and from an -unrivalled appreciation of his work. When I think of that -method of the pursuit of the truth of things which I have -myself seen in the late Professor Leith Adams, my father, I seem -to myself to despair of ever thoroughly mastering the reality of -anything at all. I am overwhelmed with the mystery of -Butters’ Spelling Book: I dare not lift up my eyes to criticise a -barrel-organ, and the young lady so painfully practising scales -there is a whole heaven above me. We cannot too much -praise the complete singleness of heart and soul with which the -Scientists have faced their problems. When I compare Lord -Tennyson’s consideration of the Struggle in Nature in <i>In -Memoriam</i>, with Darwin’s in his <i>Descent of Man</i>, the -radical insincerity of the former, I confess, disgusts me, and I -fear to do some one or other of its good qualities an injustice. -What intellectual exercise all this despair is! The poet’s mind -is made up before he starts, and all this paraphernalia of doubt -is really simply to show that he can enter into the opposite -point of view to his own, and yet retain his original convictions! -What is the sum total of it? That here is a man of the past, -born into a present from which none but those of the future -can evolve that future. Five are five and ten are ten, and he -adds them together and makes seven! With how different a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span> -temper does Darwin face his problem! He has become “as a -little child” in his simple attitude towards things. “Where’er -thou leadest, will I follow thee.” And it was just because this -was so, that what he had to say to us prevails more and more; -for, having attained to the secret of the purpose and system of -patience and clear-sightedness, he had not only knowledge but -right tact and justness of judgment, forming themselves by -and with judgment; and so he achieved Truth for himself -and for others. Nor does the good of such a man, his life -and his work, end here. He has communicated to all who -have anything to do with his work, his secret or something of -his secret, even as Goethe did before him. Why, here we have -Professor Huxley warning the coming race of Scientists against -taking for granted the very things in the discovery and revelation -of which he has himself toiled all his life, and the cry has -been taken up with enthusiasm. “All is possible,” said -Professor Clifford, “to him who doubts.” What an admirable -temper is this. Imagine Cardinal Newman warning the young -Catholics against taking the Infallibility of the Church for -granted! Or Lord Tennyson assuring us that that fine -personal individuality theory of his (“I am I, thou art thou,” -and so on) must not be considered by young Churchmen as -finally settled! And yet it is in the possession or non-possession -of this temper, I say, that lies the essential difference -between the men of the past and the men of the future. Mr. -Arnold laments that Cardinal Newman, “that exquisite and -delicate genius,” was not born a little later, so that the Time-Spirit -might have touched and transformed him. The same may -be said of Lord Tennyson, and will be said in another fifty -years. But let us have an end to such laments. To these men, -as to their contemporaries, the light came, and they chose the -twilight where others chose the dawn, and, having had their -hour of victory in the applause of the mass of their time, the -doubters and the believers, let us recognize that, at any rate as -influences on thought, they are but ghosts in the bright daytime, -speechless and ineffectual.</p> - -<p>I have, despite myself, been singing the praises of the -Scientists. And why not? Have they not shown us that they -have (as Darwin says so gracefully of Mr. Wallace) “an innate -genius for solving difficulties?” But they, too, have their -assailable side. I have spoken of Professor Clifford. His -talent we were all bound to admire, and his sincerity; but how<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span> -wonderfully inept he was when he came to consider things -outside his own immediate sphere! We all remember what he -had to say about Christianity. He had the same narrowness -towards Christianity that the Christians have towards Science. -In them it is excusable, perhaps. Circumstances have been -all against them. They have had such little opportunity of -attaining to the secret of the purpose and system of Culture. -It has taken its rise outside their pale, and has been combated -as a foe, and is still combated. But in a man who <i>had</i> this -secret, how inexcusable the not being able to apply it outside -his own immediate sphere! and how doubly inexcusable to -apply to his opponents that very method which had made them -so! Really he should have known better. And unfortunately -there are so many of the young Scientists that are following in -his footsteps, and not in the footsteps of Darwin. And this is -a great misfortune, and should be struggled against with all our -powers. But otherwise (since I cannot end here with the note -of blame), how truly admirable is the temper of these men -when they are only let alone in their own sphere! Compare -the teaching of Science in our colleges and universities with -that of Literature! And yet, slow as is the progress of -Literature in its application of the purpose and system of -Culture to things, it <i>is</i> a progress. The success of that -charming series of biographies, the English Men of Letters—nay, -of the little shilling Literature Primers—is a sign of -it. And the same thing, too, is being done with regard to -Philosophy; but, so far, the men of Science have the lead, -and they deserve it; for, as I have said, theirs has -been the most complete singleness of heart and soul with -which Truth has been sought out, they have the most -thoroughly applied the secret of the purpose and system of -Culture.</p> - -<p>Now, let us again leave our consideration of these things, -and see wherein this question of Culture concerns us plain -practical people with our attachment to black and white; how -does it, in a word, come into our daily life. I can only -answer as before, everywhere!—The other day the son of a -friend of mine, (say) Jones, wished to apprentice himself as a -brewer, or, rather, wished to start as a brewer at once. His -father sent him to a well-known brewer to be, as the father said, -put through his paces. The young man returned crestfallen. -What was the matter? The father could not understand it,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span> -and I was set to find it out.—“<i>Tom hasn’t enough Culture</i>,” I -reported.—“What do you mean?” asked the father.—“He -doesn’t know the best that has been thought and known in the -world in the matter of brewing,” I replied, “I should advise -a course of practical chemistry.”—“But I’m sure X ..., the -brewer’s father, didn’t know anything about chemistry, or his -father before him.”—“Probably; but, if <i>X</i> ... didn’t, I -expect he’d have to give up brewing,” I said. And it is the -same in everything. More and more the perception that things -move by fixed laws, which must be obeyed if we would direct -ourselves with success, spreads and intensifies. The necessity -of moulding our words and actions to our thoughts, rather than -our thoughts to our words and actions, is becoming apparent -to all men who would avoid the workhouse, actual or metaphorical. -The <i>whys</i> of things press upon us. It is no use -contenting ourselves with the <i>hows</i>. If we do, someone else -finds out the <i>whys</i>, and we are left in the lurch. The other -day an intelligent sheep-breeder told me an amusing tale. He -had with much trouble and cost purchased in Tasmania a small -stud of prize sheep, which he took up to his station in the -North. The flower of the first generation he sent to a neighbouring -show. The wool of the sheep was thick and close, -unlike that of the locky sheep which are considered the best -there. His sheep was laughed at by all the judges, who -wondered such a sensible man should have sent such a senseless -sheep! These judges were deficient in Culture: they did -not know the best that has been thought and known in the -world in the matter of sheep-breeding. The sheep of these -men were shearing on an average less by more than two pounds -of wool than the sheep of the more scientific sheep-breeders -further south! It is a question, then, whether their children -will be so jubilant when they are brought face to face with the -competition of an enormously increased home wool-production, -and a still more enormously increased wool-production from -South America. You cannot now with impunity be wanting in -Culture. The stream of life flows too fast for the straws that -want to go exploring back-waters, or stopping to admire the -scenery.</p> - -<p>And Australia—this Australia in which we live—what a need -for Culture is here! I see nothing here of the best, and much -of the worst. Take this very question of sheep-breeding. -Australia is in advance of England, for sheep-breeding is the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span> -staple support of the one country, and only an item in the -produce of the other. But in what a backward state it is to -what, as a staple support, it ought to be! By what rough and -ready methods things are still done here. What a dearth of -real intelligence there is! of that patience and clear-sightedness -which is the secret of the purpose and system of Culture. -Who seems to see that in this, as in all matters, the <i>why</i> is the -important matter on which the <i>how</i> will follow, and not the -reverse? There is abundance of shrewdness to hand, and -finger and thumb wisdom, but who sees that the great -necessity is sheer knowledge? Australia was made by men of -this stamp, and they still rule it, but their rule is passing, as it -was bound to pass, before the unruffled intelligence of the -Time-Spirit. These were the men who gave us our absurd -nomenclature of birds and flowers. If they saw a bird was -black and had one dissonant cry, they called it a jay, and it -sufficed. A flower is yellow and little: call it a primrose. And -so on. Then their children arose in their turn, and found -themselves rich, and took to building cities, and we have (what -Mr. Sala calls) Marvellous Melbourne, with the Picture-gallery -and Statue-gallery which we know, and the crowning -glory of its Government House, perhaps the most hideous -hospital in existence. Or the good Sydney people would like -to decorate their Post-office with emblematic sculpture, and the -result is, what has at last become, the mockery of a Continent. -And at last, too, the Picture Gallery at Melbourne is coming -into disrepute, and some day, perhaps, the Government House -will do the same. It would be pleasant, I think, to see it -turned into an asylum. No nation that calls itself civilized -stands in more need of Culture, of the best that has been -thought and known in the world, in each and every branch of -it, than Australia does. Some faint perception of this seems -positively to be beginning to dawn upon its complacency. Let -us do all we can to forward this. “The Australians,” said an -Australian to me the other day, “are much more fond of -beautiful things than the English.” “Alas,” I answered, -“that is not saying much, but I have not yet remarked it.” -No, the one commendable wish that the Australians have, is -that they really do want the best article in things, and for the -best article they are ready to pay. The unfortunate thing is, -that there seems nothing in which they are yet qualified to -know the best article when they see it! “We want fine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span> -pictures,” say the Victorians, and they are befooled by -ship-loads of London tea-trays, which no one but members of -Assembly and the wives of tradespeople and squatters would -take for anything else.—And yet, how is it possible for me to -continue to pile up anathemas like this against these Australians -for whom I hope so much, unless it be that I think in -this way to do the little best I can towards helping to the -realization of my hopes? But this is an old tale now, and we -will say no more of it.</p> - -<p>In every aspect of life, then, from its highest to its lowest, -let us remember this idea of Culture, let us make for the best -article, and be secure in its possession. The other day a Melbourne -lady was saying to me how pretty and charming a place -the Fitzroy Gardens were as a public park. “But the brown -plaster statues,” I said, “and the concrete water-shrines.” -And this Melbourne lady frankly declared her allegiance to -these things, and, when in my disagreeable unsatisfied way I -began to compare them with the marble copies from the -Antique which are to be seen in the Inner Domain and -Botanical Gardens in Sydney, she frankly told me that <i>after all</i> -it was only <i>a matter of opinion</i>, and <i>my</i> opinion was this and -<i>hers</i> was that! “And so,” I said, “my dear lady, it is, <i>after -all</i>, only <i>a matter of opinion</i> whether the Apollo of the Belvidere -or the Venus of Milo is more beautiful or less beautiful -than the statue of Burke and Wills in Collins Street, not to -say the brown-plaster statues in the Fitzroy Gardens?” And -then this Melbourne lady, who had read many novels and -magazines, and several volumes of sermons and even popular -“philosophy books,” maintained her original assertion with the -charming assurance of her sex; and I could only think that it -was a pity she had not Culture—did not know the best, or -even the second or third best, of what has been known and -thought in the world in the matter of sculptural beauty, for then -she would not have helped to persuade her husband to vote for -the erection of any more brown-plaster statues and concrete -water-shrines in the public places of his city. But, as it is, I -am so thankful that the Sydney people have decorated one of -their public places with really fine marble copies from the -Antique (which none of these Australians, with their superior -love for beautiful things has yet, so far as I am aware, thought of -defacing), that I wonder at myself for thinking of saying it is a -pity to see beside these so many poor modern and perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span> -colonial products; for who can be wise—do I say in an -hour, in a day, in a year, in a life-time? nay, rather, in a -generation? Certainly not the architects and public decorators -of Australia. Let us be thankful for what we have -got, and diligently go on showing our thankfulness by asking -for more.</p> - -<p>But no; the time has passed when silly people can say that -silliness is, <i>after all</i>, only a <i>matter of opinion</i>—or, if it has not -passed, then we ought all of us to be striving our utmost to -make it be passed. Culture is possible to so many! Its text-books -are no longer in the hands of the incompetent: we have -really no excuse for thinking Mr. Martin Tupper is preferable -as a poet to Lord Tennyson, or Miss Eliza Cook to Mr. -Arnold; and I will confess that I look with suspicion on the -intellectual attainments of a man who sees no difference in the -<i>opinion</i> of Darwin or Professor Huxley and of the popular -Theologians and Mr. Lilly. Look, I say, at the text-books of -Culture now, of the best which has been known and thought -in the world. We have all seen Professor Huxley’s little primer -of Physiology. Well, that is for Science. Then there is Mr. -Stopford Brooke’s little primer of English Literature. That is -for Literature; and these are only examples. Really, now, we -<i>have</i> no excuse for reading the wrong books and thinking the -wrong thoughts any more. And we have not, either, to -confine ourselves to the thought of our own language. Everywhere -excellent translations of noteworthy works are to be -found. We would get to know something of the literature of -Greece? At the end of Mr. Jebbs’ excellent little primer of -Greek Literature, we shall find a list of the best translations. -We have heard people talking of Professor Haeckel and his -wonderful physiological work? Good translations of his best-known -books are to hand. And so on throughout the whole -domain of thought.</p> - -<p>Let us sum up and conclude. We see, then, I think, what -Culture is, and what is the purpose and system which should -form and guide it. There is only one thing more to say about -it, and that is that Culture, in this sense of the word, is the -distinct product of our own times. No other country at no -other time possessed it. The Jews possessed an unrivalled -insight into Religion, into the sense of Righteousness. It is to -a Jew that we owe most of what is best in Religion. Indeed, -to the great majority of us his name is still a synonyme for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span> -Religion. But Righteousness is not the sole necessity of life—there -is also Beauty. “Beauty,” says Keats,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“beauty is truth, truth beauty: this is all</div> - <div class="verse indent0">ye know on earth or that ye need to know.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">But Keats, we remember, was a Pagan, a modern Greek, and -men like this are quite as apt to think that Beauty is “the one -thing needful” as the other stamp of man is to think that -Righteousness is “the one thing needful;” whereas the real -fact is that both are needful. What an advantage, then, have -we over both Jews and Greeks in our appreciation of this! At -the best, it is not possible to look upon either Paul or Plato as -exponents of anything final. It requires two wings to soar -with, and who can think that this “ugly little Jew,” as M. -Renan has it, who talked nonsense about an Art which at -best seemed to him mostly diabolical, was dowered with two? -Nor yet can we think this of that “high Athenian gentleman,” -as Carlyle retorts, with his illustrious Master who would have -been so “terribly at ease in Zion.” Let us recognize it at -once: the Jews are great and the Greeks are great, but neither -of them by themselves can satisfy us. Nay, further; to the -sense of Righteousness and Beauty must now be added that -sense which Bacon first brought with any fertility to us—the -sense of Science. “And we,” says Arnold,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“and we have been on many thousand lines,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and we have shown, in each, spirit and power.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">And it is just from the combination of the results of our -spirit and power on these many thousand lines that this -Culture of ours, this unique product of our times, springs. It -was not before this possible. How could Paul understand the -Greek Art? how could Plato have understood the Hebrew -Righteousness? It was not till the Renascence, till Shakspere, -that such a thing was possible, and it was not till Modernity, -till Goethe, that it was possible to find these two senses, the -sense of Beauty and of Righteousness, united to that third -great sense, the sense of Science. I do not say that our age -is necessarily a peculiarly great age: you may call it the dwarf -on the giant’s shoulders, if you please; but what I do say is, -that it is the first age which has been able to attain to anything -like a really comprehensive Culture, a knowledge of the best -that has been known and thought in the world. Possibly -we are only on the threshold of Truth: possibly it will be left -to another age to work out and complete what we have but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span> -begun; but this I think is certain: We <i>are</i> on the threshold, -and the sooner we realize it, the sooner shall we realize that -we are men in whom it is incumbent to put off childish -things, the sooner shall we advance into the palace and very -home.</p> - -<p>Ah, then, let us no longer content ourselves with anything less -than the best article! Let us live for the Idea of Culture, for -and by it—for the best that has been thought and known in -the world! Let us, too, like Goethe, resolve to wean ourselves -from halves, from partial and prejudiced views of -things, and to live “<i>im Ganzen, Guten, Schönen</i>”—“for the -Whole, the Good, the Beautiful!”</p> - -<p class="right"><i>December, 1885.</i></p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/deco2.jpg" width="400" height="225" alt="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="DAWNWARDS">“DAWNWARDS:”<br /> -<span class="smaller">AN AUSTRALIAN DIALOGUE.</span></h2> - -</div> - -<h3 id="DAWNWARDS_INTRO">INTRODUCTION.</h3> - -<p>Horace Gildea was the grandson of one of those self-reliant -energetic men of the English upper Middle-class, who at an -early period of life conceive a particular ambition, and devote -themselves wholly to the successful achievement of it. Edward -Gildea, the man in question, desired, or we may even say intended, -to possess both wealth and position, and he was, as the -expression goes, still young (between forty and fifty years of -age, that is) when his intentions were fulfilled. A baronetcy -was conferred on him by a grateful Conservative government: -his marriage with the only daughter of Lord Mainwaring had -already brought him a considerable amount of landed -property; and now, having bought more, he retired from the -troublous and busy world to the “easeful dignity” of the life -of a rich and respected English country magnate. Our Aristocracy -is adaptive (here, indeed, lies its strength, as compared, -for instance, with that of France): it will enrol among its -members of to-day an outgrowth of the Middle-class, upper and -lower, professional or trading, with the same ready complacency -with which it enrolled among its members of yesterday the -offspring of some poor royal amour or other; and this is not -surprising, when we perceive how little difference there is, -intellectually speaking, between the three classes. The aristocratic -ideal in England does not, or did not, soar much -higher than grouse to shoot, land to shoot them on, and -savoury cooking to eat them with; and the aristocratic ideal is, -with slight modifications, the ideal of the country at large. In -one generation the Gildeas were counted among, what is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span> -called, the best people. The two sons of Sir Edward were -educated at public schools and Oxford and Cambridge, and -passed, the one into parliament, the other into the Diplomatic-service, -where neither distinguished themselves. Horace -Gildea, too, an only child, was sent to a public school and -Oxford, and with the same result. At Oxford, however, -although he did nothing more, educationally, than take his -degree, he did not spend his time in mere amusement. -Thanks to the friendship of Sir James Gwatkin, the well-known -æsthetic critic, Gildea learned to appreciate the delights of that -wonderful modern production which we call Culture. He had -sufficient knowledge of Greek and Latin to enter into the -spirit of their art and poetry, and he learned French, German, -and Italian in the pleasant sexual manner prescribed by Byron. -He travelled more or less all over Europe, “living and loving -largely,” but (unlike Byron) saved from that excess whose -inevitable fruit is satiety, by the talisman with which Sir James -had dowered him. Gildea had, too, what the Romans called -<i>curiositas</i>. The merely physical ideal of the English viveur -did not satisfy him: he used to say that, if he was to be a -blackguard, he should like to be a fine blackguard, and how -can you be a fine blackguard if you know nothing but what -can be known by any fool that can pay for it?</p> - -<p>Several years after the death of his father, Gildea, living a -life of considerable enjoyment between the pleasures of the -countries and the capitals of Europe, began to perceive that, -after all, his talisman was not omnipotent: it could not lay, it -could only distance, that ancient spectre which he now for the -first time learned to face, if not to dread, Satiety. At this point, -however, Fortune, whose child he seemed, came to the rescue: -he fell in love. The best definition of love is, perhaps, the -care of someone else more than yourself, and (the passionate -would add) than anything. Gildea, then, did indeed fall in -love; but as his care for himself or for anything was not very -great, it cannot be said that he fell in love deeply. But -Fortune, having given him a spell with which to once more -distance the ancient spectre, now deserted him. The lady he -loved did not love him in return: her friendship—and friendship -from so sweet and passionate a nature as hers was of a -somewhat intense character, partaking more of the warm sunlight -than the clear moonlight—her friendship she eagerly gave -to him, but her love was, past recall, given to someone else.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span> -On the day on which he first realized this, Gildea, who had -hoped otherwise, left England in his little yacht the “Petrel,” -alone. He had intended visiting the east with her, returning by -Naples, Rome, and Paris, with many sweet years, nomadic or -otherwise, in the radiant future. Now he was quite careless -where he went: for the first time in his life he knew what it -was to feel miserable. The loss of this woman was a loss from -himself. He felt a void in his soul, in his future. “And yet,” -he used to tell himself, “she was not ‘the twin soul that -halved my own:’ we should not have made perfect lovers, -passionate, deep, abiding! None the less do I—or did I—long -for her. She is the most beautiful soul I have yet seen, -or probably shall ever see. Who would not straightway go and -sell all that he had to possess her?—and willingly chance the -rest!”</p> - -<p>A violent storm caught the “Petrel” as she was about halfway -down the Bay of Biscay, and hurried her past Gibraltar. -When Gildea perceived this, and was asked by his skipper if -they should put back, he kept silence for a moment. Then, -looking up with an amused smile, said:</p> - -<p>“No, Barry. We’ll go straight on to Madeira for provisions—from -thence to St. Helena, and then double the Cape and -make for Australia.”</p> - -<p>Gildea had not been to Australia: it was one of the few -places in the world to which he had not been. He might, he -thought now, as well go there as anywhere. Several things in -Australia interested him, and this was enough reason to make -him, in his present state, care to go.</p> - -<p>One bright, showery november afternoon, then, the “Petrel” -passed Port Phillip Heads: was piloted up the harbour to -Port Melbourne pier, and Gildea disembarked. He knew one -person in Melbourne, and only one, Charles Maddock. -Maddock, and his father before him, had been friends of the -Gildea family. Maddock was some fifteen years older than -Gildea, whom he had known well as a boy at Katharinasbury, -he himself at that time being in the midst of his brilliant -scholastic career at Cambridge. Almost immediately after his -ordination, Maddock came out to a high ecclesiastical position in -Australia. It had been the wish of his life to work in one of the -Pacific Colonies, and now his wish was fulfilled. The appointment -of one so young to the post he had at first held, had -caused a little murmuring both at home and in the Colony, it<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span> -being known that he was possessed of the highest influence; but -the murmuring had soon passed into pleasant greeting, and was -now swelled to a regular chorus of applause from friends, foes, -and indifferent alike. Maddock had great charm of manner: -he was a more or less refined scholar, yet was not lacking in -that spiritual robustness which goes so far to make up what is -called a personality. It would not be too much to say that he -was the most popular man in the colony. Society delighted in -the gentleman: the outer world in the man, and both were -right, for (here was the secret!) he sympathized with both.</p> - -<p>Gildea on his arrival took up his abode at an hotel until he -saw rooms that pleased him, and began, after his fashion, to -examine the city and its inhabitants. He went everywhere and -saw everything, happy to find that his <i>curiositas</i> was not after -all dead in him. Pleasure, in the sense of <i>living</i>, is in Melbourne -but, what Tennyson says of the pleasure of London, -“gross mud-honey,” and had not much attraction to one who -had been through the best specimens thereof in London, Paris, -New York, and Vienna. Gildea, however, if he did not go -through it here, mingled with it as an amused half-spectator -half-actor, seeking out its meaning as regards this dawning -civilization which was interesting him just at present. He -fell in with Sydney Medwin, a squatter’s son and ex-Cambridge -undergraduate, whom he had known by repute as an inter-university -runner and would-be rake, and they spent some -pleasant days together. Medwin’s father wished him to take to -station work, but Medwin, having tasted the “gross mud-honey” -of London, Paris, and the Continent generally, was -doggedly determined to do no such thing.</p> - -<p>“Damn it all,” he said once in his half-acute way to Gildea, -“there’s quite enough money made already in the family, and -now it’s time to spend it. If my governor had wanted me to -look after sheep, he shouldn’t have sent me to Europe.”</p> - -<p>Europe was to Medwin—to Medwin held down by his -inexorable “governor” to an allowance and a place in the home -establishment—a sort of far-off beautiful dream which had -once to a certain extent been his and, he feared, would never -be his again. His life was reckless: he was knowingly doing -his best to spoil a fine constitution by his excesses, and looked -forward to death within ten or fifteen years with stupid stoicism.</p> - -<p>After a little Gildea thought that he would like to see something -of colonial society, social and intellectual, and presented<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span> -himself to Maddock. Maddock knew the Medwins well, and -even Sydney Medwin who, in his unreflective way, had a great -respect for him.</p> - -<p>“The governor,” Medwin said once to Gildea, “the -governor has ruined my life! I had an ambition—I was -<i>ambitious</i>; yes, I was <i>ambitious</i>! But I had to keep it dark! -I can’t argue about it, you know: I haven’t thought for -years, and now I can’t. But if Christianity’s good enough -for Maddock, it’s good enough for me. I believe in Maddock.”</p> - -<p>Accordingly, whenever Maddock was to be met at the -Medwins’, Sydney Medwin was to be seen listening attentively -to everything the Doctor said, trying to think, trying to understand, -the look of intelligence varying on his face with the look -of puzzlement.</p> - -<p>“A fuddled intelligence,” said Gildea once, smiling and -laughing; “now he’ll be off and get drunk with one of his -girls at Dicks’.” (Dicks’ was a private hotel where “the set,” -as Medwin and his friends called themselves, often met for the -purposes of recreation.)</p> - -<p>Maddock was very pleased to meet Gildea again, and during -the next month they saw much of each other. Gildea mingled -with the Colonial society as he had mingled with the outer -world, but with less interest. The Colonial outer world is at -any rate original: it does not imitate, it <i>is</i>. Colonial society, on -the other hand, imitates and imitates badly. It is a case of the -new wine in the old bottles. The young people wish to break -away from all the old social convenances and bien-séances: -they have almost a contempt for the old people; but the old -people rule, and their rule is as yet too strong to be openly disobeyed. -The young people, therefore, lack social self-reliance: -they have no distinctive “style” of their own as in America. -“Indeed,” as Medwin used to say, “no one <i>has</i> any style out -here, except the people at Government House.—And they,” he -would add, admiringly, “look down upon us all as louts.” The -young people, then, feel their ideas of happiness to be frail, -immature: pleasure is not, as in the European capitals, provided -for them; they must provide it for themselves. Pleasure, -however, is their aim, and pleasure, so soon as they rule in -their turn, they will have. The question is whether this -pleasure is to be “mud-honey”—“mud-honey” with its grossness -drained somewhat, but still “mud-honey”—or whether<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span> -that wonderful modern production which we call Culture is -going to intervene and complicate matters.</p> - -<p>Gildea soon wearied of a society in such a painful state of -transition. Having arrived at these conclusions on its tendencies, -or what he took to be its tendencies, the painfulness of -it began to afflict him. At the same time his interest in the -problem of this small social hot-house did not, somewhat to -his surprise, show signs of leaving him.</p> - -<p>One evening, at a large ball, he had been dancing and -talking with a singularly bright and intelligent girl, who had -pleased him by herself expressing her consciousness of this -state of social transition of theirs, and ascribing the true reasons -for it. They sat out several dances together, he enjoying her -talk as that of a clever child, she with her woman’s vanity -pleased to be monopolizing the most distinguished man in the -room, and also glad of his mental appreciation of her. He -half lay in a low chair beside her, looking at her with smiling -eyes and smiling lips, amused. She was a little excited, just -enough to give extra brilliance to her words and acts. She was -not speaking to him alone: she was aware of the audience of -guests, all of whom, she felt, were noticing her, and some -catching parts of the conversation. He, who read her soul as -if it were transparent, became more and more amused as she -proceeded, and by an occasional movement helped her out with -the impression he saw she wished to give her friends, namely, -that he was more or less entranced by her. The thought of -taking her to Paris and introducing her to its society, of -watching her intense capacities of social pleasure expanding -there in their natural atmosphere, occurred to him and pleased -him. He had arrived at that spiritual state when much of our -pleasure is in watching the pleasure of other people.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said at last, “and do you not find yourself -lonely here, with all these wonderful ideas of yours, Miss -Shepherd? All the other Melbourne young ladies do not, -surely, participate in them?”</p> - -<p>She was not quite sure for a moment whether he was -mocking at her or not; but, looking at his face, decided in the -negative.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “I <i>am</i> lonely—rather. The other girls -want to see things. They want to go to Europe—London, -Paris, and all that. But they say it’s such a bother, and -they’ve no memory. They don’t know <i>what</i> they want: they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span> -only know that they don’t want what they’ve got.—But I—,” -she added, turning to him, and catching her lower lip lightly -with her pretty visible teeth, one hand on her knee closing -slightly.</p> - -<p>“But you?”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> want to—<i>live</i>!”</p> - -<p>A pause.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” he said, “that means that some day you will want to -die.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay! But I shall have lived <i>first</i>!—This Melbourne -is just waking up. I wish, O I wish I had not come into it till -it was awake!”</p> - -<p>“You would like to go to Paris, then?”</p> - -<p>“Paris!” (She stopped breathing.)—“O that,” she said, -looking at him again, “is simply heaven!”</p> - -<p>“How do you know that, Miss Shepherd?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I have read it! I have read all Alphonse Daudet’s -novels, and a lot of Balzac’s.”</p> - -<p>As Gildea strolled through the warm night streets, smoking a -cigar, he thought of her again for a moment, and laughed to -himself.</p> - -<p>“The one Parisienne I have met out of Paris,” he said to -himself, “She is of the tribe of the fine steel-pearl mangeuses -who rend life with their dear little white teeth for the pleasure -of rending. She should have been born in a concierge’s lodge, -with a future in ermine—and the Morgue. And yet she is -better than the mere mangeuse: she has intelligence. She has -to thank Australia for that. For a month, or even two, she -would be supportable—but the “Petrel” would take three to -get her to Naples, perhaps, and it would be more trouble to -loose her and let her go then than now.”</p> - -<p>He had been strolling about the streets for more than an -hour. He was not quite sure where he was. He stopped for -a moment to look about him. A short well-moulded figure in -a close dress and a poke bonnet passed him and turned down a -narrow street ten or twelve yards ahead. He threw away his -cigar.</p> - -<p>“Janet,” he said to himself, “sweet child! And she recognized -me and went on.”</p> - -<p>Janet, a Salvation Army “lass,” going down into the Little -Bourke Street slums had indeed recognised him. The figure -of a man, in a light overcoat open in front showing that he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span> -was in evening dress, was remarkable enough, to have attracted -anyone’s attention there. She had looked up for a moment: -caught a glimpse of his face and, with a wild throbbing -heart and quivering lips, hurried by, and on, and away. -Gildea’s investigations into the social condition of the place -had made him many unexpected friends. Here was one who -was something more than a friend, a lover, and he knew it.</p> - -<p>“I am sick of it,” he said to himself, almost bitterly, “I -will go away. I want change.”</p> - -<p>At about five o’clock that morning Sir Horace Gildea was -rowed aboard of the “Petrel,” which passed out of the Heads -a little after one, and turned to the east, making for Sydney.</p> - -<h3 id="DAWNWARDS_I">I.</h3> - -<p>It was about eleven o’clock in the morning of a day late in -april. The sun shone with bright warmth, a fresh breeze -blowing in from the sea. Great deep masses of cloud, -luminous-white or here and there shaded with that slaty black -which denotes incipient rain, were moving in the blue vault of -the heavens. Gildea was descending the steps of the entrance -to St. Mary’s Cathedral, accompanied by a young man of about -his own age. At the foot of the steps they both paused.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Gildea with a look, “You will be at my rooms -in time for lunch, you say?”</p> - -<p>The other nodded, and, in a few moments, saluting one -another with a movement of the hand, they parted. The -young man went with a quick firm step in the direction of St. -James’ Church, while Gildea sauntered across the road into -the Domain. He was thinking of the young man, Francis -Fitzgerald, a young Jesuit whom he had met years ago at a -seaside place in the south of France, and who, as he said, for -the sake of his health, had come out on a voyage to Australia.</p> - -<p>“It is wonderful,” said Gildea to himself, “how quickly and -thoroughly the religious bodies are waking up to the intellectual -necessities of the time. Romans—Anglicans—Lutherans, -and even Calvinists are sucking lustily at the two paps of the -Modern Spirit which we call Science and Culture. It is the -instinct of self-preservation. If they do not suck they will -starve. But ah, how many of us are cross-tempered enough to -prefer to starve rather than imbibe the milk of a cross-tempered -mother!” He looked up with a fine smile, suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span> -realizing his humour of thought. “I am quite serious,” he -said to himself, the smile deepening and broadening, lighting -up his face with amusement, “which shows how adaptive I -am. Really now, I listened to Fitzgerald’s hopes and beliefs -in the future of Romanism with quite as much interest as if I -were a Romanist myself. I can quite conceive of myself -taking very considerable pains to forward a cause in which -somebody else believed. This surely was the central idea of -my attachment to Olivia Bruce? I used to think I should be -quite satisfied to live the life of a poet in that of my poetess? -So far, this power of living your own life in the life of one -you love has been a female gift. And indeed I have -often thought that I should have been better as a woman. I -can quite imagine myself as Lady Bellfield or d’Israeli’s -delightful Berengaria; whereas now, I am but an aimless -wanderer on the face of an aimless planet, a pilgrim without a -shrine.”</p> - -<p>He walked on half-thoughtful half-amused, till he had -crossed the Domain and found himself opposite the Picture -Gallery and the Botanical Gardens. He entered the gardens, -and was proceeding down one of the walks when, some fifteen -yards before him, he beheld a well-known figure. It was -Maddock, Maddock standing at the side of the walk, observing -a plant through his pince-nez with serene interest. Gildea -came up to him with pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Doctor,” he said, “you here! This is a surprise!”</p> - -<p>They shook hands: greeted one another, and exchanged -health notes both of themselves and Mrs. Maddock, as they -went on down the walk together, the Doctor rubbing his -glasses with his silk handkerchief and keeping step.</p> - -<p>“The truth is, my dear fellow,” he said, his head up and -moving from side to side as he drew into himself the enjoyment -of the fine morning air and scene, “the truth is, I am -here for a holiday—or rather, for half a holiday. Sydney is a -favourite place of mine.—But,” he added in his humorous -confidential way, “you know I don’t care for the <i>people</i>! They -are not in earnest enough! I would sooner, I believe, have an -earnest atheist than a lukewarm orthodox man. Isn’t it your -friend Renan who says somewhere, that the atheist has an idea -of things, a quite inadequate idea, it is true, but still an idea, -whereas ‘the average sensual man’ has none?—or something -to that effect.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span></p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Gildea, “he says so; and he adds elsewhere -that ‘atheism is one sense the grossest of anthropomorphisms. -The atheist sees justly that God does not act in this world -after the manner of man; hence he concludes that he does not -exist; he would believe if he beheld a miracle—in other -words, if God acted as a finite force with a determinate object -in view.’”</p> - -<p>“That is good,” said Maddock, “I did not give Renan -credit for saying such a thing.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Gildea, “you have never got much further in -Biblical criticism than the Germans. Strauss satisfies you as -the great <i>Against</i>, and poor Westcott as the gigantic <i>For</i>!”</p> - -<p>They both laughed.</p> - -<p>“Come, come,” said Maddock, “you must not poke fun at -me!”</p> - -<p>“It is impossible,” Gildea answered, “to poke fun at an -ecclesiastic who calls Heine ‘a great poet and brilliant philosopher.’”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you have been reading my last polemic, I see?—Yes, -you <i>must</i> have been reading it; for no newspaper man would -ever think of quoting an opinion like that.”</p> - -<p>“I have been reading it with admiration and wonder: admiration -at its excellence as polemical work, and wonder that -you should take the trouble to castigate a production which -you yourself declare to be, as a contribution to theological -knowledge, utterly useless.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but did I not explain myself? The book is fundamentally -vicious. It confirms the shallow heterodox in their -heterodoxy, the shallow orthodox in their orthodoxy. It gives -forth light to no one and darkness to everyone. Progress in -foolishness and stupidity, that is all that it signalises; the -foolishness of ‘go-aheadism,’ the stupidity of re-action. I have -no patience with a man of presumable intelligence who could -write such a book.”</p> - -<p>“But do you not think that your attack on it will only, by -bringing it into public notice, increase its powers of mischief?”</p> - -<p>“I hope not. I hope that I have sufficiently laid bare its -gross ignorance of the subject of which it treats to bring it into -that contempt whose fruit is oblivion.”</p> - -<p>“In England—in London or in any country or capital -where there is a large intellectual life—this might be so. But -am I not right, Doctor, in believing that this Victorian<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span> -Melbourne of yours is a place where pure intellectual life -scarcely exists? You have the mass of intelligent money-makers -who care, or who do not care, for things (I will not say religious -but) sectarian. Then there are those who care for things -political; but where will you find any number of men who aim -at making their life the purely intellectual life? They are all -partizans here. When, therefore, you attack a Rationalist like -Judge Parker, all the Rationalists rally round him, just as the -orthodox rally round you; and the result is, as the <i>Argus</i> says, -a boxing match, wherein the great thing is to at all price shout -down their man and shout up your own. Truth turns away -in disgust from such an exhibition of blind deaf bawling -partizanary. These men are not of the sort that are open to -reason: you cannot lay bare to such as these the gross -ignorance or perfect science of their champion; they will only -hiss or applaud as you blame or praise him. I may be wrong: -my observation of your so-called intelligent public, is, you -know, necessarily but small.”</p> - -<p>Maddock kept silence with rumpled brows. At last:</p> - -<p>“I do not know,” he said, “that you are not, after all, to a -large degree right. We are very narrow here. A thing done -in the street is done in the city, and indeed in the whole -country!”</p> - -<p>“And am I not right in thinking that the only two native -subjects, which are capable of arousing public interest and -curiosity here, are those which appeal to the two portions of -your mass of intelligent money-makers—things pertaining to -business, and things sectarian?”</p> - -<p>The Doctor suddenly regained his humour.</p> - -<p>“Are,” he said, the deep humorous smile playing about his -mouth, “are all the fashionable young men who come out here -in yachts as acute observers as you, Sir Horace?—But I object -to your word sectarian: you should say religious. I am quite -ready to admit that (to put it as a Melbourne printer put it to -me the other day) the only subject that will pay for book-printing -here is Religion, and Religion, alas, in its polemical -aspect. But I cannot look upon this, as you seem to do, as a -great misfortune. I—I ... well, I may say <i>candidly</i>, that -I rather <i>like</i> a bit of polemics now and then, and the shouts of -the men round the ropes do not altogether disgust me, as of -course” (his eyebrows went up) “they ought to do! No, I do -not look upon that purely intellectual life of yours as by any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span> -means the ideal for us to aim at. It smacks too much of -dilettantism for <i>me</i>!”</p> - -<p>Gildea smiled.</p> - -<p>“Dear Doctor,” he said, “we all know that you prefer a -climate where the sky is not always a cloudless vault of blue -insipidity. The sound and feel of a buffeting wind is pleasant -to you. As I said just now, you prefer Strauss to Renan, and -the good secular Saint Matthew Arnold finds small favour in -your eyes. Now too that you are taking to science, I expect -every day to hear you tell us Cuvier was a greater man than -Darwin, and that Huxley is an impudent young amphioxus that -has no place beside the dignity of our dear old behemoth, -Owen.”</p> - -<p>“Now I really won’t let you poke fun at me,” said the -Doctor, “I really won’t! The next thing is, that you will -be saying something rude about Professor Mosley and his -“Ruling Ideas in Early Ages,” and scoffing at my idea of -having some of his essays reproduced in our <i>Daily Telegraph</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, Doctor, I will not do that. Even Mosley’s essays -are better than the sermons of the local ecclesiastics.”</p> - -<p>“You are very impudent,” said Maddock, his face all beaming, -“to call me a local ecclesiastic! I shall have to get you -to write a pamphlet on my review of ‘Religionless Religion,’ so -as to be able to denounce you <i>ex cathedra</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Well, I should very much like to do so, only ... you -know my cowardice: I cannot write——”</p> - -<p>“Even letters to your best friends, to explain that you have -only gone off to sea at an hour’s notice, and are not, as they -anxiously expected, drowned, or murdered and secreted in -some hole in the slums.”</p> - -<p>“I prostrated myself in apology to Mrs. Maddock.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, in over a week! As for Dr. Maddock, of course -such a casual acquaintance as <i>he</i> could not expect.... Ah, -you are a quite too eccentric young man, Sir Horace! I wish -you were well married, with a definite aim in life. Someday -one of your wild freaks will end you, and then, what, what -will have been the result of those great abilities with which -God has gifted you?—Now,” proceeded the Doctor, “this is -not an extract from the <i>Daily Telegraph</i> sermon corner, but -only the expression of the affectionate anxiety of one who -hopes you will allow him to call himself your true friend.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span></p> - -<p>Gildea kept silence for a moment. Talk of this sort only -served to show him how completely his real inner view of -things was unknown to his companion, and so the idea of -making an answer did not occur to him: he felt how useless it -would be. Then he genially thanked the Doctor for his -friendship and its kind wishes, and added lightly:</p> - -<p>“You ask what will be the result of, as you are pleased to -say, those great abilities with which God has gifted me. The -result (you perceive it) will be nothing; but, Doctor, what, let -me ask you, in a hundred years will be the result of those great -abilities with which God has gifted <i>you</i>? In the hundred and -first year we shall start equal; and I, who have not a belief in -a personal God and a personal immortality as <i>you</i> have, find -the whole matter, I confess, rather absurd! This would -not probably have been so always. If I had lived in the days -when action indeed contained the highest stakes of life, I -should have played for them; but, as it is, the highest stakes -now belong to the thinker, the writer, and I—I cannot write ... -even letters! I, like all my contemporaries, am more or less -under the sad dominion of the perception of, what Leopardi -calls, the ‘infinita vanità del tutto,’ but, unlike the best of -them, I have no care for the only immortality we have left, the -immortality of Art or Science. I think of the hundred, or -thousand, or million and first year, and find myself smiling.”</p> - -<p>Gildea was soliloquising, Maddock forgotten. He had, then, -after all, drifted into making the answer, the idea of making -which had, by reason of its clear uselessness, not occurred to -him; and yet he had not made it to Maddock, but to himself. -Maddock, indeed, did not altogether understand it, but the -feeling of it, the belief that inspired it, he felt and hastened to -reply to. He laid his hand gently on Gildea’s arm, bringing -him to a pause, and said simply:</p> - -<p>“<i>Look!</i>”</p> - -<p>They had come down as far as Farm Cove—skirted it, -turning off along Lady Macquarie’s Walk—then mounted up -onto the drive, and, having passed by the Chair, were now -standing on the brow of the slope with an open view of -Garden Island (Clark Island being hidden), the harbour, and -the woody hills behind it. Great deep masses of cloud, -luminous-white or here and there shaded with that slaty black -which denotes incipient rain, were moving in the blue vault of -the heavens. Light and shade lay everywhere in alternate<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span> -streaks or patches. One round piece of water to the left was -like a burnished blazing mirror of steel. Other parts were -blue, gray, or dark, reflecting the cloud-colours above them. -The anchored ships rose and fell gently, their flags fluttering. -A steamer came stealing out of one of the harbour arms into -the open. The only sounds of life were the far-off hammer-strokes -of the builders, the occasional cry of the white fleeting -sea-gulls, the striking of a ship’s bells, the cricket humming at -their feet.</p> - -<p>“And,” Maddock said, in his deep voice of earnestness, “in -the face of such a scene as this—the free glory of nature so -great and so glad, the wonderful toil and effort and happiness -of mankind—you will say to yourself: ‘<i>There is no soul in me, -for there is no God to give it!</i>’ Ah, my dear Sir Horace, you -surprise and grieve me! Are you not—you, oh heavens, <i>you</i>!—at -heart an atheist? are you not guilty of that grossest of -anthropomorphisms yourself?”</p> - -<p>Gildea smiled, a fine sweet smile of sadness that made even -the strong steady heart of his companion turn faint for a -moment and sick. There was something so absolutely -inevitably hopeless, as it seemed to Maddock, in this strange -soul that he saw before him, now for the first time laid bare. -Here was a patient for which the physician felt he had no -power of healing or even alleviation. What view of christian -faith and hope and love did not this strange soul know? -Maddock, for the first time in his life, felt himself in the -presence of one, the breadth and depth and height of whose -spiritual experience encompassed him like an ocean. The -words of remonstrance died on his lips: exhortation lay lifeless -in him: silence and sorrow possessed him. He turned away -with a heavy sigh, a sigh which was the unconscious acknowledgment -to himself that life and death, time and eternity, -man and God, could indeed be read in two diametrically -different ways. For the first time in his life he realized the -truth of “the Everlasting No” in a human soul greater than -his own.</p> - -<p>They walked on together for a little in silence. Then -Gildea said as simply and naturally as if nothing unusual had -happened:</p> - -<p>“Now, Doctor, tell me will you come and have lunch with -me? Mrs. Maddock, you say, has shaken you off for the -sake of a long morning with Lady Whitfield, and why should<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span> -you not retort on her spinster’s déjeuner with a bachelor’s -lunch? I ought to have thought of it before.”</p> - -<p>The Doctor again suddenly regained his humour.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said, “I shall be charmed.”</p> - -<p>“Nay,” said Gildea, smiling, “but I must bid you pause a -moment, aimless dreamer that I am, and tell you who you will -meet there. Perhaps you will want your assent back again.”</p> - -<p>“Speak on,” said Maddock, “and, provided it is not some -one who will object to my smoking afterwards, I ... I don’t -think I shall!”</p> - -<p>“The guests, then, are three in number. Firstly, James -Alcock, who, they tell me, is the most secular and scientific -member of all the Australian Legislative Assemblies——”</p> - -<p>“Go on,” said Maddock.</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” Gildea said, “he reads Haeckel and swears by -no other prophet of Science. Pause before it is too late. -They say too that he sleeps every saturday and sunday with -Mill “On Liberty” under his pillow, and all Spencer’s -“Principles” strewed about the counterpane. He knew my -father years ago in England, and his heart warms towards -me as towards an incipient disciple.”</p> - -<p>“Secondly—”</p> - -<p>“Secondly, Francis Fitzgerald, a young man learned with all -the learning of the Egyptians; a pilgrim and devotee at that -simple west-England shrine which holds the Catholic pearl -beyond all price, John Henry Newman; a scholar of the -Parisian seminaries; a pupil of the inner Jesuit circle—”</p> - -<p>“Thirdly—”</p> - -<p>“Frank Hawkesbury, the young Australian poet; a Socialist, -delighting in Trades-Unions, Religious Revivals (the Salvation -Army is a hobby of his), and Secular Organizations with a -grand impartiality! Nay, it is even whispered that he had -dealings with Holden and the Irish and Continental Nihilists -two years ago in London. Our friend Mrs. Medwin almost -fainted when Sydney Medwin asked her if she would care to -know him.”</p> - -<p>“I have looked through one of the young man’s books of -poems,” Maddock said, serenely, “and rather liked them. -He is in earnest. Your lunch will be amusing.—It smacks -to me,” he added, with a touch of grimness in his humour, -“a little of those shows one sees now and then at the street-corners. -They call them, I believe, happy families.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span></p> - -<p>Gildea laughed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Doctor,” he said, “but what if the animals should -take to fighting? Alas, then, for the canaries and the mice, -who will be worried and eaten by the dogs and the cats.”</p> - -<p>“Which are who, or who are which?”</p> - -<p>“Let us say that Alcock is a dog, and Fitzgerald a canary.”</p> - -<p>“Then <i>you</i>, I suppose, are the mouse and <i>I</i> the cat? But -what is your young Australian poet to be? You have left him -out.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he will be a rabbit. You will see that he can -burrow. It is the forte of Socialists, burrowing.—Now,” -he proceeded, “we must go this way if we are to get to my -rooms in time. And as we go, will you let me first express -some tentative thoughts of mine, and then ask you a few -questions about your friend Mr. Parker and yourself?”</p> - -<p>“Ask on,” said Maddock, getting into step, “and I will do -my best to answer you.”</p> - -<h3 id="DAWNWARDS_II">II.</h3> - -<p>“It is about this little book of his,” Gildea said, with -slow reflectiveness, “‘Religionless Religion.’ I found it interesting.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed?” said Maddock, “As interesting as the production -of your dear continental sceptics?”</p> - -<p>“Well now,” Gildea said, in a tone that implied a certain -amount of candour, “to tell, what the French call, the true -truth, I was struck by several things both in it and in your -reply to it. I thought that it would have been difficult to have -found a more typical example of the average intelligent -secular view of theological Christianity than that of our good -Judge.”</p> - -<p>“I agree with you, and that was one of the reasons that -made me decide to attack it. It is typical.”</p> - -<p>“And, therefore, to anyone who is, though only as an -amateur, an observer of things contemporary, it is interesting. -Its very deficiencies will be instructive. Well, what I want -you to do, Doctor, if you will be so good, is to help me with -your superior knowledge of the things treated of to arrive at -the spiritual condition of the treater. Perhaps you will not -find the attempt too uninteresting, or....” He paused with a -movement of courtesy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span></p> - -<p>Maddock, who had a faint suspicion that Gildea was -mocking, half grumbled out humorously:</p> - -<p>“Go on, then! Qualify yourself as a psychologist, my dear -fellow, and then we will have a plunge into social metaphysics. -It is refreshing in a country where they are all partizans, and -Matthew Arnold and the purely intellectual life are not -appreciated. <i>Sic itur ad astra.</i> In the name of all the -lucidities, forward!”</p> - -<p>“In the first place, then, we have to notice, have we not, -that the little book is polemical, which, at any rate to the -amateur observer of things contemporary, detracts somewhat -from its historical value; for, after all, is not a polemist, to a -large extent a man who defends the delusions of his friends -against the delusions of his enemies, and leaves Truth, like the -proverbial pounds, to look after herself? But, if we always -remember to take off a percentage for the polemics, we need -not miss what it is that the polemist really means and feels?”</p> - -<p>“Πως γαρ οὐ?” said Maddock.</p> - -<p>“And the more easily, as our Parker is in earnest about, -what he calls, ‘his most serious and difficult task.’”</p> - -<p>“Forensic flourishes!”</p> - -<p>“—In earnest as far as suits the disposition of a theistic -polemist.”</p> - -<p>“—Microscopically, that is to say. The lawyer’s, and -especially the successful lawyer’s, habit of thought tends -towards earnestness as the sparks fly downwards.”</p> - -<p>“For the average lawyer’s habit of thought is perhaps the -most typical example of the average intelligent secular view of -things. Is it not the final fruit of what is called common-sense, -that is to say of the sense of common people? Our good -Judge more than once speaks of himself and his audience as -“persons of ordinary common-sense,” as opposed to “metaphysicians,” -and especially “ecclesiastical metaphysicians.” -He wants clear solid statements which his mind can see, and -as it were, touch and handle. He scoffs at all statements other -than these, looking upon them as at bottom sophistical. It -follows that, when he comes to criticise the Bible, he claims -the right to criticise it, not only with the same spirit, but with -the same manner, as he would criticise any other book. He -will not only look at it straight, fearlessly, logically, but he will -demand of its statements that they be clear and solid, that they -bear the ordinary interpretation of ordinary statements. He<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span> -will apply the same principles of examination to Moses and -Jesus as he would do to Blackstone or Chitty. And all the -secular persons of ordinary common-sense cry out: ‘Hear, -hear!’”</p> - -<p>“With the Judge,” said Maddock, “a metaphysician is a -man who examines the Bible by the aid of principles other than -those of one who is ignorant of all contemporary history save -that which the Bible gives him.”</p> - -<p>“The consequence of which is, that he is capable of such -a statement as, that ‘without question early Christianity was -far more free from paganism and from the taint of superstition -than the Christianity of our own time,’ and others of a -like force.”</p> - -<p>“He has no notion whatever of the philosophy of history—of, -what I call, the development of divine Truth.”</p> - -<p>“And yet he is contradictory enough, while asserting the -degradation of the Christian ideal, to lay much stress on the -development of Divine truth in a civilization that has, till -comparatively lately, been Christianic. Yes, he sees the -development of divine Truth, but he does not understand the -forms which that development has taken in Christianity. -The Trinity—the Atonement—the Deity of Christ—are to him -‘mere crude superstitions which disfigure and obscure pure -and true religion.’ It never seems to have occurred to him -that, although these doctrines may be empty formulæ to him, -they were and are passionate realities to others.”</p> - -<p>“That is very true.”</p> - -<p>“He will talk with the same ignorance of what he would -call Jesuolatry as a Protestant will of what he calls Mariolatry, -neither he nor the Protestant understanding any more of a deep -spiritual truth than its cut-and-dried dogmatical letter.” The -Doctor assented, though with a movement of slight qualification.</p> - -<p>“We agree at starting, then, that his criticism as that of an -historical Bible student does not exist. The authorities he -quotes are, as you point out in your Reply, ludicrous. They -culminate in his poor little some ‘celebrated Unitarian -minister’ or other, than whom the habit of thought of the -legal Biblical critic can, it is to be hoped, no further go! He -is too, we agree, careless and superficial even in his own style, -but we must not lay too much stress on individual cases of this -in the face of his request for ‘indulgence’ for his ‘doubtless -many imperfections here.’”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span></p> - -<p>“When a man speaks publicly of such a grave matter as religion,” -said Maddock, “he should <i>not</i> be careless, he should <i>not</i> be -superficial! We have a right to demand of those who make explosives, -that they, at any rate, do not smoke in the magazine.”</p> - -<p>“True; but, if we all got our deserts, who, you know, -should escape whipping? Certainly not the producers of -orthodox religious literature.”—(The Doctor, after a pause, -assented as before).—“Well, we will proceed further against -our good Judge, and say that his appreciation of what is, as he -says, ‘good and ennobling’ is ludicrously inadequate. What can -be said of a man who seriously speaks of Jesus, ‘when, in the -garden of Gethsemane, he went apart and prayed, three times -over, the same prayer to God, within a short period,’—of Jesus -thus ‘<i>doing that which he told his disciples not to do—“use not -vain</i> repetitions, <i>as the heathen do,” for the reason that your -heavenly Father knoweth what things ye have need of</i> before <i>ye</i> -ask <i>Him</i>.’ Habemus confitentem asinum! We can only burst -out laughing: a reply to such a statement is impossible! The -lawyer’s habit of thought is at its apogee, and (as Heine says) -‘<i>Gegen die Dummheit kämpfen wir Götter selbst vergebens.</i>’—Against -stupidity the very gods themselves struggle in vain.” -The Doctor assented smiling.</p> - -<p>“And statements similar to this are not scarce here. Our -good Judge, then, has not, it is clear, much experience of the -spiritual life, of those who live in the spirit. The ‘sudden -conversion of Paul,’ for instance, strikes him as one of the -(it is supposed) ‘improbabilities so forcible that no sane -<i>thinking</i> man or woman can accept’ the inspiration of the -Scriptures which relate them. Now, any one who knows -anything of human nature other than that of ‘persons of -ordinary common-sense,’ knows that such ‘sudden conversions’ -are not only not improbable, but passably frequent. -In some cases, as in that of Staniforth, quoted -by Arnold in his ‘St. Paul and Protestantism,’ the circumstances -approach so closely to those of Paul’s that we are -enabled to assign to them a definite place in the science of -psychology. Nor are our good Judge’s ‘errors,’ as you say, -exhausted yet. We have still to bring against him the charge -of, what Celsus calls, κουφοτης, and Arnold translates ‘want of -intellectual seriousness.’ So confused and incoherent is his -knowledge of the real position that the secular biblical critic -takes up, that he absolutely calls the position taken up by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span> -orthodox biblical critic (that is to say, biblical <i>critics</i> who are -orthodox; as, for instance, you yourself, my dear Doctor): he -absolutely calls this position critically ‘untenable,’ not perceiving -that it is his own only differing in degree!—This is -simply appalling! The κουφοτης of the Secularists is not a -whit better, after all, than that of the Christians!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Maddock, disregarding the last remark, “but -then you must remember that the Judge ‘does not intend to -resort to any process of subtle argument, nor to make any -display of scholastic knowledge, nor to indulge in learned disquisitions.’ -He merely writes ‘popular, clear, and simple’ -nonsense for ‘the doubter who is trying to grope his way to -the light, but cannot; to the Atheist who believes in nothing, -neither in a Supreme Power, nor in a future life.’ And your -secular ingratitude to him, Sir Horace, strikes me, I must -confess, as keener-toothed than the winter wind of orthodoxy!”</p> - -<p>“Doctor,” said Sir Horace, “you are poking fun at me! -But I, who am, as Shelley said of himself ‘rather serious’—I -proceed in my examination, whose sole confirmation as truth I -find in your words or gestures of approval. You will, I hope, -forgive me for any repetition I may make of your own criticism, -as a master should a humble disciple? It is only a proof of -attention and admiration.”</p> - -<p>“Go on,” said Maddock, “mocker!”</p> - -<p>“All these faults, then, which we have remarked in our good -Judge—his polemically; his ignorance of the grammar (or, -perhaps, as your Reply says, the alphabet) of historical -criticism; his ludicrously inadequate conception of the good -and the ennobling, of the spiritual calibre of such men as, for -instance, St. Paul; his superficial acquaintance with the data of -the subject of which it is treating; and, finally, his κουφοτης, -his want of intellectual seriousness—all these faults, are we not -agreed, are the faults of the average intelligent secular view, in -its negative consideration of Christian Theology? The question -that now arises is, has this view nothing but faults?—has -it no excellencies? Does there remain, after the attack on it -of so admirable a theological polemist as Dr. Maddock is, no -residuum of real and vital truth? Let us try and see.—To -begin with, did we not find that, despite a contradiction, our -good Judge perceived the reality of, what you so finely call, the -development of divine Truth?—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“<i>Yet I doubt not thro’ the ages one increasing purpose runs,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>and the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.</i>”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span></p> -<p>“No,” said Maddock, “I cannot grant him even that! A -faint glimmering of a thing cannot be called a perception. -Consider this very contradiction of his! Consider, again, his -unspeakably gross and ignorant treatment of the Old Testament -which he brands with blood-thirstiness and impurity. He -works by a rule of thumb. The higher spiritual mathematics -are mere names to him. He is—I must declare—too much -of a blockhead to ever rise beyond the spiritual Rule of -Three.”</p> - -<p>“I agree to a large extent, dear Doctor; but you will -admit, I think, that even the Rule of Three is not without its -use, without its real and vital truth?”</p> - -<p>“Not when the schoolboy cannot use it properly! I have -pointed out, for example, that, in attacking the doctrine of the -Divine Sonship, he only attacks a dummy doctrine of his own. -Your schoolboy does not know which of the three is his third -quantity! He wants, then, to be whipped and put onto the -dunce’s stool—to encourage the others!” The Doctor spoke -for the first time with a little testiness.</p> - -<p>“Be it so,” Gildea said, “our good Judge is not to be -allowed more than a faint glimmering of that fine theory of -ours of the world’s unseen τελος. The ‘divine far-off event’ is -not more than a fog-lamp to him, which he will not, then, -mistake for the moon, or its light for moonshine. But that he -is too much of a blockhead to even rise beyond the spiritual -rule of thumb, the spiritual Rule of Three, seems to me, I -confess, dear Doctor ... well, a rather strong statement. -The average intelligent secular view of things is, is it not, less -pedantic, less given to accepting the conventional value of -things as their true value, than the average intelligent orthodox -view? Are not, indeed, these tears a most convincing proof of -it? Is it not just because our good Judge refuses, for instance, -to accept the orthodox view of Jesus and of God that he wrote -his little book, and you replied to it? Now the orthodox view -of God is, if you will let me say so, excessively pedantic: it -adheres to the expressions of a belief in which in its heart it -does <i>not</i> believe at all. Parker’s criticism on this is excellent. -‘It is impossible,’ he says, ‘to lay down any definition of God -which will even satisfy man’s conception of God.’ What, -then, is the good, he asks, of holding up this ‘magnified non-natural -man’ of yours, and asking me to fall down and -worship it? Common-sense revolts against such an idea and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span> -common-sense, dear Doctor, is, will you not agree, for once -right?”</p> - -<p>“You surprise me, Sir Horace,” said Maddock. “Are you -too going to spend your time and trouble in demolishing the -survivals of verbal inspiration?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly <i>not</i>! I am only trying to see wherein common-sense -is a safe guide as a biblical critic. We are agreed, then,—you, -that is, the Judge and I—that we must unite in -opposing many of ‘the statements which,’ as the Judge says, -‘the orthodox are pleased to call evidence.’ Because, for -instance (to continue with the Judge’s own words), ‘the fallible -man Paul says in a letter to Timothy that the Scriptures were -inspired, it does not make them so.’ We are agreed here?”</p> - -<p>“We are agreed here,” said Maddock, with deliberation.</p> - -<p>“Or again, to take another instance, when Matthew and -Luke, for whatever purpose, strive in their genealogical tables -‘to give Jesus’ (I always use the Judge’s words) ‘a divine -origin, conceived of a virgin by the Holy Ghost, and yet to -connect him with David by making Joseph the natural father -of Jesus.’—are we not here faced by two ideas which ‘no one -short of an ecclesiastical metaphysician,’ or, as you say, a ‘very -bad critic,’ would or could ‘reconcile?’—We are still agreed, -of course.”</p> - -<p>“We are still agreed—to a certain extent.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, let us go further, then, and chime in with the Judge -to the effect that ‘on far stronger evidence (if evidence it can -be called) than that which supports’—let us say, almost all—‘of -the events or miracles’ of the Scriptures, ‘the Roman -Catholic Church propound to the world their miracles,’ which -‘the Protestant section of Christianity reject as incredulous.’”</p> - -<p>“Proceed,” said Maddock.</p> - -<p>“Nay, let us go further still, and notice how we no longer -look on the Genesis account of the Creation as more than -allegory, of the Flood as being strictly accurate; of the tower -of Babel as, again, more than allegory, and so on in many -other similar cases. And how in the same way we do not look -upon the statements of Christ, and after him of the author of -the ‘Revelations,’ of the close approach of the Apocalypse, as -literal but only figurative. ‘The statement of Jesus,’ as the -Judge puts it, ‘as to his coming again before the then generation -have passed away does not mean that he will so come: -‘generation’ being merely used figuratively, but when he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span> -does come he is still to come in the clouds of heaven, and with -great glory, sounds of trumpets, rushings of winds, and mourning -of tribes; for’ (Gildea paused)—‘all this has not yet been -falsified by the event.’ This is, I think, undoubtedly the conclusion -at which common sense arrives, but common sense is of -course wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Common-sense is wrong,” said Maddock.</p> - -<p>“Common-sense too, as exemplified in this its typical blockhead -who cannot ever rise beyond the spiritual Rule of thumb -and Three; common-sense observes of the development of -divine Truth, as exemplified in the Christian theology of -yesterday and to-day, that its ‘golden rule apparently is to -adopt those interpretations’ of its Scriptures ‘which best -satisfy the exigency of the particular position of the time -being,’ and thus we have no further guarantee that the God of -to-day will be the God of to-morrow than that the God of -yesterday is certainly not the God of to-day. ‘Heaven forgive -me,’ exclaims ‘that great poet and brilliant philosopher,’ Heine, -‘but I often feel as if the Mosaic God were but a reflected -image of Moses himself.’ And we all remember with what -contempt Taine speaks of this God of Christianity, revised and -amended to suit the latest edition of scientific and historical -discovery—rooted up out of the earth and momentary intercourse -with man—driven out of the clouds and the occasional -interposition of his strong right hand—spied and telescoped -from the radiant bowers of the stars, and finally lodged out of -sight, and all but out of mind, in the eternal infinitudes of -Time and Space! After all, then, may not our good Judge -have had, not of course a perception, but a faint glimmering, -of sapience, when he spoke of the position taken up by the -orthodox biblical criticism as critically ‘not only untenable, -but absolutely suicidal?’ The thought is, as we agreed before, -simply appalling. Spirits of Butler, Paley, Neander, Weiss, -Westcott, Lightfoot, and many another mortal or immortal -immortal, rise and thunder ‘<i>No!</i>’ When this exponent of -the average secular intelligence declares that contemporary -Theology is an impossible compromise between Reason and -Absurdity; that the Protestant is quite inconsistent who with -one face rejects ‘the events or miracles propounded by the -Roman Catholic Church because they involve a violation or -suspension of unvarying natural laws; because such things do -not happen, and because <i>reason</i> refuses to give credence to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span> -them,’ and with another face accepts as truth the sojourn of -Jonah in the belly of some sea-monster (at present conveniently -extinct, even to the bones), or the communications -of, what Gordon describes as,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent18">‘that duffer at walls,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">the talkative roadster of Balaam:—’</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">rise, I say, and in Olympian accents demonstrate to him and -his benighted audience, that these were but links ‘in the -development of divine Truth,’ and that ‘one lesson at a time -of this difficult kind was enough, and as history shows more -than enough, for human weakness.’”</p> - -<p>“You are a treacherous and malicious young man,” said -Maddock, laughing in spite of himself, “and have no right -to quote my words in such an irreverent and grotesque -manner!”</p> - -<p>“It is my orthodox ingratitude,” said Gildea, “—And yet,” -he added suddenly, with a complete change of tone and -manner, “in less than fifty years polemics like these will be -looked upon as childish, and, those who spent their life and -energy upon them, as we now look on the mediæval Schoolmen. -It is a sad thought.”</p> - -<p>Maddock was a little puzzled at these swift chameleon -changes in his friend.</p> - -<p>“And now,” said Gildea, looking up with yet another change -of tone and manner, “and now we have done with the -negative side of the good Judge’s criticism and can turn to -the affirmative.—But that,” he added, “must, I am afraid, be -after lunch—if you will, Doctor?”</p> - -<p>“I will,” said Maddock, “and you shall not then find me -so passive, for your treachery and malice are now quite laid -bare to me.”</p> - -<p>Gildea smiled.</p> - -<p>“But not my loyalty and admiration? Believe me, Doctor, -that, if it were only for this one remark of yours, I could never -fail in my interest and gratitude to you. ‘Our blackfellows,’ -you say, ‘had no punishment for offences against their elementary -ideas of purity but spearing. <i>And it was infinitely better that -they should spear for impurity than lose their first step towards -a higher life.</i>’ ... But here we are,” he said, “This is the -house. Fitzgerald and Hawkesbury have to leave us soon after -lunch. Mrs. Medwin and her niece, Miss Medwin, are coming -later to make tea for me, and then we are going out for a sail in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span> -the yacht. Mr. Medwin is thinking of a legislative career, and -so Alcock is to be cultivated. Can you come with us? You -know how pleased it would make us all.”</p> - -<p>The Doctor explained that he was due at his hotel at half-past -three to meet Mrs. Maddock, and both he and Gildea -expressed their due regrets at his not being able to make one -of the party on the yacht.</p> - -<h3 id="DAWNWARDS_III">III.</h3> - -<p>Gildea led the way upstairs and ushered Maddock into the -sitting-room. It was in reality two rooms joined together by a -large folding-door, which was now thrown open and draped -with four looped-up curtains, two of some dark-red material -behind two of delicately-wrought muslin. The two rooms were -of the whole depth of the house, the large bay-windows, open -and with a glass-door in the middle of them open also, at one -end looking out over the city, at the other over the harbour. A -grass-slope, and a garden with flower-beds and rustling trees, -spread all round and down to the water’s edge; while, a little -way out, the “Petrel” rode at peaceful anchorage, her boat -behind her. Maddock was for the moment so taken up with the -beauty of the place within and without—the room with all its -harmonies of form and colour, the garden and harbour scene—that -he did not notice that someone was standing, half hidden -by the curtains, in the next room on the hearth-rug. Then -Gildea passed through and greeted this person whom he -brought forward and introduced to Maddock as Mr. Hawkesbury.</p> - -<p>Hawkesbury was a small but well-made man with a tendency -to muscular leanness. His face was striking and interesting, -and betrayed a strongly-defined individuality. At one moment -he might have been called handsome, and his manner frank, -free, and open: at another his features took such a contracted -intensified look, and his movements were so nervously acute, -that the whole man seemed to have suffered distortion. It -seemed as if he were suddenly seized by some keen pain, -spiritual and physical, and was being racked by it. When -Gildea entered, there was for a moment a trace of this latter -manner in Hawkesbury: his sensitive pride found something -antagonistic in, what seemed to him, the consummate luxury -which surrounded him and even in the consummate culture of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span> -its owner: he was almost asking himself what right this man -had to spend so much money and care in decorating a few -rooms for a few months, this man whose life was so radically -selfish? Hawkesbury’s was, he might have said, the feeling of -one who was a socialist and worker by intense conviction, -finding himself opposed to one who was an aristocrat and -hedonist by the mere chance of birth and fortune. But, when -Gildea met and greeted him with the frank sweet unconscious -cordiality of an equal whose acquaintance is pleasant, the dark -look passed from Hawkesbury’s face and he gave himself up -to the simple pleasure of the situation. His unexpected introduction -to Maddock, who represented to him the more or less -sumptuous aristocrat of religion, for a moment, it is true, -threatened to bring back the evil spirit to him; but Maddock, -with his fine social tact, almost divining the state of affairs, was -equally frank, sweet, unconscious and cordial in his manner, -and Hawkesbury was at his ease.</p> - -<p>The three men stood talking together, Maddock in the -middle, in the bay-window that looked out over the harbour.</p> - -<p>“Why, Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “you will never be -able to get away from this enchanting place again! Are you -sure you do not intend to make it into a home? You did not -honour your Melbourne rooms with such care—such choice of -furniture, and....” (He raised his arm and outspread hand, -smiling humorously).</p> - -<p>“‘Man delights not me,’” answered Gildea, “‘No, nor -woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.’” -The smile broke out on Hawkesbury’s face too. It was -soothing and very pleasant to find these two talking in his -presence of such an intimate matter as that alluded to here: -he was not accustomed, in the company of, what in Australia -and even England goes by the name of, ladies and gentlemen -to this complete absence of social and individual constraint.</p> - -<p>Then Edgar, Gildea’s valet, ushered in someone else, Mr. -Fitzgerald, and there was a movement and introductions -between Maddock, Hawkesbury, and the new-comer, the three -being left alone for a moment while Gildea was giving some -directions to Edgar about domestic arrangements.</p> - -<p>Maddock and Fitzgerald fell almost immediately into a conversation, -Hawkesbury playing the part of silent member. -The Doctor was interested in finding out what the impressions -of a cultured Roman Catholic were of Australia and more<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span> -particularly of Victoria and New South Wales. He asked a -few questions, the answer to which, he thought, would show -him whether Fitzgerald had observed things with care and -sympathy, and was answered with a gentle readiness that -pleased and satisfied him. The two men felt themselves to a -certain extent on common ground, and, Fitzgerald touching -incidentally on the education question, they began to parallelise -each other’s views with cordiality.</p> - -<p>“We quite recognise,” said Fitzgerald, “all the difficulties -of the case—the danger of the unfair influence of catholic -teaching over protestant children, or vice versa, just as each -happens to be stronger in the particular place and school. -But we would accept this danger—accept it, even supposing we -were the losers by it—rather than have the present state of -things continue. As our Archbishop said only the other day at -Leichardt: ‘Besides the faculties of intellect and of reason, -there are certain passions of the soul,’ and to develop the -former and wholly neglect the latter is to send a boy out into -the world with <i>only one eye</i>. You have prepared him for the -temporary business of life, and unfitted him for the glorious -service of eternity: you have given his ship fine sails, and forgotten -to add a rudder! He may be an acute man of -business, but he will be a bad citizen; for, in taking away from -him his sense of religion, you will take away from him his -sense of morality, of honesty, of integrity! We can, at the -present stage, see for Australia no future save that of corruption—a -corrupt political life, a corrupt national life, the unlimited -worship of Mammon!”</p> - -<p>“I agree with you to a large extent,” said Maddock, “and -we all know that, practically speaking, the talk about ‘religious -education at home’ is mere verbiage. If the education of a -child is secular, his spiritual lungs, so to speak, end in being -able to inhale no other air and thrive on it.”</p> - -<p>“And,” Fitzgerald said, “the education <i>is</i> secular! Every -effort is being made to drive the voluntary schools out of the -field. Their state aid here in New South Wales is withdrawn: -in England it is reduced to a pittance and hedged about with -annoyance. And this, although the educational reports, drawn -up by a secular commission, show that, at any rate the -catholic schools educate on the average both better and more -cheaply than the state-schools do! We only ask for fair play, -and now it has come to this pass that we cannot get it! All<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span> -over England the protestant voluntary schools are failing and -disappearing. But we, we Catholics, who cannot, as Protestants -do, console ourselves with the reflection that the atmosphere -of the state-schools, if secular, will be tempered by that -of our own beliefs—we <i>will</i> not fail and disappear! We are -the poorest of all religious bodies in England; but I will -venture to say, that not a single case can be found of a catholic -school which has surrendered itself up, as these others did, -into the hands of the Secularists. Our educating priests and -laymen have to suffer much privation: I know, shall I say -hundreds, of them who deny themselves all but the bare -necessities of life; but—<i>we stand our ground</i>!... You -see,” he added smiling gently, “we Catholics cannot labour -under any delusion here. We recognize that this is a stupendous -crisis in the world’s history. We will have no compromise -and secular tempering of the wind to the shorn Christian. We -will stand to our guns, and, if we must perish, perish there!”</p> - -<p>Maddock was impressed, and so even was Hawkesbury. -This man’s enthusiasm was so quiet, so clear, and yet so -radiant. Gildea returned and joined them.</p> - -<p>“We were speaking of the popular education,” said Fitzgerald, -turning to him, “and I would persuade Dr. Maddock -that his cause and ours are here identic.”</p> - -<p>“I need no persuading,” said Maddock, “I have for some -time been persuading <i>myself</i>!”</p> - -<p>“And yet,” Fitzgerald put in gently, “the alliance between -us and you seems farther off than between us and the Dissenters.”</p> - -<p>“And that, I think,” Gildea said, “is because you have more -in common. You are afraid of one another. In the one case, -you know that the frontier of your alliance will be observed, in -the other there is a chance that it may not. At present the -most dangerous opponents of Catholicism in England are, what -they call, the High Churchmen. The Church of England is a -compromise between Catholicism and Protestantism; hence -its adaptiveness, hence its strength! It more nearly, in my -opinion, approaches ideal Christianity than any other sect in -existence. It unites the Faith, the Poetry, of Catholicism, -with the Freedom, the Prose, of Protestantism.”</p> - -<p>“We thank you,” said Maddock.</p> - -<p>“Logically speaking, however,” added Gildea, “it is an -absurdity.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span></p> - -<p>They all began to laugh.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Maddock, “I was right when, even while -thanking you, Sir Horace, I thought to myself: <i>Timeo Danaos, -et dona ferentes</i>.”</p> - -<p>“The Christianity of the Future,” Gildea proceeded gravely, -“lies, I believe, in two transformations—in Catholicism learning -that its kingdom is not of this world, that it no longer -requires a Pope, a Rome, as a Palladium whereby it may -fight; in a word, in learning the lesson of Protestantism, of -Freedom: and in Protestantism doing the converse, and -absorbing into itself the catholic Faith, the catholic Poetry!”</p> - -<p>“And what are the Secularists going to do in your Future?” -asked Hawkesbury, “are Messrs. Arnold and Huxley to be -put up on a shelf in your spiritual Museum, in two large spirit -bottles, labelled respectively ‘Culture’ and ‘Science?’”</p> - -<p>“Culture,” answered Gildea, “is, after all, but Secular -Catholicism, just as Science is but Secular Protestantism. -They too will each learn their lesson of the other.”</p> - -<p>“Humph!” said Maddock, who again had a faint suspicion -that Gildea was mocking, “and so, after all, Sir Horace is an -optimist.”</p> - -<p>“We do not lay stress,” Fitzgerald said gently, “on the -temporal power of the Holy Father. As Sir Horace implied, -this temporal power was once the one shining light in a -chaotic world, and it was well that it should be set on a -hill. But now the light is diffusing itself. It is our wish that, -as the Vatican Œcumenical Council declared: ‘Intelligence, -Knowledge, and Wisdom may grow and perfect themselves—as -much with the mass as with individuals, with one man as with -the whole church!’ We are no foes to Freedom. What we -<i>are</i> foes to, is Anarchy! At the Reformation you gave the -right of deciding on the deepest religious questions to every -ignorant man that chose to discuss them, and the seamless -robe of Christianity was rent into a hundred pieces! Look at -all these miserable little protestant sects and sub-sects, Plymouth -Brethren, Primitive Methodists, Ana-baptists, and I -know not what noisy, ignorant fanatics. At the Revolution, you -did the same for social questions, and what is the result? The -Dynamiters of Russia, of Germany, of Ireland, initiated by -what you, Dr. Maddock, so well call ‘such gentleness as was -revealed in the diabolical deeds of the Commune,’—to say -nothing of those of the Reign of Terror.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span></p> - -<p>Maddock half-deprecated, half-approved by a gesture and an -inarticulate sound.</p> - -<p>“Yes, but,” said Hawkesbury with the thrilled voice of -suppressed passion, “has not history justified the Reformation? -and how can you say that it will not justify the Revolution? -These, as it seems to me, are the two fiery portals which lead -to Religious and Social Liberty. But you are right to depreciate -them: they knew nothing of the poetry of Culture and -Catholicism, or of the prose of Protestantism and Science. -They were volcanic eruptions of the People. Heine says well, -when he talks of ‘the divine brutality’ of Luther, and we do not -shrink from the same phrase for Hugo or Whitman. Sir -Horace has painted us a Future which is indeed heavenly. It -is thronged with sweet-singing angels, and there is not a shadow -in its perfect light. But what has become of the <i>men</i>, and -what, O what, has become of the <i>devils</i>? They have no place -in this Future. You do not care for the People, I say, except -as you care for your dog which, if he is quiet and docile, shall -have a kennel and the bones and scraps from your table; or, -if he is surly, shall be chained up; or, if he goes mad, shall be -shot! Ah believe me, gentlemen, the People <i>has</i> a place in -the Future, for the People, and none other, <i>is</i> the Future! -‘<i>All for the modern</i>,’ cries Whitman, ‘<i>all for the average man -of to-day</i>.’ But you—you only care for the Upper and the -Middle-class. Your scheme of civilization does not reach to -the People. The Upper-class is exhausted: it needs invigorating. -‘<i>Cultivate the Middle-class</i>,’ is the cry, ‘<i>Give us -Higher Education for the Middle-class!</i>’ This is the whole -social teaching of the best representative man you have, -Matthew Arnold. Now we, we Socialists as you call us, <i>love</i> -the People, and (you will pardon me) <i>hate</i> the Middle-class;—the -dispossessed, the sufferers, <i>not</i> the possessors, the usurpers! -The People is the Prodigal Son. What sympathy have we, -then, with a man like Arnold who has devoted himself to the -edification of the Elder Brother? Arnold says once that he has -evolved that perfect style of his which we know so well—that -style which encloses a minimum of ideas in a maximum of -catch-words—or, as he likes to call it, ‘plain popular exposition’—for -the especial benefit of the British Philistine, the -divine Middle-class, who otherwise could not be got to read -him! He would have done better, perhaps, if he had not -turned to the setting, but to the rising sun. The People are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span> -the masters of the Future, and the People’s great men will be -the great men of the Future.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Then:</p> - -<p>“There is much truth in what Mr. Hawkesbury says,” says -Gildea, “Just at present we think too much of the ultimate -Culture of the Middle-class and too little of that of the -People. But the fact is, that the question of the Middle-class -is pressing: they are, as you say, Hawkesbury, the possessors; -they are the Present! And this, I think, is why men like -Arnold, who believe that, in the organization of the Present, -lies the only hope of the success of the Future, are so anxious -about it. It is a case, as he believes, of ‘Culture or Anarchy’—Culture -now or Anarchy then. And Carlyle, a disciple of -whom Mr. Hawkesbury has, in the admirable Preface to his -second book of Poems, declared himself to be; Carlyle too, -who laid much stress on what he calls ‘the radical element’ in -himself, yet mocks at ‘Mill and Co.’ as he says, in whom he -declares the opposite element was ‘so miserably lacking.’ -Carlyle had no respect for ‘Rousseau fanaticisms,’ even in a -man like Mazzini: he saw that, if the Middle-class were purblind -and slow, the Socialists were only purblind and quick. -Supposing that we grant that the Dynamiters of Russia -are justified in meeting an absolutely dense despotism with -violence, what excuse but impatience can we find for the -Dynamiters of Ireland? The first have no means of free -agitation, the second have every means. Ireland has been -wronged: no one denies it; and never, in the whole course -of her history, has England shown such alacrity as she is doing -now to right the wrong; never, not even for herself. But the -Irish Socialists are impatient: their cry is for everything to-day, -this very hour! To grant it them would be the greatest -unkindness possible. Well, they too have taken to dynamite -as a hypochondriac takes to opium. The Russian Nihilists -are noble people, none nobler, but they taught fools and knaves -an appalling lesson when they inaugurated the reign of terror -in Petersburg. At the present moment, as Heine clearly -foresaw, the Civilization, not of Europe, but of the whole world -is in danger.”</p> - -<p>“You speak well, Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “and express -my opinions better than I could myself, but—<i>Timeo</i>.”</p> - -<p>He, Gildea, and Fitzgerald smiled. Hawkesbury was grave. -There was a pause. Then:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span></p> - -<p>“I think,” he said, “that you do the People wrong. These -extreme Socialists, the Nihilists as they are called, are not from -the People, but from the Middle-class. They are, as a rule, -men who have received the best education of the time, and -who yet find themselves unrecognized and unrewarded. Most -of them are journalists. It would astonish you, I think, to see -the amount of really first-rate talent that is being flogged to -death in the shafts of the modern Press. These men cannot -work in shops and banks: the narrow material life has been -made impossible to them. The only opening for the life they -would—nay, that they <i>must</i> live, or perish, is that of Literature. -Literature caters for the Middle-class, the ruling class. These -men, then, are the slaves of the great caterers, the newspaper -editors. One of the most thorough Socialists I ever -knew, Holden, in fact, was on the regular staff of the -English <i>Spectator</i>, the organ of the enlightened portion of -the Middle-class; and there, as he said to me, he went -as near Socialism as he could for threepence! (Threepence -is the price of the paper.) This same man wrote, too, political -articles for a distinguished radical politician, and I have -seen the proof-sheets of these hacked and mauled by the -patron to suit the palates of the Radicals. It was this man -who once seriously contemplated dropping a bomb in the -House of Lords, to show that herd of hereditary liars, as he -put it, that there was such a thing as justice in the world! He -loved the People: he hated the Middle-class, but the People -cared nothing for him. It is, then, I think, a mistake to lay -the paternity of Nihilism to the charge of any but the over-fed -tyrannous Middle-class.”</p> - -<p>“What you say,” Maddock said slowly and courteously, -“is very interesting and instructive, Mr. Hawkesbury, and -I perceive that the ground which you, and I think I may -say Mr. Fitzgerald,” (Fitzgerald smiled and bowed), “and -myself have in common is large enough to admit of our -working—at any rate not in opposition to one another. -Is not our mutual object the enlightenment of the unintelligent -mass of the People and of the Middle-class? I am, -I am sure, grateful to you, sir, for the manner in which you -have brought this home to me. I always felt that underneath -all our differences—I mean, the differences of our beliefs, -religious or social—we had a common ground, the advancement -of a really good and true Civilization, and now, I think,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span> -I know this. He renders us a great service who makes our -feelings self-conscious, who turns them into the articulate -thought of words.”</p> - -<p>There was a slight pause.</p> - -<p>“And now,” said Gildea, in his half-amused way, “we will, if -you please, go down to lunch. Mr. Alcock particularly asked -me not to wait for him, and we have waited, it seems unconsciously, -for over half-an-hour.”</p> - -<p>They went down together into the dining-room, chatting -lightly and pleasantly.</p> - -<h3 id="DAWNWARDS_IV">IV.</h3> - -<p>The dining-room was the corresponding room on the ground -story to the sitting-room up above. It was quite as well furnished, -but in a different style. A fine rather than an exquisite -form of beauty had been sought after. It was a saying of -Gildea’s that a dining-room ought to give you an impression -somewhat similar to that of a beach-brake in spring: the -architecture and furniture should have clear outlines, the -colours should be clear, the lights should be clear. All -massiveness and duskiness was to be avoided. A meal ought -to be a repast, not a feast: we should rise pleasantly satisfied, -not dully satiated. In a sitting-room, on the other hand, the -sworn abode of the sweet and delicate talk and music of -women, just as the dining-room was that of the serene discussions -of men, there should be something of the lush -luxuriance in shape and colour of the midsummer woods, -knights and ladies and all the figures of romance and fairy-tale -passing together. But such an arrangement of rooms as this, -he would say with his bright half-mocking smile, was at -present like a damsel of the Middle Ages suddenly awakened -in the dull derisive streets of London or Manchester. This -will only come to pass in that wonderful Future, when we have -all learned that Beauty and Truth are synonyms, and Keats -has statues and altars like Sophokles of old.</p> - -<p>Considerable time, wealth and trouble had been spent on -this house. Sydney and Melbourne had been ransacked for -beautiful things worthy of Gildea’s ideas of “the nest,” as he -called it to himself, that he desired; for this was indeed one, -and not the least remarkable, of his freaks. It had been -aroused in this fashion. One afternoon, sauntering across a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span> -road in the Domain, he had almost been run over by someone -riding a splendid bay horse. Looking up, with a fine touch of -anger, he had perceived that it was a lady, who was looking -down at him with a look, he suddenly felt, so precisely his own -that, the ludicrous aspect of the thing coming upon him, he -smiled. She too, at once following his change of feeling, -smiled, and then in a moment, with a slight courteous movement -of hand and body, had passed. It had all taken place in -a few seconds. Her face and form made up between them, he -thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he -had not seen few so-called whether in Europe or elsewhere. -Beauty in women was, according to Gildea, a thing which was -not <i>in reality</i> to be seen in the present world, implying, as it -did, perfection of form and perfection of spirit, καλον κἀγαθον. -The Athens of Perikles had produced female beauty; in the -face and form of the Venus of Milo the highest physical and -spiritual perfection of the time is apparent. Florence too, in -such a woman as Vittoria Colonna, had produced female -beauty, and the Renascence had incarnated it in a Marie -Stuart; but, so far, our Modernity was not ripe for it. Lovely -female faces it, as all times, had in abundance, but these faces -knew nothing of spiritual perfection: they knew nothing of -life, they were not beautiful. And the female faces that <i>did</i> -know of life, the faces of women like George Sand, Charlotte -Bronte, George Eliot, were quite wanting in physical -perfection. They imply mental passion, the struggle of pain: -they have not reached to the serene pleasure of spiritual -sovereignty. No, Beauty, καλον κἀγαθον, is to be a produce -of the Future when Modernity has passed through the pangs -of its travail and, in the bright light of health and youthfulness, -“grows in wisdom and stature” to the perfect self.—But -this face that he had seen for a moment, was, he thought, really -beautiful.</p> - -<p>A few yards from him a man was standing looking back at -the rider passing along under the trees. Gildea came to him, -and asked him courteously if he happened to know who the -lady was?</p> - -<p>“No,” said the man, “I don’t know who she is, but I often -see her.”</p> - -<p>And on this incident Gildea had founded a freak which had -for some time amused him. He intended to see this woman -again, and, if he was correct in his supposition (which he used<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span> -amusedly to doubt to himself) that she was some phenomenal -anticipation of the Future, to possess her. He set about -choosing and furnishing a house, therefore, which should, as -far as possible, be worthy of such an individual, and much -amusement it occasionally afforded him. A private enquiry-office -was meantime seeking her out; and, about a month ago, -Gildea to his surprise had been informed that she was, beyond -doubt, a Miss Medwin, niece of the well-known squatter, -english, eccentric even to the extent of riding about and -shooting in man’s clothes on one of Mr. Medwin’s stations in -New South Wales, and, moreover, strongly suspected of having -had, and of still having, an intrigue with a Mr. Frank Hawkesbury, -a writer and man of uncertain means, in Melbourne. -Gildea laughed much on receiving this unasked-for report, -(He had just by accident made the acquaintance of Hawkesbury), -and his interest in his freak somewhat revived; but his -all but conviction that he was incorrect in his view of Miss -Medwin (if it were indeed she), prevented him from having any -great interest in the matter or any great anticipations of success. -As usual, however, he was satisfied to find that he had -any interest or anticipations at all. He learned from Mrs. -Medwin that she was in a short time coming to Sydney for a -week or so on her road up to one of Mr. Medwin’s New South -Wales stations to which she had not been for years, and would -be pleased to see him. A few days ago, then, she and Miss -Medwin had arrived, and were waiting for Mr. Medwin who -was detained by business in Melbourne. Hence Gildea’s -invitation to Mrs. Medwin and her niece, to come and make -tea for him and go for a sail in the “Petrel.”</p> - -<p>The party arranged itself round the table, Maddock at one -end, Gildea at the other, an empty place on Gildea’s right -hand for Alcock, Hawkesbury on his left with Fitzgerald next -to him. Maddock, as before, could not help observing with -admiration the beautiful room in which they were sitting. -Hawkesbury, however, following out a train of thought suggested -by his own last words, sat serious, looking at the table-cloth.</p> - -<p>The lunch began. Gildea and Fitzgerald could both, when -they pleased, excel in that graceful sweetness of manner which -is supposed to be the peculiar gift of women. They pleased -now. The talk flowed lightly and pleasantly, and soon returned -to, what seemed to be to them all, the most interesting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span> -topic—the People. Fitzgerald spoke of the far greater ease -and leisure of the People here than in England, and that led -on to a consideration of the question of Labour here.</p> - -<p>“Carlyle declared long ago,” said Hawkesbury suddenly, -“that the great question of the time was no other than the -organization of Labour. Well, Labour is at last organizing. The -consequence is that, as Mr. Fitzgerald remarked, there is -greater ease and leisure among the People, not only here in -Australia where Labour is comparatively scarce, but even in -England where it is plentiful.—The question here, however,” -he added, “shows signs of complication. The employers -are to form—nay, have already formed—a union: ‘The -Victorian Employers’ Union.’ The only wonder is that it is -in Victoria and not in England that this idea has first been -adopted. In Trades-Unionism in England, let me say it at -once, there have been many abuses; but, let me hasten to -add, not nearly so many abuses as there were under the old -despotism of Capital. Trades-Unionism, which so few people -seem to understand, originally meant the combination of many -oppressed small units against a great oppressing unit. <i>Now</i> it -means more: it means the determined effort of the People -after happiness.”</p> - -<p>“That is very true, I think,” said Gildea, “The People, -ever since the deception practised upon them by the compromise -Reform Bill of ’32, have been slowly learning to -organize themselves and to rely on themselves alone. Such a -fact soon makes itself apparent. There is not a single considerable -political measure since ’32 which has not a socialistic -tendency.”</p> - -<p>Hawkesbury acknowledged Gildea’s remark, and proceeded:</p> - -<p>“The People, and by the People I mean of course the -masses, is everywhere realizing that there is something better -worth living for than frantic competition and the scramble for -wealth. Trades-Unionism, then, is the sworn foe of all this. -I am not speaking either for or against Trades-Unionism: I -am simply stating what it <i>wants</i>, what it <i>is</i>! The Trades-hall -delegates, in the late conference anent the Bootmakers’ strike -in Melbourne, refused to let a bootmaker work for more than -eight hours a day, although, by so doing, he might better himself, -and by not so doing might keep himself for ever a mere -journeyman. ‘Further argument with men of such a way -of thinking,’ says Mr. Bruce Smith, the chief mover of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span> -‘Victorian Employers’ Union,’ ‘further argument seemed useless.’ -And it was indeed as it seemed; for these men were of -opinion that if, in the frantic competition and scramble for wealth, -one or two journeymen <i>did</i> rise and become rich, hundreds and -thousands would have to lead lives which would not stand -too favourable a comparison with those of dogs. ‘Therefore,’ -the delegates would say, ‘we will check this frantic competition -and scramble for wealth, and we will even be so wicked as to -sacrifice the one or two possible journeymen who might rise -and become rich, for the sake of the actual hundreds and -thousands whose lives otherwise would not stand too favourable -a comparison with those of dogs.’ Well, and what will be -the end of this new phase of the great battle of Capital <i>versus</i> -Labour on which we seem to be now entering here? Let me -not be thought a terrorist, if I remark, what is indeed patent -to all, that, in a country with a franchise like ours, Labour, if -driven into a corner and confronted by Capital triumphantly -brandishing its sword of ‘Frantic-competition-and-the-scramble-for-wealth—Labour, -I say, might make things excessively -uncomfortable for the community in general and Capital in -particular. I am not hinting at mobs and sticks and stones. I -am merely stating a fact that is patent to all. Our good -friends the Landed-proprietors, videlicet the squatters, have -experienced in Victoria and elsewhere—are indeed now experiencing -even in Queensland<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a>—the undoubted benefits of -a little judicious legislation. Might not someone suggest to -the ‘Victorian Employers’ Union’ and Mr. Bruce Smith, who -seem to have such quaint notions of what Trades-Unionism -really wants and is, that the same fate may possibly be in store -for our other good friends, the Capitalists?”</p> - -<p>“It is a pity,” said Gildea smiling, “that we have not -a Capitalist here to answer you. But, I think, I know -what one of them, Mr. Alcock, would say. He would -say that the great law of Nature is this very frantic struggle -which you deprecate, and that, if you attempt to put -a check on it, you will only end by first arresting and -then destroying all progress. He would oppose the interference -of organized Labour quite as much as of organized -public opinion, that is to say the State. He would of course -recognize all the evils of the frantic struggle, but he would say -that it yet contained the great ascending and progressive power<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span> -of Nature, it was yet capable of Evolution; whereas the artificial -state of popular leisure and ease contains the great -de-scending and retrogressive power of Nature, Dissolution.—But -here,” he said, “at the very nick of time, he comes himself.”</p> - -<p>Edgar, who had just left them, returned ushering in Alcock, -who came forward with somewhat off-hand apologies to shake -hands with Gildea. He was then introduced to Maddock and -shook hands with him, compromising the matter, as he thought, -with the others by a bow and an expression of his pleasure at -making their acquaintance. He sat down in his place and, -having told Edgar what he chose to eat, was ready for a few -moments’ talk before setting somewhat vigorously to work on -the victuals. Gildea explained to him the conversational context, -and what he himself had ventured to say in the person of -the typical scientific capitalist.</p> - -<p>“Well,” Alcock said, with a half-pleased half-amused look -on his face, when Gildea had finished, “I will observe that, on -the whole, you didn’t put my sentiments so badly, Sir Horace.—I -am opposed to all state interference,” he declared, turning -to Maddock, “It doesn’t pay in the long run; it enervates -people! Look at this New South Wales here. They can’t put -a bridge across a creek now, without petitioning government -for assistance! In England a half-dozen men or so would have -got together and settled the matter themselves. And they -want more state interference in Victoria! Why, it’ll drain out -all their independence, and energy; and, in twenty years, they’ll -be as lazy and lackadaisical as they are here in New South Wales! -Competition’s the law of Nature.” By this time Alcock’s mouth -was full, and he was beginning to enjoy the delicate food and -wines, for he was hungry and thirsty. There was a pause.</p> - -<p>“True,” said Fitzgerald, gently breaking it, “but does not -Mr. Alcock too think, that it is just where the law of Nature -ends that the law of Humanity begins? Surely this is the -essential position of Christianity, that it says to the brutality of -Nature: ‘Thus far shalt thou go, and no further.’”</p> - -<p>“You can’t,” answered Alcock with his mouth full, too intent -on the victuals to be more explicit, “You can’t interfere—impunity—great -law—nature—struggle—existence—survival—fittest.”</p> - -<p>“Here, then,” said Fitzgerald who ate little and drank less, -turning to Hawkesbury, “<i>we</i> are at one, I think, as opposed -to the pure Scientists?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span></p> - -<p>“I do not believe,” Hawkesbury said, “and I do not think -any Socialist believes, in carrying the initiative of the individual -to the extent that Herbert Spencer would like. But we -are not in favour of state interference. We want to nationalize -things, the land, the unearned increment, the great public -enterprises, but we include in this term the State also. The -State at present means the tool of the Middle-class, worked by -Capital and the Land Interest. This arrangement partakes -too much of the nature of a political joint-stock company to -please Socialists.”</p> - -<p>“And you think,” asked Gildea, his hand on his wine glass, -looking at Hawkesbury, “you think that when the People -wins, as it of course ultimately will win, the control of things, -that it will not work the State in its own interest, just as the -Aristocracy did and as the Middle-class does?”</p> - -<p>“You know,” Hawkesbury said, “I <i>believe</i> in the People! -The People is the only unselfish part of society. Their one -desire is for justice and mercy; and, when they could not get -it themselves, they have always died readily for those who, -they believed, wished to give it them. Herein lies the secret -of all great popular devotions—from that of Christ to that of -Napoleon.”</p> - -<p>“I,” said Alcock, “do <i>not</i> believe in the People, as you call -them, and their unselfishness has not yet come under my -notice. The People, like everyone else, are led by what they -believe to be their interests, their immediate interests, and our -great effort should be, by giving them a good sound practical -education, to get them to see that their true interest lies in -e-volution and not in re-volution. Let us have a fair chance -for everybody, and let the best men win.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Hawkesbury, with suppressed eagerness, “but -the trouble is that, in this so-called free competition of yours, -the best <i>don’t</i> win! In Nature the best win, I agree; but -Civilization has complicating clauses that modify and all but -change, what you rightly call, her great law—the struggle for -existence and survival of the fittest.”</p> - -<p>“I do not see that,” said Alcock, returning to his victuals -which he had left for a few moments.</p> - -<p>“I will give you an instance,” said Hawkesbury, “A, B, -and C are three men who start as beggars in the market of free -competition. A has the best wits, and A accordingly wins, -and makes a fortune. Good: we applaud! Then A, B, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> -C all die, leaving sons D, E, and F, the best-witted of whom -does not happen to be D, A’s son, but E, the son of B. Does -E therefore win and make a fortune, and D sink down to his -proper level with F? Not a bit of it! D has not only his -own second-rate powers to help him: he has also the wealth -which he inherits from his father. E, then, has no chance -against him: the second-rate man with wealth overwhelms the -first-rate man with beggary. What are the consequences, -generally speaking? Why, that, instead of the best surviving, -the second or third or fourth or fifth-best survive, and the -market is drugged with successful mediocrity. Here, I think, -is the delusion under which Herbert Spencer’s social philosophy -labours: he does not see that Civilization, as we know -it at present, is not a natural but an artificial state, and that -therefore the laws which hold good in Nature by no means -necessarily hold good in Civilization. Look at the bees or ants, -whose Civilization is a natural and not, as ours is, an artificial -one: do <i>they</i> encourage free competition with its inevitable -concomitants of wealth and power accumulated in the hands of -a few to the prejudice of the community? Not so. To each -is assigned an equal, if varying, share in the economy of the -community. With them work has its duty, and, as for idleness, -it is not possible. But what duty has the successful -business man, except to his own success? what duty has the -wealthy aristocrat, except to his own pleasure?” There was a -slight pause.</p> - -<p>“It won’t <i>work</i>,” said Alcock, his eyes a little opened, -sitting considering this young man with sudden interest. -(Alcock had so far thought that, in the present company, -nothing would be acceptable save, what he called, a popular -exposition of his own views)—“Believe me,” he added with -gravity to Hawkesbury, “I have gone through all this at length, -repeatedly, and with care, and I am convinced that, with many -drawbacks, free competition within and without is the only -thing which will give us a civilization of progress. The real -tendency of everything else, I say, is towards stagnation or -retrogression. Free competition universal, the great problem -of which is to be the dominant race will proceed to settle itself -quickly and thoroughly. Until that problem is settled, we -cannot hope for a Civilization worthy of the name. All the -inferior races must be stamped out, all the stagnatory or -retrogressive ideas eliminated, and the best men with the best<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span> -knowledge left masters of the situation. It is impossible to -foresee what such men may achieve. We may yet, perhaps, -open communications with the planets and even modify the -courses of the stars.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Fitzgerald smiling, “we have had the Vision -of the Future from the Christian, the Cultured, the Socialistic -point of view, and now we see that Science too has her dreams. -I have no objection myself to any of these Visions which, as I -take it, all contain a not inconsiderable amount of truth. I -would only observe that I believe them to be all impossible -solely and individually. The Socialistic Future that would -banish Christ, the Scientific that would also banish God, can -no more exist as, in Mr. Alcock’s phrase, masters of the situation, -than the Future of Christianity that would ignore the -glory of our discoveries in Natural Law, or the Future of -Culture that would deny to the People our highest joy.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Alcock drily, “we don’t want Superstition -mixed up with Religion, <i>that</i> is clear enough.”</p> - -<p>“Nor yet,” added Fitzgerald sweetly, “do we want Superstition -mixed up <i>without</i> Religion.” (Alcock, with the look of -a man who does not understand a thing and does not much -care to, took a drink at his champagne, which, it was evident -from the new expression on his face, was to his taste. Fitzgerald -proceeded suavely to the table at large and more -particularly to Maddock.) “For, as perhaps Mr. Alcock,” -(with a slight bend of the head to Alcock), “will permit me to -say, the purely scientific view of things, which sees, in the -unrestrained application to civilized life of the brutality of -Nature, the undoubted parent of a Civilization worthy of the -name, may be after all, and I believe is, a great superstition. -Is not a superstition a belief in a thing not worthy of that -belief? And is it not, then, a superstition, in calculating the -progress of Humanity, to leave out of all account, as the pure -Scientists seem to me to do, the most distinctive thing in -Humanity—Religion.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> should say,” observed Alcock, “that <i>Reason</i> is the most -distinctive thing in Humanity.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed?” asked Fitzgerald, “You surprise me! Is it not -generally admitted now that the rudiments of Reason, and -considerably more than the rudiments, are to be found in the -animals? But I am not aware that anyone, not even Ernst -Haeckel, has discovered in them the rudiments of Religion.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span> -Can we not, then, agree with Max Müller that it is ‘certain that -what makes man man, is that he alone can turn his face -to heaven; certain that he alone yearns for something that -neither sense nor reason can supply?’”</p> - -<p>Alcock had the look of a man who feels the prompting of -flippancy and, restraining it, is amused at what his flippancy -would have said. Fitzgerald, perceiving this, answered it:</p> - -<p>“Müller,” he proceeded, “in criticising Kant, who is of -course the Father of all the worshippers of Reason, again says -finely that ‘he closed the ancient gates through which man had -gazed into Infinity; but, in spite of himself, he was driven, in -his “Criticism of Practical Reason,” to open a side-door -through which to admit the sense of duty, and with it the -sense of the Divine.—This is the vulnerable point in Kant’s -philosophy,’ he goes on, ‘and if philosophy has to explain -what is, not what ought to be, there will be and can be no rest -till we admit, which cannot be denied, that there is in man a -third faculty, which I call simply the faculty of apprehending -the Infinite, not only in religion but in all things, a power -independent of sense and reason, a power in a certain sense -contradicted by sense and reason, but yet a very real power, -which has held its own from the beginning of the world, -neither sense nor reason being able to overcome it, while it -alone is able to overcome both reason and sense.’”</p> - -<p>“That it has held its own from the beginning of the world,” -said Alcock, “is no proof that it will do so to the end.”</p> - -<p>Fitzgerald smiled.</p> - -<p>“What you say,” he answered, “makes clear to me, then, -that you do not accept this ‘faculty of apprehending the -Infinite,’ and philosophically make the best of it, but you wish -to call it mere childishness or, as you say, superstition and—‘eliminate’ -it! And yet you talk of Religion! What, may I -ask, does a pure Scientist, as you seem to be, Mr. Alcock, -<i>mean</i> by Religion?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Alcock frankly, “I confess that, to me, it means -little more than credulity. I am not, of course, hostile to -Religion; on the contrary, I support it. It helps to keep -society together.”</p> - -<p>“It will do,” said Hawkesbury, “for the People! Pending -the arrival of that education, which is to teach them the high -satisfaction of social evolution, the masses may amuse themselves -with such used-out mummeries as the Devil, Christ, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span> -God. The People is grateful. It has, it knows, as much to -expect from Science as from Culture.”</p> - -<p>Fitzgerald was quite amused.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Alcock,” he said, “since you pure Scientists are -generally reckoned as the foes of us Christians, we can ask -you to do us no kinder service than to nail these colours of -yours to the mast in the sight of all men. I do not alone mean -your belief that Religion is all but a synonyme for credulity; -but this general conception of things of yours which includes -no further consideration for Religion than elimination. We -can have no doubt of the results. The world will doubtless -find in <i>our</i> conception of things a certain amount of, what Mr. -Hawkesbury has called, used-out mummery (for man’s free-will -has ever turned use into abuse), but it will find also things -which savour of the kindly earth and the genial sun; whereas, -if you will let me say so, in <i>yours</i> all that it will find will be -the steel-cold atmosphere of some heatless planet, filled with -the dreary whirr of abstract machinery. Superstition <i>with</i> -Religion, they will say, is better than Superstition <i>without</i>. -And then, after they have given you a trial—and a trial they -will give you, and such a great and long trial that we shall be -eliminated almost as much as even you, Mr. Alcock, could -wish us to be—then they will come back to us, and, having -been driven by sore anguish of soul to re-discover, as their -Father did, the sense of duty and of the Divine, they will find -that this first step leads inevitably to another, and that to yet -another. And, in the end, all high souls, and after them of -course all other souls (for the wisdom of to-day is the common -sense of to-morrow), will see that their best and truest Father -was a man who, passing through all this before them, has -these years stood with clear and radiant faith, his longing -hands held out to all that would take their strong help and -guidance to that place of joy and of peace!”</p> - -<p>Alcock, supposing this man to be Jesus and having made it -a rule never in mixed company to speak of that to him, under -such circumstances, embarrassing personage, kept silence, -looking at the table-cloth. Hawkesbury too did not understand -the allusion, which even Maddock, unless he had been -warned by Gildea of Fitzgerald’s connection with Cardinal -Newman, might have missed. As it was, Gildea, perceiving -and amused at Alcock’s misunderstanding, was ready to at -once dissipate it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span></p> - -<p>“Newman,” he said, “is indeed the great modern example -of a man of high intellect and all spiritual powers giving, not -only, as Heine did, ‘his tribute of admiration,’ but everything -he had, ‘to the splendid consistency of the Roman Catholic -doctrine.’ I remember once hearing a rather able High-churchman -say that he could not see, any more after than -before reading the celebrated <i>Apologia</i>, why Newman had -joined the Church of Rome: which is to say, that he could -not see that, to a certain type of mind, the only two logical -positions for a man of thought to-day are those of Scientific -Atheism or of Catholic Faith.”</p> - -<p>“He leaves no place, then,” said Hawkesbury, “for the -Theists or the Pantheists?”</p> - -<p>“The Theists,” answered Gildea, “leave no place for themselves—except -in the spiritual out-houses and the Unitarian -chapels. There is not, I think, in modern times, one man of -first, or second, or even third-class intellectual power that has -believed in a personal God and not believed in a divine Christ. -All men of thought are really now divided into two classes, -Christians and Atheists: the first believing in a personal Christ -and a personal God, the second in Law. All other differences -are, as it seems to me, at heart mere divergences of symbolism. -We are accustomed, for instance, to call those who hold that -matter produces spirit Materialists, and those who hold that -spirit produces matter Idealists, and those who hold that -matter and spirit are identic and divine, Pantheists; but really -they are all Atheists. There is no Atheism, no disbelief in a -personal God, more intense than that of our Idealists, Renan, -Arnold, Emerson, who never cease, however, to talk of God -and bid us find in Him our only comfort and guide: they are -the true children of Goethe whose conception of God was -Humanity in Nature, and of Religion Humanity in Art.”</p> - -<p>“So we Catholics feel,” said Fitzgerald, “and this is, as I -have implied, the great truth which we owe to the life and -work of Newman. He has saved us from any temptation to -compromise with Atheism. We are to stand to our guns, and, -if we must perish, perish there!”</p> - -<p>“The only thing is,” Gildea answered ruefully, “that no -great spiritual movement, religious or otherwise, was ever yet -produced, retained, or destroyed by the action of logic, and -they have all partaken largely of the nature of compromise. -Voltaire and the philosophes sent such a douche of logic onto<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span> -Christianity in France that they literally beat it out of the -country, but it came back again. And why? Because it contained -the satisfaction of the demands of one side of Humanity -which Logic had not, and could not have. Well, they compromised -the matter, and the result is, (Dare I declare it, Fitzgerald?), -none other than men like the fine and intellectual -ecclesiastics who presided over the education of that lay priest, -as he calls himself, Ernest Renan. History repeats itself. -What Logic tried to do yesterday, Science is trying to do -to-day. And, as you,” (he turned his eyes to Fitzgerald), -“foresee, Christianity, and Religion generally will suffer a -defeat and even decapitation, only to return with processions, -ringing of bells and the glad shouts of the populace. Then -the Parliament will shut up all the sunday theatres, and the -skeletons of Professor Huxley and Herbert Spencer will be -removed from the Pantheon at Westminster and lodged in -Madame Tussaud’s, and the land have rest—for the space of -forty years!”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Alcock, “you young gentlemen are getting too -far head for steady-going seniors like Dr. Maddock and myself. -We will ask for matches, and smoke a cigar, while you -tell us all about our great-great-grandchildren.”</p> - -<p>Cigars, cigarettes, and lights were brought and, with some -pleasant small talk, the party loosened and eased its position at -table and physical and mental state generally.</p> - -<p>“Talking of compromise,” said Hawkesbury, taking his -cigarette from his lips and leaning the elbow of the hand that -held it on the table, “between Religion and Logic, or Reason, -is not, what is called, Positivism an attempt to organise such a -compromise?”</p> - -<p>Gildea began to laugh.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” he said, “is not Arnold’s ‘grotesque old french -pedant,’ a late foolish Monsieur Comte, as Carlyle would say, -to leave me alone even beyond ‘the long wash of Australian -seas?’ Am I to be persecuted even here by his tiresome -adaptations and school-boy notions, all bundled up in superlatively -bad French?—You do not know,” he added, “what I -chance to have suffered at the hands of my positivist friends at -home, or I am sure you would not ask me to discuss them -here where I am come for a holiday. They and Mr. Mallock are -the most tiresome people in existence. You have heard of Mr. -Mallock out here? and of his tilts with the junior Positivists?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span></p> - -<p>Hawkesbury acquiesced.</p> - -<p>“We have heard of everything out here,” he said smiling.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Mallock,” said Gildea, “was a young man who wrote -a charming book called ‘The New Republic,’ one of the most -charming books that had been written for several years, and -then took to polemics, and has been logically agonizing there -ever since. For this too we all ought to owe this religio-intellectual -pedantry called Positivism a grudge. And, when -we remember what Positivism did for George Eliot,—reduced -a good quarter of herself and her characters into edificatory -machines—I think that all of us, to whom Nature and Art are -precious, should look upon Positivism as the contemporary -accursèd thing.” Gildea spoke with a certain exaggerativeness -of tone and manner that to Maddock, observing and -listening to everything with humour, was somewhat puzzling. -Maddock with average profundity suspected that here was a -case of some personal memory of a more or less disagreeable -character; but average profundity, when it has to deal with -that which is out of the range of the average, nearly always -makes mistakes. Gildea was subject to sudden losses of -interest in what he was saying or doing, spiritual twinges of -that terrible wound from which he suffered: to those to whom -“the endless emptiness of all things” is a reality, moments of -acute weariness and disgust are ever lying in wait, and then -the harness of life and living is often resumed with impatience -or even pettishness. It had been so just now with Gildea. -He had looked forward to his meeting with Miss Medwin, and -heard those beautiful lips open and sounds come forth that -showed that, however fine the harp, its strings were unattuned. -The sense of his intense and perpetual loneliness had rushed -upon him, and he had gone back again into his surroundings -with an irritation that in a few moments amused him at himself.</p> - -<p>The talk passed onwards, Maddock for the first time taking -his share in it. And yet again it came round to the People. -It was clear that the strongest impression that had been given -to the party was that of Hawkesbury’s Socialism.</p> - -<p>“If I had been speaking of it some five or six years ago,” -said Fitzgerald, “I should have certainly said that I thought -the Secularists had made most impression on the People of -late years. But, in the face of the American Revivalist meetings -and the Salvation Army, I have had to modify my views.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span></p> - -<p>“These movements or rather this movement,” said Gildea, -“strikes me as reactionary. British Middle-class Liberalism -and Secularism have been at work, with much cry, and the -egregious littleness of the wool has disgusted the People who -have rushed off into the opposite extreme. The workmen, the -skilled workmen, are I think secular. I remember hearing a -lecturer on art who had been on a tour in America say, that -the American workmen all asked him if he knew Darwin -or Huxley or Tyndall, and expressed little or no care about -anyone else, which seemed to surprise him.”</p> - -<p>“Cardinal Manning,” Fitzgerald remarked, “said well, then, -that ‘the spiritual desolation of London alone would make the -Salvation Army possible’—‘this zealous but defiant movement.’ -Are we right in our supposition, do you think, Mr. -Hawkesbury?”</p> - -<p>Hawkesbury assented.</p> - -<p>“There are three movements,” he said, “at present going -on among the People—the Socialistic, the Religious, and the -Secular. They are all strong. In Ireland I have seen the -two first clash, and the first was almost invariably victorious. -If the priests will not go with the People in their socialistic -views, (For of course the Irish Question is really a socialistic -one, although it is not spoken of as such), then the priests are -given up. Usually, however, the priests, being themselves of -the People, are in full sympathy with them. The Socialists -are by no means necessarily Atheists, but they are not -Christians. ‘The sooner,’ I heard one of them say once, -when pressed on the point, ‘the sooner Christ is made a thing -of the past and Jesus a thing of the present, the better it will -be for all of us.’ That expresses them excellently. The same -idea lies at bottom in the popular Religious movement.—We -Socialists,” he added with a touch of bright humour, “like the -Booths better than we like the Bradlaughs, but we recognise -that both are in earnest and working for the People.”</p> - -<p>“And what, religiously speaking,” asked Fitzgerald, “do you -believe is to be the future state of the People, and of us all?”</p> - -<p>Hawkesbury had another touch of bright humour.</p> - -<p>“Socialism,” he said, “nothing but Socialism! We are all -Socialists, whether we know it or not. Just, then, as in the -first and second centuries the platonistic Time-spirit radically -influenced before it was absorbed into the christianic: so in -the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries has the christianic<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span> -Time-spirit radically influenced, before it shall be finally -absorbed in, the socialistic. Socialism has, after all, its universal -modern expounder in Goethe. Goethe was the first to -look upon Civilization as a great organic whole, every part of -which has fixed pleasures and duties. He was the first, we -believe, to conceive a natural as opposed to an artificial -Civilization. Carlyle, too, felt something of the sort, although -he could not express it, any more than he could not express -what he took God to be. But we know Carlyle loved us, and -therefore we love Carlyle. As for your Idealists, Sir Horace,—Renan, -Emerson, and Arnold—we have no care for them, -nor they for us. I remember once hearing Holden call -Arnold ‘the man who slew so many Philistines with the jawbone -of an ass.’ Well, the remark is expressive of his attitude -towards Culture.” Gildea and Fitzgerald were laughing, -Maddock smiling.</p> - -<p>“The end of it all,” said Maddock, “seems to be, then, Mr. -Hawkesbury, that ‘the People,’ as we say, is the great unknown -quantity of the social equation. We all more or less -feel its power, and we all more or less wish that power to be -arrayed on our side, but no one quite knows what it is and -everyone is a little afraid of it.”</p> - -<p>“You say truly,” said Hawkesbury, “The People is the -great unknown power, and it puzzles us. Pharaoh has -dreamed a dream, and there is none of all the magicians of -Egypt and all the wise men thereof that can interpret it unto -him. What to make of the People’s noisy Tichborne or Salvation -Army devotions but political and religious infatuations? -Be it so! But I will say this, that the People has a shrewd -humorous instinct for both politics and religion that is a whole -heaven above the purblind prudence of the Middle-class.” -He sighed, the sigh of a man who has somewhat outspoken -himself. “‘—And all these things,’ he added as if to conclude -the matter, ‘are only known to the Deity.’”</p> - -<p>Gildea smiled.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, “Are there not those among us who look -forward to what is to come with the brightest faith or with the -darkest despair? And there are those who dream and those -who doubt,—and those too who possess their souls with -patience, nourishing a modest hope. For</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“what was before we know not,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and we know not what shall succeed.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Haply the river of Time—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">as it grows, as the towns on its marge</div> - <div class="verse indent0">fling their wavering lights</div> - <div class="verse indent0">on a wider, statelier stream—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">may acquire, if not the calm</div> - <div class="verse indent0">of its early mountainous shore,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">yet a solemn peace of its own.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Little more was said after this of the chief subjects of their -talk, and presently both Fitzgerald and Hawkesbury took their -leave, Maddock and Fitzgerald, and Alcock and Hawkesbury, -expressing mutual hopes of seeing one another again.</p> - -<h3 id="DAWNWARDS_V">V.</h3> - -<p>Maddock went out into the balcony and stood there, leaning -on the rails, reflectively smoking his cigar and looking out at -the scene stretched before him like a panorama. Alcock held -quiet converse with Gildea for a few moments, apologetically -asking permission to go and write a letter, the importance of -which he would have explained at length, had not Gildea -interposed.</p> - -<p>“By all means,” said he; and, with a word of excuse to and -gesture of acknowledgment from Maddock, took Alcock off -into a room opposite, a study, where he ensconced him at the -desk and, having pointed out the position of all the epistolatory -necessities and told him to ring the bell for Edgar who would -see that the letter was posted at once, withdrew and rejoined -Maddock on the balcony.</p> - -<p>“You will excuse Alcock,” Gildea said, lighting a cigarette, -“He has a letter of importance to write, which he does not -care to leave till we come back.”</p> - -<p>Maddock at once acquiesced. There was a pause, both -smoking with leisure.</p> - -<p>At last:</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Gildea, taking his cigarette from his lips, “and -how did you like the happy family? You were a very quiet -member of it.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Maddock, “I refrained from mewing and sat -still, purring and pleasantly watching the others. It struck me, -shortly after Alcock came in, that we were a very representative -happy family.”</p> - -<p>“We only wanted a genial Theist to make the pile complete. -Your good Judge is a Theist. Now if we could only....”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span></p> - -<p>“Ay, ay,” said Maddock with something like a chuckle, -“Judge Parker is a Theist! As your friend the <i>Argus</i> said, he -was ‘the learned gentleman who discovered Unitarianism in the -early months of 1885.’—Come now,” he proceeded with a -sudden concentration of interest, “what are you going to say of -the affirmative side of this man’s criticism, after your remark -that there was not, in modern times, one man of real intellectual -power that has believed in a personal God and not believed -in a divine Christ? Are you going to turn upon me again with -your precious purely intellectual view of things, and say: ‘The -question that now arises is, has not Theism, after all,’ et cetera, -et cetera, et cetera?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I am,” said Gildea laughing, “but all hope of -utilizing the purely intellectual view seems lost after my unwary -committal of myself.—No,” he added more seriously, “I have -of course little more left to do than to try and get you to join -me in abuse of the good Judge for his superstition, that is to -say his Theism, and that other egregious vice of his—his -ludicrously inadequate conception of what is ‘good and -ennobling.’ To take the last first, I will say, as I once heard -Hawkesbury say on a like occasion, that I would far sooner -believe in the Orthodox Christ than in the Unitarian Jesus. -Indeed I might broaden my saying, and declare to the whole -Rationalistic conception of Christ and Christianity generally, -what Carlyle declared to Voltaire: ‘Cease, my much respected -Herr Von Voltaire, shut thy sweet voice; for the task appointed -thee seems finished. Sufficiently hast thou demonstrated this -proposition, considerable or otherwise: That the Mythus of the -Christian Religion looks not in the eighteenth century as it did in -the eighth.... Take our thanks, then, and—thyself away.’”</p> - -<p>“Judge Parker’s view of Our Lord,” said Maddock frowning, -“is,—not to say blasphemous,—simply <i>fatuous</i>! I do not -know whether indignation at impudence or contempt at stupidity -the most possesses a man, when he is told, by such an one as -this, that ‘the Christian Theist, who regards Jesus as man, -considers, and rightly from his point of view, that it <i>is</i> within -his power to attain to the life of, and to follow the example of, -Christ.’ Imagine Judge Parker attaining to the life of anyone -but a blatantly successful lawyer in the truculent spiritual quagmires -of a colonial capital!”</p> - -<p>“Our good Judge’s discovery and investigation of the character -of Jesus,” said Gildea, almost ready to laugh outright at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span> -Maddock’s concluding dythramb, “are certainly not unlike -those of a man who should charter a penny steam-boat for a -trip up the Nile, and proceed, on his return to England, to give -a lengthy description of certain large triangular-shaped buildings -which, he should say, bore considerable resemblance to -the common-sense conception of pyramids! And it <i>is</i> possible -perhaps to denominate such a description as fatuous. His -conception of Jesus <i>is</i>, we are agreed—inadequate: ‘an -exemplar ... who merits all praise, all esteem, and love, -and admiration for that, <i>being human</i>, he led so pure, so -blameless, so noble and unselfish a life.’ This, what this with -our good Judge <i>means</i>, is an inadequate conception of Jesus. -He perceives nothing of the real essence of Jesus. Anything -that Arnold, whom he quotes so often, may have said -of ‘the mildness and sweet reasonableness’ of Jesus, or that -Renan may have said of the wonderful powers of personal -attraction that are in Jesus—all this has fallen like water on the -judicial back of our duck here! It is for none of these that -our good Judge, our typical man of common-sense, goes -to his New Testament. ‘Mildness and sweet reasonableness,’ -the yearning of a consuming personal love, are not -clear solid spiritual qualities which his mind can see and -touch and handle. They have no place in the copy-books -of the soul, nor yet in the sum-books thereof, and you -shall search its ‘Little Arthur’s History’ from beginning -to end and find no mention of them. Their only place -is in the thoughts, words, and actions of the men and -women who have moved thousands and millions of their -fellows, in the radiant days of high civilizations, in the agonies -of the travail or the destruction of peoples and races. ‘It is -apparent,’ says he, ‘that we can collect from the Christian -Bible, a purer, more beautiful, and more advanced ethical -code, than is to be obtained from any other book or books.’ -O good Judge, O belovèd Judge, if all that is to be got out of -the Christian Bible is an ‘ethical code,’ then the sooner -Martin Tupper and Mr. Harrison are deified, the sooner will -the human soul have reached its apogee!”</p> - -<p>“That is well,” said Maddock, “but, at the same time, there -are few things that disgust me more than the man of the opposite -sort—he who, like so many of these Socialists of yours, -will sing the love of Christ with passion, and then go out and -commit a hundred of the grossest sins. Christ is morality.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span></p> - -<p>“Ah no,” said Gildea, “he is something better; he is religion! -It is immoral to commit adultery: it is moral to punish -it: (‘Infinitely better that they should atone for it, than lose a -step towards a higher life’): it is religious, not to condemn it, -but to bid go and sin no more. It is immoral to take -your share in your father’s substance and waste it in violent -living: it is moral to punish this prodigal, to whom repentance -has only come with a belly that was fain to fill itself with the -husks of the swine: it is religious to kill the fatted calf for such -a penitent, and rejoice and make glad. Jesus’ sole criticism -on practical morality, on the realization of an ethical code in -everyday life, is, that ‘it was not so from the beginning.’”</p> - -<p>“Just so; but this is precisely the difference of the ethical -code of the Old and of the New Dispensation.”</p> - -<p>“Will you let me say, that it has nothing to do with any -ethical code at all? For, surely, the essence of ethical codes is -justice, and the essence of the religious code, of the code of -Jesus, is love. The Amazon may be a big river, but you shall -compass all time in trying to put into it the unspeakable ocean.—No, -it is just here that, as Fitzgerald would say, all these -good people are superstitious. They believe that the spiritual -progress of humanity is synonymous with the progress of one -portion of the spirit of humanity, namely the ethical portion; -and this, being a belief in a thing not worthy of that belief, -may justly, as it seems to me, be denominated a superstition. -It is superstition without religion.”</p> - -<p>“And what, then,” asked Maddock, “do you call the belief -of men like your friend Hawkesbury?”</p> - -<p>“Those who are immoral? men and women who, as most -of these Socialists, work in the spirit of Jesus and act (as a -polemist would say) in the manner of Bradlaugh?—what is -<i>their</i> belief?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Maddock.</p> - -<p>“Why, clearly,” answered Gildea smiling, “religion <i>with</i> -superstition! The men of enthusiasm like Hawkesbury, and -the men of morality like Judge Parker, are surely both of them -right, and surely both of them wrong: right in their appreciation -of the truth of one portion of the spiritual life, wrong in -their ignorance of another portion. They both possess truth, -and they both possess superstition.”</p> - -<p>“And what of a man like our friend Alcock here, who is -ignorant of religion and more or less lax as regards morality?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span></p> - -<p>“He too,” answered Gildea, “as Fitzgerald clearly demonstrated, -is a victim of superstition. But he is not, for all that, -without his belief, without his appreciation of truth. He believes -in that portion of the spiritual life which we call intellect. -Men like him have their enthusiasm, for which they are ready -to suffer and do suffer all things; and that enthusiasm is the -enthusiasm for that portion of truth which we call Science.”</p> - -<p>“And your Fitzgerald—is he too both right and wrong?”</p> - -<p>“Of course he is; for has he not both belief and negation? -All belief is truth, not <i>the whole</i> truth, but <i>a part</i> of the truth. -There is but one thing that is the whole truth.”</p> - -<p>“God?”</p> - -<p>“No, not God, for God does not include Nature, from -which He is the outcome—not God, not Nature, but that which -contains them both, Everything, the All!”</p> - -<p>“Pooh,” said Maddock, “flat Pantheism!”</p> - -<p>“<i>And suppose</i>,” cried Gildea, “<i>it were</i> Pot-<i>theism, if the -thing is true</i>!” (He laughed outright.) “—That answer of -Carlyle’s,” he said, “is immortal.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was Carlyle said it?” said Maddock, “I had -forgotten.—And so,” he proceeded, “the secret is out, and -Sir Horace Gildea ‘stands confessed a Pantheist in all his -charms!’”</p> - -<p>“Two of the happy family still remain unaccounted for,” -Gildea said, “although they too have not probably attained to -perfect truth.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is you and I. As for me, I can describe myself -without your aid. I believe in morality and religion, with a -touch of superstition in both.”</p> - -<p>“Worse,” said Gildea, “worse!”</p> - -<p>“What, then?”</p> - -<p>“You believe in theology which is as bad a superstition as, -what Judge Parker calls, ‘the calm blissful sea of pure <i>theistic</i> -belief.’ (You notice how emphatic he is about his superstition -and casual about his truth?)”</p> - -<p>“Stop a moment now, my bright Apollo, and explain to me, -what you have not yet attempted to, what the superstition of -Theism is?”</p> - -<p>“<i>What is Theism?</i>—‘It is a faith,’ answers our good -Judge, ‘which is <i>the</i> faith of all others’ (that is to say the faith -of Judge Parker and all the ‘celebrated unitarian ministers’), -‘to be clung to, cherished and maintained as long as man exists—belief,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span> -trust in, and love for the All-loving, All-righteous, All-wise -Universal Spirit of God.’ Now observe that this faith, -this unique faith of faiths, is ‘refreshing, and invigorating in -its simplicity’—(as, we might add, is also its formulator, if we -did not shun flippancy as we would the pest)—‘warm and -glowing in its absolute unclouded devotion to, love for, and -perfect trust in God alone—<i>proclaimed by</i> <span class="smcap">Nature</span>!’ O wise -Judge, O upright Judge, O Judge much more elder than thy -looks, where, when, and how, in the name of all observers of -Nature from Darwin through Haeckel to Tennyson, did you -discover therein either this love or righteousness of which you -make such mention? ‘The struggle for existence and survival -of the fittest,’ the parent of theistic righteousness and love! -‘<i>Proclaimed by</i> <span class="smcap">Nature</span>!’—and Nature in italics! O immemorial -phrase that eats up all the others even as Aaron’s -rod swallowed up all the rods of the magicians!—Who, after -this, would care to trouble himself with all the other potent -items of this faith of faiths? The idea of God, God ‘the All-loving, -All-righteous, All-wise Universal Spirit’ ‘originated in -instinct,’ and is not the slow and painful growth of time? -Think of the love of Jehovah! the righteousness of Baal! the -wisdom of Moloch!—The beauty and sympathy and warmth of -the theistic form of belief,” he added, “are recognizable as a -half-hearted mixture of the clap-trap of Religion and Science—Superstition, -which knows that it is naked, and sews fig-leaves -together, and make itself an apron!”</p> - -<p>Maddock, however, could have no confidence in the expressed -views of this man, from whose face the light of amusement, -amusement at others and himself, seemed never to be -absent long. There had, indeed, been moments when it -required all Maddock’s intuition to prevent his perception -rising in absolute revolt against what seemed Gildea’s flagrant -insincerity: then his perception had said to him that this was -but a youth, endowed with brilliant abilities, the mere exercise -of which was a pleasure and satisfaction to him, caring too -little for any one thing to owe it loyalty. Whereto his -intuition had replied that this was not a youth but a man, and -a man whose secret could not thus be read. And the feeling -that Maddock had, once before that day, felt towards Gildea -returned now with an intensity and strangeness that seemed to -Maddock, when he afterwards considered it, as little short -of wonderful. Maddock’s profundity was often beyond the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span> -average, and herein indeed lay his secret, herein nestled “the -heart of his mystery.”</p> - -<p>“And yet,” said Gildea, “here, as in the other case, the -common-sense view of belief has, of course, its excellence. ‘To -take nothing else,’ says the Judge, ‘the very idea of “space” -and “distance” that astronomy has given us fills the mind -with wonder and with awe, clothing nature with a sublimity, a -majesty, and a beauty which, otherwise, we had never known.’ -For observe that <i>Space</i> and <i>Time</i>, these two inexhaustible ideas, -are not, to our average intelligent secular view of things, the mere -words that they are to the orthodox: they are realities thus far, -that they help us to perceive that ‘there exists throughout -space,—throughout the vast limitless universe,—motion, order, -beauty; that there is behind all motion, all order, all beauty, a -force that produces the motion, the order, and the beauty.’ -And further. They are realities thus far, that they help us to be -(whatever Dr. Maddock, in a polemico-theological spirit, may -declare) earnest in our life and earnest in our wish to bring -home to others the truth of that life, a ‘most serious and -difficult task!’ They help us to all this, and an unrecognized -intuitional belief in the essence which, in other forms and -other men whom we fail to appreciate, not to say understand, we -condemn—our intuitional belief, I say, in the Faith, Hope, and -Love, which are the great movers of the progress of Humanity -both upward and onward, will not let the forms that portions of -this belief may take in us make the whole grow cold, lifeless, -petrified, but the beauty and melody of our acts will often be -found to contradict the deformity and discord of our words.”</p> - -<p>“I confess, Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “that you are a -puzzle to me. I really should not be surprised to see you some -day walking side by side with the Judge, the best friends in -the world!”</p> - -<p>“And perhaps,” said Gildea, “the Judge would not subsequently -be surprised to see me doing the same with yourself! -For that indeed is the only use of such poor creatures as I: we -see the good in opponents and serve as links in the spiritual -bridge of Humanity.”</p> - -<p>“I should very much like,” said Maddock, “to hear how you -would abuse me to him. I think I see the urbane expression -with which you would delight him by shewing how, in this -ecclesiastical, metaphysical, theological polemist here, habemus -confitentem asinum; and then turn upon him and say: ‘The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span> -question that now arises, my dear Judge, is, has this man -nothing but faults—has he no excellencies? does there -remain, after the attack on him of so eminent a biblical critic -as Judge Parker is, no residuum of real and vital truth? Let -us see.’”</p> - -<p>“Doctor, Doctor,” said Gildea, “to make me laugh so, is -cruel!”</p> - -<p>“You do not consider me,” said Maddock, “in the least.”</p> - -<p>They both laughed heartily.</p> - -<p>“And now,” said Maddock, “in order to complete the -matter, tell me, what is <i>your</i> superstition? Here are Alcock -and Parker with their respective superstitions of Atheism and -Theism, of purely scientific and purely ethical progress. Here -is Hawkesbury with his superstition about the unselfishness of -the People and the practical neglect of Morality. Here is -Fitzgerald with his superstitious belief in a Church whose -splendid logical consistency will prove its ruin. Here am I, a -member of a sect that more nearly approaches ideal Christianity -than any other sect in existence, and is a logical absurdity—blessed -with the superstition of theology and, worse, of polemical -theology, with.... But I cannot express all my superstitions: -they seem more in number than the hairs of my -head!”</p> - -<p>“Let us say broadly, then, that Alcock and the Judge are -those who have superstition <i>without</i>, and Fitzgerald, you, and to -a certain degree Hawkesbury, those who have superstition <i>with</i>, -Religion.”</p> - -<p>“And that you?”</p> - -<p>“And that <i>I</i> am he who unites in my proper person the -superstitions of all with the actualities of none.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Then:</p> - -<p>“Sir Horace,” said Maddock, “I take you seriously. And -I will confess that I would sooner, far sooner, be any one of us -than you.—Verily and indeed,” he added, solemnly, “I cannot -see why you should care to live.”</p> - -<p>“Nor yet,” said Gildea, “why I should care to die?”</p> - -<p>Maddock was possessed by sadness. The absolute, inevitable -hopelessness of this man made him again turn faint and -sick at heart.</p> - -<p>“Nor yet,” he said, “why you should care to die.”</p> - -<p>There was a long pause. Never again could Maddock be -illuded into momentary misunderstanding of this man: he had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span> -now not only seen this strange soul laid bare before him and -felt the influence of that sight, but had felt as if he had, as it -were, almost received it into his own, almost made it a part of -himself.</p> - -<p>At last:</p> - -<p>“I asked you to believe,” he said with a touch of wistfulness -in face and tone, “that I was your true friend. You will perhaps, -forgive me if I ... if I offer you the one token of it -that seems left to me to offer. Some day—I cannot tell, but so -I trust—you may care to think that, each night you close your -eyes in sleep, there is one whose prayers for you are rising, as -he believes, to the God and Father of us all, to bless and keep -you, to lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and to -give you peace.”</p> - -<p>The two men stood facing each other for a few moments in -silence: then their hands met in a close, long clasp, and -parted; and they turned, standing almost touching each other, -looking out over the lovely scene of earth and water and sky.</p> - -<p>At last:</p> - -<p>“Those clouds,” said Gildea softly, “they have a peerless -radiancy. One seems to understand how the men of the past -days saw a spirit therein, and held converse with it with wonder -and delight and awe. Those were days of a music and beauty -and sweetness such as we shall never know again.”</p> - -<p>“<i>If not</i>,” said Maddock as softly,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent12">“<i>if not the calm</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>of its early mountainous shore,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>yet a solemn peace of its own.</i>”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>A footstep was heard behind them. It was Edgar, come to -say that Mrs. and Miss Medwin had arrived and were up in -the drawing-room with Mr. Alcock.</p> - -<p>Gildea stepped out onto the lawn.</p> - -<p>“Let us go up by the balcony,” he said to Maddock.</p> - -<h3 id="DAWNWARDS_VI">VI.</h3> - -<p>Mrs. Medwin was the only native-born australian lady who -was “good style.” So at least a Governor’s wife, about the -“goodness” of whose “style” there could be no question, had -declared. It was not, this Governor’s wife had explained, that -there were no ladies in Australia, (There were not however -many, par parenthèse, and such style as they had was at best -but second-rate american), but they none of them had that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span> -manner of dressing, moving, and speaking which characterizes -what (to use this rather objectional term again, for -want of a better) we call “good style.” This Governor’s wife, -with her usual delicate feminine instinct, had felt on the occasion -of this now socially celebrated description of Mrs. -Medwin, that she had not quite satisfied herself, that the -description did not contain the truth, all the truth, and -nothing but the truth, of the matter; and she was right, it -did not. Mrs. Medwin undoubtedly possessed that serene -refinement of movement and speech which go so far to making -up that all but defunct individuality, a “lady,” but she was -wanting in the final gift of a “lady,” social charm. The flower -was scentless, or rather the scent it had was of another description. -Her life had not, indeed, been favourable to the -development of this final gift. She had been married early, a -ready enough victim to the convenience of her family, to a -man with whom she had little in common and much in opposition. -He was liked by none and feared by all those who had -any personal dealings with him: his savage outbursts of passion -recalled to memory the dark stories that were told of his -father who had, as the Australians euphemistically put it, come -out at the government expense. But she, having calmly decided -to accept Medwin and life with him, set herself by the sheer -intrepidity of her sweet high beauty, to dominate them. She -succeeded. And she won, not only the control, but the deep, -admiring love, of the man. Then came the catastrophe which -those who knew him had prophesied and recanted. In one of -his savage outbursts of passion, he struck her. The blow was a -cruel one and its results life-long. Much as she then suffered -in body and soul, she could have no other feeling for him than -that of pity. For days he would take no food, but sat in a chair -outside her door, like a dog that waits in silence on an idolized -master; and, when he was first permitted to enter, flung himself -onto his knees by the bedside, sobbing and moaning and -covering her hand with kisses. And she, who had had little or -no care for him before, save as the principal incident in her -life, now to her own surprise found that from out this appalling -misery was born affection for him and even love. Her -life from then onwards had been spent in a struggle far more -terrible than that which she had waged with him. At first the -idea of wasting away inch by inch on a diseased sick-bed -almost overwhelmed her: she longed, she prayed for death.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span> -But death did not come; and then her spiritual pride began to -reassert itself, and, like the captain of a battered ship, she once -more thought how she could rule these waters that had ruled -her. For long it seemed as if the effort would be too much for -her: she said to herself one sleepless horrible night that she was -being consumed alive. Her very latest gift seemed but as an -added thorn to her; for now that she had affection and even love, -she had also jealousy. The spell of her sweet, fearless health -and strength and beauty was passed from him save as a -memory: his love, deepened it might be by his abiding -remorse, was (as she thought) deprived of that admiration -which had been her first and strongest hold on him. Nothing -more pitiful, than to see the womanliness in her assert itself -against her pride and speak in jealousy! With wonderful -intuition, however, she divined and with wonderful determination -carried out, what was the only plan of still keeping for -herself his admiration. She, who since she had married him -had not given his business affairs a thought, now gave herself -up to the mastery of them. She had herself taught all arithmetic -thoroughly, and, in little less than three years after her misfortune, -knew more of all his business affairs than he did himself. -And more. She stirred up in him the ambition to become the -leader of that great amorphous section of colonial society of -which he was a member, the land-owners, the “squatters.” She -had a certain liking for society, and when she was in England -went into it as much as her extremely delicate health would permit -her: in Australia, however, where, as she said, there was no -society, or only of a sort which she did not like, she yet entertained -a good deal, as she wished her husband to be popular -in view of his entering parliament and attempting to organize -his party. But her entertainment was more after the fashion -of a listless social empress than an interested hostess: she did -not care enough about these people to make, what would have -been to her, a painful physical effort to attract them. She had -indeed something of the feeling of one of the old aristocrats -forced by the pressure of the time to open their houses to the -Middle-class; she acknowledged the salute of her guests, and -provided them with fine rooms, music, amusement, foods and -drinks, and what more could they want? Her coldness was -generally ascribed to her notorious ill-health, but the young -people felt instinctively that she condemned them, and were -not drawn to her. Between her and Gildea, however, there<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span> -was an understanding that was not without either charm or -brightness to both. He understood her, and she half-felt this -and, never having been really understood before, was in a way -pleased at it and drawn to him. She amused him and at -times, thanks to the pity with which her sweet courage inspired -him, affected him. He was not too without respect for her -intuitional capacities. He said once to Sydney Medwin, who -was complaining that his mother was fifty years behind the -time, (Mrs. Medwin supported her husband in his views for -their elder son), that, on the contrary, she was fifty years -before; for she was the only person he had met or heard of in -the Colony who clearly saw that the Land Question was upon -them. Mrs. Medwin indeed, as has been noticed, saw that -the attempt of the Australian land-owners to repeat the performance -of those of England and form a dominant aristocracy, -would be met with keen opposition, and that the only hope of -success lay in creating out of an amorphous class a party, and -organizing it. The feeling of possession and caste had grown a -strong one in her, in her more or less absorbed in the life of her -husband. Hers, then, with all its powers of passionate attachment -to an individual, was one of those not frequent female souls -that see beyond a man into the cause which he represents. -Her elder son she looked upon as a failure, as useless, as -worth no more than making behave himself. Her younger -son, Stephen, she was training with some care, and to him the -far greater bulk of his father’s wealth and property was at -present destined. Miss Medwin, whom Mrs. Medwin called -her niece, and who called Mr. and Mrs. Medwin respectively -uncle and aunt, but who was in reality no such relation, being -the daughter of Mr. Medwin’s father’s brother’s son; of Miss -Medwin it will perhaps be enough to state, that the report -which Gildea had unexpectedly received of her from the -Private Enquiry Office was correct, and that she was the -possessor of a moderate fortune who had come out to Australia, -half for a change from her English life of which she was -weary, half in search of an old schoolfellow to whom she was -much attached.</p> - -<p>Gildea and Maddock stepped out together along the lawn -and mounted the steps that led up to the sitting-room -balcony. The sunlight, intercepted by an angle of the house, -covered half of this portion of it, almost so exactly half that -the glass door, open in the middle of the bay window, was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span> -partly in the sun and partly in the shade. As they reached the -balcony, Gildea, with the gesture of a courteous host, indicated -to Maddock to enter first, but he, with the no less courteous -gesture of a guest, refused and returned the indication. Gildea -stepped into the open doorway and, as he stood there for a -moment with the sunlight and shade playing upon him, met -the gaze of Miss Medwin, seated upright, looking almost -proudly before her. Behind her was the dark red of the curtain -with its subdued white of delicately wrought muslin. Two rays -of sunlight lay along the rich variegated colours of the carpet, -diffusing a little light about her. She was very beautiful. -They had recognized one another at once. And more. They -both were undergoing that feeling of half-forgotten recollection -that affects us with such unprepared and mystic strangeness. -Had they, then, seen one another before that day when -she had almost ridden over him under the Domain trees? -had they met in some way similar to their meeting now? At -such moments the past, the present, and the future, all half -unknown, seem to join hands, and kiss, and part with eyes -dimmed with a regretless regret.</p> - -<p>It had passed in a few moments. Gildea, with something -that might be called a sudden freak of tact, stepped into the -room, turning a quite self-possessed face to Mrs. Medwin. She -was sitting on a sofa dispensing serene little nothings to -Alcock, whose face and manner beamed with social polish. -Gildea came straight to her and made his greetings with -winning grace: then, obeying a slight gesture of hers, moved -aside and she introduced him to her niece, Miss Medwin. -With the same winning grace, head courteously bowed, he -stepped to Miss Medwin, and lightly raised the hand she held -up to him. Maddock was greeting Mrs. Medwin.</p> - -<p>“I think,” said Gildea smiling slightly, “I think, Miss Medwin, -that we are not quite strangers.”</p> - -<p>“And how is Mrs. Maddock?” asked Mrs. Medwin, “I hope -she is quite well.” Gildea sat down in a chair by Miss Medwin.</p> - -<p>“No,” answered Miss Medwin gravely, “I was careless -enough to have almost ridden onto you.”</p> - -<p>“The carelessness was mine. I was dreaming. Day-dreamers -should be awakened.” Maddock was assuring Mrs. Medwin -that Mrs. Maddock was in excellent health, and at this very -moment enjoying herself quite satisfactorily without the society -of her lord and master.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span></p> - -<p>“Indeed,” said Mrs. Medwin, “I hope we shall be able to -see her before we leave Sydney. We are stopping at Winslow’s.”</p> - -<p>“That,” Miss Medwin said gravely again, “seems to me to -depend a good deal on the day.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Medwin is <i>with</i> you, Mrs. Medwin?” interrogated -Alcock with his politest manner, “I understood that I -should not have the pleasure of seeing him till monday or -tuesday?”</p> - -<p>“It is true,” said Gildea, “that to-day the reality of things is -so troubling to the peace and pleasure of many of us, that it -is cruel to wake us from our dreams.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no!” said Mrs. Medwin with her usual unruffled -serenity, “Mr. Medwin is not coming up till tuesday or -perhaps wednesday.”</p> - -<p>A swift sense of the humour of a social scene like this, -where the tendency of things is for the dramatis personæ to -beat unlimited time with musical voices, graceful gestures, and -a charming expression of countenance, dawned upon Gildea -as a memory of almost distant days. The poetry of society is -mostly expended in its common-places. To be able to do this -is an art, an art of which provincial and colonial society is -ignorant. Hence Gildea’s sense of the humour of the present -scene was as an almost distant memory. “Here,” he thought, -“we have four excellent musicians who would make the most -charmingly meaningless quartet possible, Alcock being reduced -to the part of accidental audience.” It was not, of course, -that Gildea’s talk with Miss Medwin was social time-beating: -it was, rather, spiritual time-beating, rendered in a manner that -partook of the social. Miss Medwin had not recovered from -the to her strange sensations of this second sudden meeting -with him: she was neither as consummate a master of her -emotions as he was, nor careful of becoming one, nor yet -was she prepared, as he was, for their meeting: she was -left by it as one is who has had some swift revelation of good -or evil in himself—considering himself if he really was this, is -that, and will be something that contains them both. The -individualities of other men she had known had touched her -as much, or almost as much, as his had on that day in the -Domain, but none had ever entered into her and, as it were, -“blown a thrilling summons to her will” as his had, as he stood -looking at her in the shadowy sunlit doorway there. And her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span> -will had answered that summons, and instantaneously. To him -that sight of her, sitting upright, looking almost proudly before -her, was ever to be as the sight of an Antigone, one who felt -“it was better not to be than not be noble,” the depth of -whose scorn for unworthiness was equal to her love, high as -the everlasting hills, deep as the unplumbed sea.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “it is sometimes cruel to wake us from our -dreams, and yet it is best, I think.”</p> - -<p>“—You think it is best to modify our poetry with prose? -Was it better to have awakened Shelley, and given us his -‘Prometheus’ with wooden limbs of a day’s social dogmatism, -than to have let him make delicate music in the italian woods -and by the italian shores, for ever sweet and fair?”</p> - -<p>“So he told me,” said Alcock, “and I was very glad to hear -it. The interests of all wealth, whether in land or in money, is -identic. But we have no organization.—And Labour,” he -added with a look to Maddock, “as Mr. Hawkesbury just told -us, is organizing, if it is not already organized.”</p> - -<p>If it had been possible for Mrs. Medwin to be amazed at -anything, she would have been amazed at this. Hawkesbury -had a few years ago been an employé on one of Medwin’s -stations, the very station to which she was now on her road. -This was a reflection which was positively annoying to her. -“It would,” she had once simply remarked, “have been as -well perhaps, if he had eaten some poisoned meat when he was -there, as they used to say the troublesome blacks did. He is -a danger to society.” Sydney Medwin, who liked to do his -best to ruffle his mother’s serenity now and then, used -not unfrequently to speak in praise of Hawkesbury (his -friend Hawkesbury, a clever fellow too, and who would -make his mark out here yet!) and had once even, as Gildea -told Maddock, offered to introduce him to her. “You know, -Sydney,” said Mrs. Medwin simply, “I am not interested in -Mr. Hawkesbury. If you like to make up a shooting-party at -Lathong,” (a station of Medwin’s in Victoria), “with all the -men on the station, I daresay he would be pleased to join -you.”—What, then, was the meaning of Mr. Alcock’s remark -that this firebrand socialist, this impertinent journalist and -pamphleteer, had been <i>just telling</i> something to Mr. Alcock, -Dr. Maddock, and presumably Sir Horace?</p> - -<p>“I’m sure,” said Alcock with his politest manner again, -“that we all of us cannot be too—too pleased to have found a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span> -lady who realized this, and could help us to what we so much -want—a ... a sort of general rallying-point.—Nothing,” he proceeded, -“struck me so much in England as the use that the -political parties made of their social gatherings, and they tell -me that this was much more the case once than it is at -present.” Alcock found a certain amount of difficulty in -saying that he thought women might, after all, be made of -some use in political life, in a manner that should be pleasing -to <i>this</i> woman.</p> - -<p>The talk progressed more or less easily, Maddock, with a -humorous perception of the effect Alcock’s innocent allusion -to Hawkesbury had produced on Mrs. Medwin, playing the -part of conversational mediator between the two.</p> - -<p>“You are not, then,” said Gildea, in answer to a remark of -Miss Medwin’s, “in sympathy with dreams and dreamers?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered shaking her head, “not if they take -their dreams for realities. It is just, I think, because we have -been dreaming so long and dreaming so much, that our waking -is so miserable.—You speak of prose and poetry,” she continued, -turning her head a little and looking at him, “as if the -prose had something disagreeable in it. Well, so it may have—to -the dreamers. I too am a dreamer, of course, in my -way; but I dream about the earth and the things of the earth, -and so my dreams are real as the wind is real, or the sunlight, -or the moonlight, or the light of the stars, none of which fear -the contact of the earth or the water. But these people seem -to me to dream of the things of heaven, filling all space with -them. But space is empty—at any rate of things like theirs.”</p> - -<p>“You do not believe,” he said, “as Taine does, that ‘at -bottom there is nothing truly sweet and beautiful in our life -but our dreams?’”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “yes and no! But what does it matter -<i>what</i> I believe? I have no opinion of my own in this way. -You would make me dogmatic. Now I shall always try not to -be dogmatic. I rebel against defining things, especially things -that I like; they are never the same afterwards. But I am -often doing this, and I have to suffer for it. This comes of -being born in an age which can describe everything and do -nothing.—You see, you make me petulant!”</p> - -<p>It flashed across Gildea’s mind as she finished speaking that -there was a great difference between the manner of his talk -with this girl and with that bright intelligent girl in Melbourne.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span> -He perceived the difference, and the greatness of the difference, -but not much farther. It was many years, and in point -of spiritual time many ages, since Gildea had been blind to the -fact that another nature was influencing and being influenced -by his own with the force of fatality. It is the distinguishing -mark of the moderns that they are not blind in this respect. -None of Shakspere’s men, not even the intellectual Hamlet, -get beyond a suspicion that Fate is playing upon them. The -chief cause of Hamlet’s delay lies in this suspicion and his -antagonism to it: the others submit blindly, and only recognise -fatality when the “wheel has come full circle,” but <i>the process</i> -of fatality is all unknown to them, not even a mystery. Miss -Medwin too was in the same state as Gildea but even deeper -in it. She spoke to him as she had never spoken to anyone -else in her life, as to a comrade, without leaning, without supporting, -with complete simplicity. The spell that compels a -mutual truthfulness is the perception that you understand and -are understood.</p> - -<p>“I see,” he said, “that <i>you</i> complain of your age because -its senses are deranged, and idlers like me because the gifts -that it assigns to the doers, as opposed to the thinkers, are -not gold but tinsel.”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” she said, “I do not complain of my age! If I -complained of anything, it would be of myself who am unfit -for my age. And I do not think that the gifts of our actions -are tinsel.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you are right, and the fault is mine because <i>my</i> -senses are deranged?”</p> - -<p>“There is great room for action now, as it seems to me. If -a man appeared to-morrow with the secret of attraction in him—the -secret that Napoleon had or Byron—he would control us -as much as they did. They are ours too, these men.”</p> - -<p>“But we think too much? we can describe everything, and -do nothing?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know,” she said, “I have no opinion!”</p> - -<p>“Alice,” said Mrs. Medwin.</p> - -<p>“Yes, aunt,” answered Miss Medwin.</p> - -<p>“Will you please make the tea?” she said.</p> - -<p>Miss Medwin rose at once, Gildea rising too, smiling. It -was Mrs. Medwin’s peculiar charm that, at certain apparently -eccentric moments, she would speak and act with the pretty -spontaneous sweetness of a young girl. This was the scent<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span> -this wonderful flower had retained, despite all the terrible heats -of the noontide and frosts of the dawn that had fallen upon -its life. She had spoken in this manner now.</p> - -<p>Miss Medwin went behind the tea-table which Edgar had -just brought in and on which he was placing the bright silver -tea-urn, and the water-can with its blue-violet-flamed spirit-lamp; -then, at a nod from Gildea, disappeared. Miss Medwin -poured out a cup of tea which Gildea took to Mrs. Medwin, -returning for the milk and sugar, while Miss Medwin took the -second cup to Maddock, who received it with suave and -charming thanks. Mrs. Medwin thanked Gildea, who passed -on with the milk and sugar to Maddock, and, as he returned -to the tea-table for the cakes and biscuits, passed Miss Medwin -with the third cup on her way to Alcock. Alcock received her -with thanks profuse and jocular.</p> - -<p>“Do you take milk and sugar?” asked Miss Medwin.</p> - -<p>“No, no, thank you, Miss Medwin,” returned Alcock, “I -take neither!”</p> - -<p>Gildea arrived, with a plate of cakes in one hand and a plate -of biscuits in the other. Mrs. Medwin recognised in the -biscuits those of a sort to which she was somewhat addicted, -and divined that Gildea had noticed the fact.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Sir Horace,” she said, with her manner of -pretty spontaneous sweetness, “And presently Alice shall -play for you. I know you will find her style of playing a -treat.”</p> - -<p>Sir Horace made a suitable reply and passed on with the -cakes and biscuits. Mrs. Medwin and Maddock began to talk -together, Alcock playing the part of silent member.</p> - -<p>“There is your tea,” Miss Medwin said to Gildea as he -came back to the tea-table. She was standing with her own -cup in her hand as if about to move away to a seat. Gildea -proffered the biscuits. She took one. He put down the -plates and took up his cup.</p> - -<p>“You are an epicure in tea,” she said, sipping a little of hers -from her tea-spoon, “are you not?”</p> - -<p>“I do not know,” he answered with a slightly amused look, -“but I believe that the Russians are the only people in Europe -who understand it.”</p> - -<p>“They take neither sugar nor milk, do they? and a slice of -lemon floating in the tea?”</p> - -<p>They were moving back to their places. He assented.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span></p> - -<p>“And who are the only people in Europe who understand -coffee?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Undoubtedly the French.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you mean the café au lait—with the milk and coffee -both boiling and poured in together? I like it that way, but -not with too much milk. We had a french cook once who -used to make it for us, and, as I liked it, of course I found out -how to make it myself.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “certainly coffee with cold milk is a barbarism; -but the shape in which I like coffee best is as, what -the French call, café noir.”</p> - -<p>Miss Medwin said she had never seen it in that way, and, in -answer to Gildea’s slight expression of surprise, explained that -she had never been in France. Gildea described the café noir -and the proper manner in which to drink it.</p> - -<p>“You fill the spoon with cognac,” he said, “into which you -put a lump of sugar—In France the sugar is in little thin slabs, -not, as with us, in squares—and then you set the cognac alight. -This melts down the sugar and, when all the spirit is burnt up, -except that which saturates the sugar, and goes out, you put in -your spoon. The flavour of burnt sugar and cognac is pleasant.”</p> - -<p>“It is indeed, Sir Horace,” said Alcock, tired of playing the -part of silent member in the other conversation, “I drank it -that way myself in Paris. A friend of mine, an American told -me of it. Paris is a very pleasant place. You have a treat in -store for you, going there, Miss Medwin.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered, “I should like to go to Paris; the -Louvre is there.”</p> - -<p>“A very fine collection,” said Alcock, “I was much struck -with it! Unfortunately all the best works of art are now either -in collections, or so expensive that they are out of the reach of -us Australians who have claims upon us more pressing. You -saw the Picture Gallery in Melbourne?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I saw it. I think it is rather painful. I liked the -Library better.”</p> - -<p>“The building—the room, you mean?”</p> - -<p>“No, I meant the books. I used to go and sit there and -read.”</p> - -<p>“Oh indeed?” said Alcock. “And what now do you think -of the Picture Gallery here?”</p> - -<p>“Alice,” said Mrs. Medwin, “you are not to say! I won’t have -you say that the things in Sydney are better than in Melbourne!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span></p> - -<p>“Very well, aunt,” said Alice, “then I will not say it.”</p> - -<p>“And now,” said Mrs. Medwin, “I want you to play for -us.”</p> - -<p>Miss Medwin rose at once with a look for the piano, which -was on the other side of the curtains. Both she and Gildea -were amused and delighted by Mrs. Medwin’s characteristic -interruption and command: Maddock was amused: even -Alcock, who did not yet know her ways, was too much influenced -by the charm of this her happiest manner to think it -rude or imperious. “She is such an invalid,” he said, recounting -this incident as an anecdote to a friend of his at the Melbourne -Club, “and rules everyone about her like a little -empress. But her manner is irresistible, really irresistible; and -it doesn’t offend you in the least—in fact you rather like it. -There is no woman in Melbourne who could help us to consolidate -a party in the english social manner as <i>she</i> could. -And I really attach—I really do!—considerable importance to -the idea.” Such was the subsequent expression of the thoughts -which were passing through the mind of Alcock as Gildea, -having held back the curtain for Miss Medwin to pass, was -opening the piano for her. Mrs. Medwin sat in serene unconsciousness -of the possibility of her manners being considered as -otherwise than her own, and would have been surprised if she -had heard that anyone thought they were open to question.</p> - -<p>“Is there any piece, aunt,” asked Miss Medwin, bending -back so as to see Mrs. Medwin through the curtains, “that you -would like me to play?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no!” Mrs. Medwin said, “Why, I wanted you to play -for Sir Horace, not for me!”</p> - -<p>Miss Medwin smiled assent, and, after a few moments’ -pause to consider what piece she would play and to collect her -thoughts, began. The piece was the one which she considered -would most please her audience, and which of course she knew. -It was Chopin’s Eleventh Nocturne. It suited her humour at -many times, but particularly at the present. The Nocturne is -divided into two parts: passionate and half-weary wandering, -and rest in which passion is merged in peace. To her it conjured -up the vision of a twilight road winding up between -woody rolling fields and a plantation. The dark figure of the -man, whose passionate and half-weary wandering is here expressing -itself, is coming slowly up the road. Low down and -far away behind the close straight stems of the plantation lie a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span> -few pallid veins of sunset light. The shadows are stealing -swiftly around him. He is near to hopelessness, near to the -wish to</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent4">lie down like a tired child,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">and weep away the life of care</div> - <div class="verse indent0">which he has borne and yet must bear:</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent">but passion and yearning are still too strong in him for self-abandonment. -Then he hears sounds—a strain of music and -voices—the nuns or monks perhaps, singing an evening hymn to -the blessèd Mary, mother of passion and of peace! He moves -on slowly and softly, listening. His hopelessness, his weariness -are soothed into rest: trust enters into him, trust in the aims of -life, that general life in which his own is now merged, even as -the yearning of passion is lost in the sweetness of peace....</p> - -<p>When she had finished, there was a long pause, and then -Gildea thanked her for the pleasure she had given him. Mrs. -Medwin and Maddock began to speak of the piece, Maddock -expressing his pleasure at it and his admiration for Miss -Medwin’s playing.</p> - -<p>“You are, then, a lover of this Chopin?” said Gildea to -Miss Medwin. “But he is not your Master, as you would say?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered, “he is not my Master.—I suppose you -mean Beethoven by that?” she added, looking up at him. He -assented.</p> - -<p>“And yet,” she said, “I cannot somehow call even him -Master. I do not love music as I ought to do—especially -Beethoven and Wagner. They are great, these men, very great, -but I cannot lose myself in their spirit as I should do. I often -feel this.”</p> - -<p>“It was one of Heine’s few fantastic sayings,” said Gildea, -“that Chopin was the Raphael of the piano, and indeed a -piece like this, or the stately opening of the Thirteenth Nocturne—You -remember it?” (She assented)—“or the Marche -Funèbre, help to see what he meant; but to call him a Raphael -seems to me inapt. No Raphael, for instance, would have -dreamed of so entirely giving himself up to the influence of -his passion as Chopin does. Surely it is not in <i>his</i> spirit that -you can lose yourself?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, “less than in Beethoven’s. But perhaps -Heine only meant his expression about Chopin comparatively. -Chopin, you remember, is the only great composer who -devoted himself to the piano. Certainly he is a master of it,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span> -but his style of art is not like Raphael’s—at least so far as I -know of Raphael.”</p> - -<p>They came back talking into the other room, where Gildea, -from a glance at Mrs. Medwin’s face, perceived that she now -wished them to go down to the yacht. In a few minutes he -brought the conversation round to the subject and, having -asked and she having expressed her wish, the party was presently -crossing the lawn on its way down to the small landing-stage, -close to which the “Petrel” had now been brought in. -Mrs. Medwin, between Maddock and Alcock, was some yards -ahead of Gildea and Miss Medwin who were following them.</p> - -<p>“You did not know,” Gildea was saying to her, “that Mr. -Hawkesbury was a friend of mine? He has been having -lunch with us, and only just went away before you arrived. -He, and another friend of mine whom you perhaps have met -in Melbourne, Mr. Fitzgerald—No?—were unable to stay.”</p> - -<p>“So I supposed,” said Miss Medwin, “or something like -that.—You do not perhaps know,” she added, “that my aunt -has a dislike for him that really almost amounts to antipathy?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Gildea, “I was aware of it: his social opinions -are too much for her, and Sydney Medwin annoys her by constantly -mentioning both them and him. A meeting would -have been awkward indeed, but I made my calculations carefully, -and I should have regretted not giving my friend Fitzgerald -the opportunity of making Hawkesbury’s acquaintance. -In a few days one will be going due north and the other due -south, but I hope they will meet again later on. Two more -charming examples of the two species of enthusiast it would be -hard to find.”</p> - -<p>“What do you call the two species?”</p> - -<p>“The enthusiast of heat and the enthusiast of light: both -are to me equally beautiful, equally charming!”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Hawkesbury, then,” she said, “is the enthusiast of heat? -I have never known any man so much in earnest as he is. He -seems to understand nothing but devotion or abhorrence; and -yet how well he generally conceals this from those whom he -thinks unworthy of the knowledge of it! His patience and -courtesy have often astonished and filled me with admiration. I -have heard him arguing with a stupid opponent, and I have -heard him addressing a crowd. His self-restraint, his clearness, -were simply wonderful. Has he ever spoken to you of -his friend and Master, as he says,—James Holden?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span></p> - -<p>“No,” answered Gildea, “but I happen to have seen -Holden myself.—But here we are!”</p> - -<p>Alcock from the deck and Maddock from the shore had assisted -Mrs. Medwin over the plank into the “Petrel,” and now -Miss Medwin, after shaking hands, expressing her regrets that he -could not come, and saying good-bye to Maddock, followed.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Medwin, Miss Medwin, Alcock and Gildea gathered -opposite Maddock, with whom they talked while the ropes -were being cast loose and the yacht got ready for starting. -Then, as she glided away, bending slightly as the wind caught -and filled her sails, Maddock took off his hat and stood bare-headed, -bowing and waving farewell.</p> - -<p>A more charming day for such a trip, it would have been -hard to choose. The air was warmer than in the morning, but -the breeze was still strong enough to prevent the volumes of -foul smoke which issued from the funnels of the harbour -steamers from polluting the air and spoiling the view. The -“Petrel” made straight for the main channel of the harbour in -the direction of the Heads.</p> - -<p>While Gildea was away talking with his skipper about the -arrangements that had been made for the trip, the other three -passengers moved about looking at the yacht, praising and -admiring its neatness and cleanness. And it was worthy too -both of the praise and admiration which they bestowed on its -general completeness, that namely of silence, and of the praise -and admiration which they who were skilled in such matters -bestowed on its sailing-powers.</p> - -<p>Presently Gildea rejoined them, and the conversation flowed -on lightly and pleasantly.</p> - -<p>“I notice,” said Miss Medwin, “that you carry very little gear -up aloft. Your masts too are unusually tall, are they not?”</p> - -<p>Gildea gave a pleased smile.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “they call her the ghost yacht at Cowes. I -use as little hempen rope as I can. When the great point is -speed, every extra inch that you give to the prise of the wind -is of importance. The steel, you see, does not offer half as -much resistance as the ordinary hempen rope. Besides which, -I have in several cases done away with a rope altogether where -I believed one, if properly handled, could do for two.”</p> - -<p>Miss Medwin, who knew the rigging and handling of a sailing-ship -fairly well, asked for an explanation of how one or two -things were done, which he gave her with a certain pleasure.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span></p> - -<p>“And what,” she said, “do your sailors think of your alterations?”</p> - -<p>He laughed.</p> - -<p>“They say the Old Man—that is my name with them—”</p> - -<p>“It is the name of all skippers with their sailors, is it -not?” she asked smiling.</p> - -<p>He assented.</p> - -<p>“—They say, or rather used to say, that I had a twist that -way. The conservatism of sailors and builders as regards ships -is quite wonderful. Imagine that, when they came to build iron -sailing ships instead of wood, they actually had and have the -stupidity to put up masts of the same circumference as the -old wooden ones, although thereby they gain no extra strength, -and expose square yards on yards needlessly to the prise of -the wind! I would venture to say that this alone makes a -difference of three or four knots per hour in a head wind to -the speed of the vessel.”</p> - -<p>Miss Medwin thought Gildea more charming in his capacity -of intelligent amateur captain than as consummate master of -things social. They moved down together towards the stern, -and stood there talking and looking forward. Mrs. Medwin -and Alcock were standing together talking a little way in front -of them. Then Edgar appeared with seats and rugs, which he -offered to Mrs. Medwin and Alcock, who sat down, Mrs. -Medwin with a rug over her knees, and then came aft to the -other two, who accepted two chairs, but for the present -remained standing as they talked.</p> - -<p>Presently there came a pause in the conversation and Miss -Medwin sat down, Gildea following suit. The pause became a -silence. At last he broke it.</p> - -<p>“You have noticed,” he said, “how different is the effect on -you of the sea, in a steamer and in a boat?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “I have noticed it. The steamer goes its -own determined way, breaking its sympathy with winds and -waters, and you—you are so high up that you cannot mingle in -the being of the spirits, the breathings of their lips, the wavings -of their hands, the tossings of their hair.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Where</i>,” he said smiling,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“<i>where the wild white horses play,</i></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>champ and chafe and toss in the spray.</i>”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>She smiled in turn. She was looking before her across the -sunny rolling billows to where, against some high brown jagged<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span> -rocks, the foam-mantle of the breakers rose ever silently and -fell. She was breathing in gently and serenely the delight of -the sea, the bright breeze, the movement of the yacht, the -divine blue free expansion of the clouds and skies. There -was a silence.</p> - -<p>“You are not fond of steamers, then?” he asked with a -side-look.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, “except in rough weather, and then I too -feel the elation of my kind,—the frail race of men which can -yet dominate the winds and waters and make their paths along -the neck of the untameable sea.—You do not know,” she -added, leaving her extraneous delight for a moment and looking -at him with a touch of self-amusement, “you do not know -how I swell with pride when I watch a great man-of-war sailing -on and on with such serene confidence, dominating the expanse -of water like a thing of self-evident strength and beauty. I -remember once making sand-forts with some children in -England in a little rock-girt cove, and suddenly I looked up -and there, almost filling our narrow horizon, was a great white -troop-ship passing close to the shore. It struck me quite dumb -for a moment; and then I began to applaud and shout like a -Bacchant, the children following suit.” She turned her face -away again, laughing, looking here and there, delighting again -in what she felt and saw.</p> - -<p>“You are a true daughter of kindly men,” he said, laughing -too, all suspicion of mockery passed away from look and tone. -There was another silence. Gildea was beginning to perceive -in himself a feeling he had never felt before, the feeling that he -was in the presence and even in the influence of a girl-woman, -(such was the idea presented to him), of a spiritual force as -consummate as, but wholly differing from, his own. In a few -moments he had recognized this, and by a wonderful stroke of -intuition divined the meaning of it. It partook of the nature -of a revelation. He seemed to see all his past life in a new -light. He felt that she—she, this woman, this girl, this child -here—had, by some unknown wonderful means, won the true -talisman of life, that talisman whose omnipotence is perpetuity. -It was, then, possible, after all, to combine perfect knowledge -of life with the radiant joy and peace of perfect trust in it!—It -partook of the nature of a revelation and, to second thoughts, -of a delusion. His lip curled: he almost despised himself for -the swift speed with which a suddenly begotten hope had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span> -leaped to a birth whose form and pressure was but the mask of -credulity. “There has been no man,” he said to himself, -“save Goethe, who knew what life was and yet could have a -weariless joy in it. Carlyle well said that this man was to -have no imitators or successors.—<i>Nostra vita a che val? solo a -spregiarla.</i>” And yet the idea of a new life, a life wherein -might be found something more than sweet resignation, -hedonistic merely or even optimistic, but supplying thought, -action, and speech with a motive-power whose strength should -be in its truth—the idea would not be shaken off by mere -self-contempt at credulity in it.</p> - -<p>“To tell you the truth,” he said to her, “I could almost envy -you your pure free joy in things.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him, surprise passing swiftly into serene observation.</p> - -<p>“What troubles you,” she said, “that you should not have -it yourself?”</p> - -<p>He smiled slightly as he answered her.</p> - -<p>“Pleasure, however sweet, however clear, is not joy.—And -yet,” he added quickly, “I would not change my pleasure for -your joy.”</p> - -<p>“No?”</p> - -<p>“A child has joy, a man has pleasure: joy, then, is a step -backward. It may excel in height, as we should say, but -breadth is the finer quality. The mountains are noble, but the -sea, encompassing all lands, is great.”</p> - -<p>“The sea also is deep, it has its valleys whose shadow is -nadir to the zenith peaks and light. I will not grant you your -simile. You must not mock at joy, for joy is the gift not -only of childhood which precedes, but of maturity which follows, -manhood. I would sooner be a Christian and have joy -than a Heathen with only pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“Christianity,” said Gildea, “is spiritual opium. You do -not eat it?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, “I see no use in drugs. But, as I said, I -would sooner take drugs that give me joy than live on meats -and wines that only gave me pleasure. Joy is mine, but -pleasure is every one’s.”</p> - -<p>“You had, then, once the temptation of drugs?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she assented a little dreamily, “I had the temptation.—And -yet,” she added with a sudden return of interest, -“it is wonderful how little of <i>these</i> drugs you can take, and live<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span> -with energy and joy. Are the lips of Monica pallid or her -eyes stony? Theresa has a clear mind: she can set her house -in order. The songs and glories of the Creatures, do they not -pass purely and freely, as you say, through the lips of Saint -Francis?”</p> - -<p>“True, but for us this aspect of the thing is past. The central -trust in the Christ-God is a skeletoned shadow, that the -grate holds up a moment beyond its time of falling in. You -see it lying, a pile of shapeless ash, and wonder it ever stood. -The Mother of Love and Grief appears no more save in the -brilliant burning of distorted vision. It is a case of opium or -nothing!”</p> - -<p>“You are right,” she said, “and so I saw it.”</p> - -<p>“What, then, remains,” he asked, “but resignation? There -is no joy in patience. Nay, worse, there is little pleasure. I -too take drugs, and I have more than once thought that, if -Fate had not kindly given me the wherewithal to buy them, I -should have ended the dreary business for ever. What is the -good of our life except to despise it? says Leopardi. It is just -bearable with drugs, but, without, I cannot think it worth the -bearing. Pure indifference keeps more of its high souls alive -now than the world wots of. They are careless of life, but -they are equally careless of death. They live merely waiting -for chance to kill them, or for life to become unendurable -enough for them to care to kill themselves. Such men are not -miserable. Sometimes, it is true, they suffer disgust; but they -know nothing of despair, for despair means illusion, and they -have the truth. Sometimes, again they have pleasure. But -how, tell me, is it possible to have at once both truth and -joy?”</p> - -<p>“All this,” she said, “I too felt, and not so long ago—although -I could not have put it to myself so clearly. You, I -think, have learned your belief more by living than by reading: -with me it was different. Before I began properly to live,—to -be free, that is, to examine and try everything for myself,—I -had arrived at my belief, and all my living has only confirmed -me in it.”</p> - -<p>“<i>What</i> is your belief?” he asked.</p> - -<p>She smiled and shook her head.</p> - -<p>“I will not try to tell it you explicitly,” she said, “for fear of -harming it. Analysis is a mistake, and now I have so long -known this, that I have little temptation to give way to it.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span> -You, it seems, have tried to be a Heathen. You gave yourself -up to the natural joy of your youth and fortune, your health -and strength and riches and powers, until the joy turned to -pleasure and the pleasure to almost pain. Then you went for -interest to the spiritual life of those about you, and again joy -turned to pleasure and pleasure to almost pain. But <i>you</i>—you -were not one that knew how to be resigned! You could not, as -your great Master could, add to the ‘Vanity of Vanities, all is -vanity’ the ‘Fear God and keep his commandments; for this -is the whole duty of man.’ Far otherwise with <i>you</i>, as you -have told me, was ‘the conclusion of the whole matter.’”</p> - -<p>“And you?” he said with the tone of comrade to comrade, -“and you?”</p> - -<p>“I had a revelation. It took place in a London fog in front -of a fire in a little backroom where I had my books. And, as -it were, scales fell from my eyes, and I saw men as trees walking.” -Gildea, the true arch-mocker, for the first time in his -life had to undergo the sensation of doubt whether or no he -was being mocked at.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well, I was in a rather miserable state at the time. Someone -to whom I was attached had had to leave me. I was sick -of trying to satisfy myself with the life of pleasure as pleasure, -and I had the temptation to take spiritual drugs, for I felt an -appalling loneliness of soul. I thought that no one had ever -looked at things as I felt I should like to look at them, and I -was at times almost afraid that I was suffering under a delusion -that might end in something very like madness. Then I had -my revelation. I found out that there had been a whole race -whose central belief was the one I was stretching out my arms -to.”</p> - -<p>“Greece?” said Gildea, “Greece?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Greece! Here I found were men who realized the -secret of life, who knew what Truth was. They looked at life -as it was, and they saw calmly and clearly that the butterfly’s -life is enough for the butterfly, and the man’s for the man. -They took no spiritual opium as the Christians do: they have -no yearning love. They have not resignation as the Heathens -have, resignation that sullenly accepts the evil, or that brightly -determines to make the best of the good in things. They have -better; they have truth and light and joy! Take, then, your -Christian Faith and Love: your Heathen Trust and Hope: <i>I</i><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span> -am a Pagan, and my care is Truth and Light!—And I found,” -she went on, “I found, after a time, that there had been others -in these later days that had looked, or striven to look at things, -as I did. Such was Goethe, such was Keats. With Goethe -the freedom of his Paganism was bought at a great price, but -Keats was born free. When Goethe recognised what it was to -have been a Christian, to be a Heathen, and to wish to be a -Pagan, he renounced his past and present with all the strength -of his soul, and fixed his eyes resolutely on his future. But he -never won it—that is to say, as he had won the others. He -was never a Pagan as he was a Heathen or a Christian. The -Second Part of Faust is not like the First. It is not with -impunity that we have passed through the Christianity of -Catholicism and the Heathenism of the Renascence. A Dante -or a Shakspere could not be shaken off by a Goethe, and a -Sophokles wholly put on. Is a great pagan soul possible yet? -How shall we say no with what Keats might have become -before us?—Sometimes I think,” she said a little dreamily, -“that I am the only one of my time who understood these -great men; Goethe, the god of the Transition, Keats, the -Herakles of Modernity, strangled in his cradle by the serpents -of Hera! And, for either of them, I would readily have given -my life.” ...</p> - -<p>Mrs. Medwin turned round towards them, Alcock turning -too, as if they had reached a point in their conversation in -which a break was expedient. Then Mrs. Medwin and Alcock -rose and came up to them.</p> - -<p>“Is not the water exquisitely clear?” she said to Gildea, -“It reminds me of Capreae. It only wants the beautiful coral -rocks.”</p> - -<p>Gildea smilingly assented. He remembered a remark of -Mrs. Medwin’s to the effect that, as you approached Melbourne -from the north, it was like the bay of Naples with -Vesuvius.</p> - -<p>“Miss Medwin,” he said, with the smile changing on his -face and becoming sweet and radiant, “Miss Medwin has just -been explaining to me a passage from Goethe which I never -understood.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed?” said Mrs. Medwin, “I did not know you read -German, Alice. Was it a passage from Faust? I think Faust -is very difficult, and I do not understand the Second Part in -the least.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span></p> - -<p>“No,” answered Gildea, “It was not from Faust.—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Vom Halben zu entwöhnen;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">im Ganzen, Guten, Schönen</div> - <div class="verse indent0">resolut zu leben.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>“That is not very difficult, Sir Horace,” said Mrs. Medwin.</p> - -<p>Gildea, in answer to the dumb look on Alcock’s face, who -did not happen to know German, translated it with courtesy:</p> - -<p>“‘I resolved to wean myself,’” he said, “‘from halves, and -to live for the Whole, the Good, the Beautiful.’”</p> - -<p>“And what does it <i>mean</i>?” asked Alcock.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” answered Gildea smiling, “Miss Medwin must tell -you that!”</p> - -<p class="right"><i>April, 1885.</i></p> - -<p class="titlepage">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="footnotes"> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="nobreak">FOOTNOTES</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> The remark is, of course, general. Most of Victoria, as we all know, is unfortunately -definitely sold.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> <i>Melbourne Review</i>, October, 1883. (No. 32.)</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> <i>Victorian Review</i>, May, 1884. (No. 55).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> <i>Melbourne Review</i>, April, 1884. (No. 34).</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> I may parenthetically remark that the idea that Gordon is buried in St. Kilda -Cemetery is incorrect, as my doing so may perhaps save others from the trouble of a -fruitless pilgrimage there, not to say an examination of all the Cemetery books. He is -buried in Brighton Cemetery. The tombstone is a block of blue-stone, topped with a -shattered column crowned with a laurel-wreath. The four sides of the block have -marble tablets let into them, on which are severally written: “The Poet Gordon. Died -June 24, 1870, aged 37 years;” “Sea-Spray and Smoke-Drift;” “Bush Ballads and -Galloping Rhymes;” “Ashtaroth.” The Cemetery is wooded and wild, the vegetation, -including the grave-flowers, stragglingly luxuriant. Not altogether an unfitting -“sleeping place” for him.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> His little article on it in the <i>Contemporary Review</i> is a mere circular.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> <i>Victorian Review</i>, February, 1885, in a series of articles on contemporary English -poets.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> It is gratifying to notice at the Technological Museum, where one would least -expect it, the number of sunday visitors more than halves that of all the other days put -together.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> A volume of his, in which is included his “Miscellaneous Poems” and “Convict -Once,” has lately appeared—at last another book, out of so much of this hopelessly -worthless colonial literature, which counts!</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> Three of Miss Ironsides’ pictures were, when I was in Sydney, housed in a sort of -shed behind the temporary Picture Gallery. On one side of it the windows were open -to the dust and rain! One of the pictures, the “Ars Longa, Vita Brevis,” was much -spoiled; another, the “Adoration of the Magi,” a little. I did what I could to alter -this state of affairs, but I could do nothing. The Trustees do not know to whom the pictures -belong, and there is not room enough in the Gallery, as it is, for even the purchased -pictures. Perhaps when these three pictures are permanently spoiled, something will -be done. For me, I must confine myself to pointing out the wonderful depth of quiet -feeling which is the chief characteristic of the work of this remarkable girl. This is to -be noticed most in the “Marriage” picture and the “Ars Longa.” At the same time -there is something of passionate—of passion suppressed, but none the less existent and -strong, which adds a peculiar flavour and attraction to her work. The mother’s face in -the “Adoration” and the girl playing on the harp in the “Marriage” are really beautiful -in thought and execution. For pure execution, however, I would direct attention to -the drapery of the angel in the former picture, or, in a particular shape, the thorns in -the “Ars Longa.” I suppose that there is such a plethora of work like this of Miss -Ironsides’ in both Sydney and Melbourne that only one or two mentally impoverished -people like myself can be expected to trouble about it, and it is in the hope of attracting -the attention of one or two such that I write this. There are, however, three pictures by -Mr. Folingsby in the Melbourne Gallery which would, I am sure, look quite nice in one -of our new æsthetically furnished hotels, Mr. Hosie’s (say) or the Grand, and then -perhaps someone might put Miss Ironsides’ in their places. This would be a gain for -both the Hotels and the Gallery.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> Crescat et proficiat tam singulorum quam omnium, tam unius hominis quam totius -Ecclesiæ, Intelligentia Scientia Sapientia.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> “In Memoriam,” cxiv.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> In the Land Act that came into force in March, 1885.</p> - -</div> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<p class="titlepage">MELBOURNE:<br /> -WILLIAM INGLIS AND CO., PRINTERS,<br /> -FLINDERS STREET EAST.</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUSTRALIAN ESSAYS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. -</div> - -<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> -<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person -or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when -you share it without charge with others. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work -on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the -phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: -</div> - -<blockquote> - <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> - 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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you - are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws - of the country where you are located before using this eBook. - </div> -</blockquote> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg™ License. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain -Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -provided that: -</div> - -<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation.” - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ - works. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. - </div> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right -of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread -public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state -visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. -</div> - -</div> - -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/64692-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/64692-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8ee28d7..0000000 --- a/old/64692-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64692-h/images/deco1.jpg b/old/64692-h/images/deco1.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 13a6f52..0000000 --- a/old/64692-h/images/deco1.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64692-h/images/deco2.jpg b/old/64692-h/images/deco2.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 535eafc..0000000 --- a/old/64692-h/images/deco2.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/64692-h/images/deco3.jpg b/old/64692-h/images/deco3.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index ba9b3df..0000000 --- a/old/64692-h/images/deco3.jpg +++ /dev/null |
