THE THREAD OF GOLD

BY ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

FELLOW OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF QUIET"

 _Quem locum nôsti mihi destinatum?_ _Quo meos gressus regis?_

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W

1912

 FIRST EDITION, . . . . . . . . . . November 1905 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . November 1905 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1906 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . October 1906 SECOND EDITION, . . . . . . . . . December 1906 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1907 THIRD EDITION, . . . . . . . . . . October 1907 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . November 1907 FOURTH EDITION (1/- net) . . . . . May 1910 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . October 1910 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . January 1911 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . May 1911 Reprinted, . . . . . . . . . . . . July 1912

[Transcriber's note: The source book had no Table of Contents and itschapters were numbered only, not titled. However, its pages hadrunning headers which changed with each chapter. Those headers havebeen converted to chapter titles, and collected here as the Table ofContents. ]

CONTENTS

 Preface Introduction (1906) Introduction I. The Red Spring II. The Deserted Shrine, The Manor House III. Leucocholy IV. The Flower V. The Fens VI. The Well and the Chapel VII. The Cuckoo VIII. Spring-time IX. The Hare X. The Diplodocus XI. The Beetle XII. The Farm-yard XIII. The Artist XIV. Young Love XV. A Strange Gathering XVI. The Cripple XVII. Oxford XVIII. Authorship XIX. Hamlet XX. A Sealed Spirit XXI. Leisure XXII. The Pleasures of Work XXIII. The Abbey XXIV. Wordsworth XXV. Dorsetshire XXVI. Portland XXVII. Canterbury Tower XXVIII. Prayer XXIX. The Death-bed of Jacob XXX. By the Sea of Galilee XXXI. The Apocalypse XXXII. The Statue XXXIII. The Mystery of Suffering XXXIV. Music XXXV. The Faith of Christ XXXVI. The Mystery of Evil XXXVII. Renewal XXXVIII. The Secret XXXIX. The Message XL. After Death XLI. The Eternal Will XLII. Until the Time Conclusion

PREFACE

I sate to-day, in a pleasant hour, at a place called _The SevenSprings_, high up in a green valley of the _Cotswold_ hills. Closebeside the road, seven clear rills ripple out into a small pool, andthe air is musical with the sound of running water. Above me, in alittle thicket, a full-fed thrush sent out one long-drawn cadence afteranother, in the joy of his heart, while the lengthening shadows of bushand tree crept softly over the pale sward of the old pasture-lands, inthe westering light of the calm afternoon. 

These springs are the highest head-waters of the _Thames_, and thatfact is stated in a somewhat stilted Latin hexameter carved on a stoneof the wall beside the pool. The so-called _Thames-head_ is in ameadow down below _Cirencester_, where a deliberate engine pumps up, from a hidden well, thousands of gallons a day of the purest water, which begins the service of man at once by helping to swell the scantyflow of the _Thames_ and _Severn Canal_. But _The Seven Springs_ arethe highest hill-fount of Father _Thames_ for all that, streaming asthey do from the eastward ridge of the great oolite crest of the downsthat overhang _Cheltenham_. As soon as those rills are big enough toform a stream, the gathering of waters is known as the _Churn_, which, speeding down by _Rendcomb_ with its ancient oaks, and _Cerney_, in agreen elbow of the valley, join the _Thames_ at _Cricklade_. 

It was of the essence of poetry to feel that the water-drops which thusbabbled out at my feet in the spring sunshine would be moving, how manydays hence, beside the green playing-fields at _Eton_, scattered, diminished, travel-worn, polluted; but still, under night and stars, through the sunny river-reaches, through hamlet and city, bywater-meadow or wharf, the same and no other. And half in fancy, halfin earnest, I bound upon the heedless waters a little message of lovefor the fields and trees so dear to me. 

What a strange parable it all made! the sparkling drops so soon lost tosight and thought alike, each with its own definite place in thelimitless mind of God, all numbered, none forgotten; eachdrop, --bright, new-born, and fresh as it appeared, racing out solight-heartedly into the sun, --yet as old, and older, than the rocksfrom which it sprang! How often had those water-drops been woven intocloud-wreaths, through what centuries they had leapt and plunged amongsea-billows, or lain cold and dark in the ocean depths, since the daywhen this mass of matter that we call the earth had been cut off andsent whirling into space, a molten drop from the fierce vortex of itscentral sun! And, what is the strangest thought of all, I can sit heremyself, a tiny atom spun from drift of storms, and concourse of fraildust, and, however dimly and faintly, depict the course of things, trace, through some subtle faculty, the movement of the mind of Godthrough the aeons; and yet, though I can send my mind into the past andthe future, though I can see the things that are not and the thingsthat are, I am denied the least inkling of what it all signifies, whatthe slow movement of the ages is all aimed at, and even what the swiftinterchange of light and darkness, pain and pleasure, sickness andhealth, love and hate, is meant to mean to me--whether there _is_ apurpose and an end at all, or whether I am just allowed, for my shortspace of days, to sit, a bewildered spectator, at some vast andunintelligible drama. 

Yet to-day the soft sunshine, the babbling springs, the valley brimmedwith haze, the bird's sweet song, all seem framed to assure me that Godmeans us well, urgently, intensely well. "My Gospel, " wrote one to methe other day, whose feet move lightly on the threshold of life, "isthe Gospel of contentment. I do not see the necessity of asking myselfuneasy and metaphysical questions about the Why and the Wherefore andthe What. " The necessity? Ah, no! But if one is forced, againstone's will and hope, to go astray in the wilderness out of the way, tofind oneself lonely and hungry, one must needs pluck the bitter berriesof the place for such sustenance as one can. I doubt, indeed, whetherone is able to compel oneself into and out of certain trains ofthought. If one dislikes and dreads introspection, one will doubtlessbe happier for finding something definite to do instead. But even so, the thoughts buzz in one's ears; and then, too, the very wonder aboutsuch things has produced some of the most beautiful things in theworld, such as _Hamlet_, or Keats' _Ode to the Nightingale_, things wecould not well do without. Who is to decide which is the nobler, wiser, righter course? To lose oneself in a deep wonder, with ananxious hope that one may discern the light; or, on the other hand, tomingle with the world, to work, to plan, to strive, to talk, to do theconventional things? We choose (so we call it) the path that suits usbest, though we disguise our motives in many ways, because we hardlydare to confess to ourselves how frail is our faculty of choice at all. But, to speak frankly, what we all do is to follow the path where wefeel most at home, most natural; and the longer I live the more I feelthat we do the things we are impelled to do, the works prepared for usto walk in, as the old collect says. How often, in real life, do wesee any one making a clean sweep of all his conditions andsurroundings, to follow the path of the soul? How often do we see aman abjure wealth, or resist ambition, or disregard temperament, _unexpectedly_? Not once, I think, to speak for myself, in the wholeof my experience. 

This, then, is the _motif_ of the following book: that whether we areconquerors or conquered, triumphant or despairing, prosperous orpitiful, well or ailing, we are all these things through Him that lovesus. We are here, I believe, to learn rather than to teach, to endurerather than to act, to be slain rather than to slay; we are toleratedin our errors and our hardness, in our conceit and our security, by thegreat, kindly, smiling Heart that bade us be. We can make things alittle easier for ourselves and each other; but the end is not there:what we are meant to become is joyful, serene, patient, waitingmomently upon God; we are to become, if we can, content not to becontent, full of tenderness and loving-kindness for all the frailbeings that, like ourselves, suffer and rejoice. But though we arebound to ameliorate, to improve, to lessen, so far as we can, thebrutal promptings of the animal self that cause the greatest part ofour unhappiness, we have yet to learn to hope that when things seem attheir worst, they are perhaps at their best, for then we are, indeed, at work upon our hard lesson; and perhaps the day may come when, looking back upon the strange tangle of our lives, we may see that thetime was most wasted when we were serene, easy, prosperous, andunthinking, and most profitable when we were anxious, overshadowed, andsuffering. _The Thread of Gold_ is the fibre of limitless hope thatruns through our darkest dreams; and just as the water-drop which I sawbreak to-day from the darkness of the hill, and leap downwards in itschannel, will see and feel, in its seaward course, many sweet andgentle things, as well as many hard and evil matters, so I, in a yearof my pilgrimage, have set down in this book, a frank picture of manylittle experiences and thoughts, both good and evil. Sometimes thewater-drop glides in the sun among mossy ledges, or lingers by the edgeof the copse, where the hazels lean together; but sometimes it isdarkened and polluted, so that it would seem that the foul oozings thatinfect it could never be purged away. But the turbid elements, thescum, the mud, the slime--each of which, after all, have their place inthe vast economy of things--float and sink to their destined abode; andthe crystal drop, released and purified, runs joyfully onwards in itsappointed way. 

A. C. B. 

CIRENCESTER, 8_th April_ 1907. 

INTRODUCTION (1906)

I am glad to have the opportunity of saying a few words in my own nameabout this book, because the original introduction seems to have misledsome of my readers; and as I have had many kind, encouraging, andsacred messages about the book from very unexpected quarters, I shouldlike to add a few further words of explanation. 

One of the difficulties under which literary art seems to me to labouris that it feels bound to run in certain channels, to adopt stereotypedand conventional media of expression. What can be more conventionalthan the average play, or the average novel? People in real life donot behave or talk--at least, this is my experience--in the smallestdegree as they behave or talk in novels or plays; life as a rule has noplot, and very few dramatic situations. In real life the adventuresare scanty, and for most of us existence moves on in a commonplace andinconsequent way. Misunderstandings are not cleared up, complexitiesare not unravelled. I think it is time that more unconventional formsof expression should be discovered and used; and at least, we can tryexperiments; the experiment that I have here tried, is to present asort of _liber studiorum_, a portfolio of sketches and impressions. The only coherence they possess is that, at the time when they werewritten, I was much preoccupied with the wonder as to whether anoptimistic view of life was justified. The world is a very mysteriousplace, and at first sight it presents a sad scene of confusion. Thewrong people often seem to be punished; blessings, such as those heapedupon the head of the patriarch Job, do not seem to be accumulated uponthe righteous. In fact, the old epigram that prosperity is theblessing of the Old Testament, adversity the blessing of the New, seemsfrequently justified. But, after all, the only soul-history that oneknows well enough to say whether or not the experience of life isadapted to the qualities of the particular soul, is one's own history;and, speaking for myself, I can but say, looking back upon my life, that it does seem to have been regulated hitherto by a very tender andintimate kind of guidance, though I did not always see how delicate theadaptation of it was at the time. The idea of this book, that there isa certain golden thread of hope and love interwoven with all our lives, running consistently through the coarsest and darkest fabric, was whatI set out to illustrate rather than to prove. Everything that boreupon this fact, while the book was being written, I tried to express assimply and as lucidly as I could. The people who have thought the bookformless or lacking in structure, are perfectly right. It is not, andit did not set out to be, a finished picture, with a due subordinationof groups and backgrounds. To me personally, though a finished pictureis a beautiful and an admirable thing, the loose, unconsidered sketchesand studies of an artist have a special charm. Of an artist, I say;have I then a claim to be considered an artist? I cannot answer thatquestion, but I will go further and say that the sketches of thehumblest amateur have an interest for me, which their finished picturesoften lack. One sees a revelation of personality, one sees what sortof things strike an individual mind as beautiful, one sees the methodwith which it deals with artistic difficulties. The most interestingthings of the kind I have ever seen are the portfolios of sketches byLeonardo da Vinci in the Royal library at Windsor; outlines of heads, features, flowers, backgrounds, strange engines of war, wings ofbirds--the _débris_, almost, of the studio--are there piled up inconfusion. And in a lesser degree the same is true of all suchcollections, though perhaps this shows that one is more interested inpersonality than in artistic performance. 

A good many people, too, have a gift for presenting a simple impressionof a beautiful thing, who have not the patience or the power ofcombination necessary for working out a finished design; and surely itis foolish to let the convention of art overrule a man's capacities?To allow that, to acquiesce in silence, to say that because one cannotexpress a thing in a certain way, one will not express it at all, seemsto me to be making an instinct into a moral sanction. One must expresswhatever one desires to express, as clearly and as beautifully aspossible, and one must take one's chance as to whether it is a work ofart. To hold one's tongue, if anything appears to be worth saying, because one does not know the exact code of the professionals, is asfoolish as if a man born in a certain class of society were to say thathe would never go to any social gathering except those of his precisesocial equals, because he was afraid of making mistakes of etiquette. Etiquette is not a matter of principle; it was not one of the things ofwhich Moses saw the pattern in the Mount! The only rule is not to bepretentious or assuming, not to claim that one's efforts arenecessarily worthy of admiration and attention. 

There is a better reason too. Orthodoxy in art is merely compliancewith the instinctive methods of great artists, and no one eversucceeded in art who did not make a method of his own. Originality islike a fountain-head of fresh water; orthodoxy is too often only theunimpeachable fluid of the water company. The best hope for the artand literature of a nation is that men should try to represent andexpress things that they have thought beautiful in an individual way. They do not always succeed, it is true; sometimes they fail for lack offorce, sometimes for lack of a sympathetic audience. I have found, inthe case of this book, a good deal of sincere sympathy; and where itfails, it fails through lack of force to express thoughts that I havefelt with a profound intensity. I have had critics who have franklydisliked the book, and I do not in the least quarrel with them forexpressing their opinion; but one does not write solely for thecritics; and on the other hand, I can humbly and gratefully say that Ihave received many messages, of pleasure in, and even gratitude for, the book which leave me in no sort of doubt that it was worth writing;though I wish with all my heart that it had been worthier of itsmotive, and had been better able to communicate the delight of myvisions and dreams. 

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON. 

 MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, 24_th November_ 1906. 

THE THREAD OF GOLD

INTRODUCTION

I have for a great part of my life desired, perhaps more than I havedesired anything else, to make a beautiful book; and I have tried, perhaps too hard and too often, to do this, without ever quitesucceeding; by that I mean that my little books, when finished, werenot worthy to be compared with the hope that I had had of them. Ithink now that I tried to do too many things in my books, to amuse, tointerest, to please persons who might read them; and I fear, too, thatin the back of my mind there lay a thought, like a snake in itshole--the desire to show others how fine I could be. I tried honestlynot to let this thought rule me; whenever it put its head out, I droveit back; but of course I ought to have waited till it came out, andthen killed it, if I had only known how to do that; but I suppose I hada secret tenderness for the little creature as being indeed a part ofmyself. 

But now I have hit upon a plan which I hope may succeed. I do notintend to try to be interesting and amusing, or even fine. I mean toput into my book only the things that appear to me deep and strange andbeautiful; and I can happily say that things seem to me to be more andmore beautiful every day. As when a man goes on a journey, and sees, in far-off lands, things that please him, things curious and rare, andbuys them, not for himself or for his own delight, but for the delightof one that sits at home, whom he loves and thinks of, and wishes everyday that he could see;--well, I will try to be like that. I will keepthe thought of those whom I love best in my mind--and God has been verygood in sending me many, both old and young, whom I love--and I willtry to put down in the best words that I can find the things thatdelight me, not for my sake but for theirs. For one of the strangestthings of all about beauty is, that it is often more clearly perceivedwhen expressed by another, than when we see it for ourselves. The onlydifficulty that I see ahead is that many of the things that I love bestand that give me the best joy, are things that cannot be told, cannotbe translated into words: deep and gracious mysteries, rays of light, delicate sounds. 

But I will keep out of my book all the things, so far as I can, whichbring me mere trouble and heaviness; cares and anxieties and bodilypains and dreariness and unkind thoughts and anger, and alluncleanness. I cannot tell why our life should be so sadly bound upwith these matters; the only comfort is that even out of this dark andheavy soil beautiful flowers sometimes spring. For instance, thepressure of a care, an anxiety, a bodily pain, has sometimes broughtwith it a perception which I have lacked when I have been bold andjoyful and robust. A fit of anger too, by clearing away little cloudsof mistrust and suspicion, has more than once given me a friendshipthat endures and blesses me. 

But beauty, innocent beauty of thought, of sound, of sight, seems to meto be perhaps the most precious thing in the world, and to hold withinit a hope which stretches away even beyond the grave. Out of silenceand nothingness we arise; we have our short space of sight and hearing;and then into the silence we depart. But in that interval we aresurrounded by much joy. Sometimes the path is hard and lonely, and westumble in miry ways; but sometimes our way is through fields andthickets, and the valley is full of sunset light. If we could be morecalm and quiet, less anxious about the impression we produce, morequick to welcome what is glad and sweet, more simple, more contented, what a gain would be there! I wonder more and more every day that Ilive that we do not value better the thought of these calmer things, because the least effort to reach them seems to pull down about us awhole cluster of wholesome fruits, grapes of Eschol, apples ofParadise. We are kept back, it seems to me, by a kind of silly fear ofridicule, from speaking more sincerely and instantly of these delights. 

I read the _Life_ of a great artist the other day who received a titleof honour from the State. I do not think he cared much for the titleitself, but he did care very much for the generous praise of hisfriends that the little piece of honour called forth. I will not quotehis exact words, but he said in effect that he wondered why friendsshould think it necessary to wait for such an occasion to indulge inthe noble pleasure of praising, and why they should not rather have aday in the year when they could dare to write to the friends whom theyadmired and loved, and praise them for being what they were. Of courseif such a custom were to become general, it would be clumsily spoilt byfoolish persons, as all things are spoilt which become conventional. But the fact remains that the sweet pleasure of praising, ofencouraging, of admiring and telling our admiration, is one that weEnglish people are sparing of, to our own loss and hurt. It is just asfalse to refrain from saying a generous thing for fear of being thoughtinsincere and what is horribly called gushing, as it is to say a hardthing for the sake of being thought straightforward. If a hard thingmust be said, let us say it with pain and tenderness, but faithfully. And if a pleasant thing can be said, let us say it with joy, and withno less faithfulness. 

Now I must return to my earlier purpose, and say that I mean that thislittle book shall go about with me, and that I will write in it onlystrange and beautiful things. I have many businesses in the world, andtake delight in many of them; but we cannot always be busy. So when Ihave seen or heard something that gives me joy, whether it be a newplace, or, what is better still, an old familiar place transfigured bysome happy accident of sun or moon into a mystery; or if I have beentold of a generous and beautiful deed, or heard even a sad story thathas some seed of hope within it; or if I have met a gracious and kindlyperson; or if I have read a noble book, or seen a rare picture or acurious flower; or if I have heard a delightful music; or if I havebeen visited by one of those joyful and tender thoughts that set myfeet the right way, I will try to put it down, God prospering me. Forthus I think that I shall be truly interpreting his loving care for thelittle souls of men. And I call my book _The Thread of Gold_, becausethis beauty of which I have spoken seems to me a thing which runs likea fine and precious clue through the dark and sunless labyrinths of theworld. 

And, lastly, I pray God with all my heart, that he may, in this matter, let me help and not hinder his will. I often cannot divine what hiswill is, but I have seen and heard enough to be sure that it is highand holy, even when it seems to me hard to discern, and harder still tofollow. Nothing shall here be set down that does not seem to me to beperfectly pure and honest; nothing that is not wise and true. It maybe a vain hope that I nourish, but I think that God has put it into myheart to write this book, and I hope that he will allow me topersevere. And yet indeed I know that I am not fit for so holy a task, but perhaps he will give me fitness, and cleanse my tongue with a coalfrom his altar fire. 

I

The Red Spring

Very deep in this enchanted land of green hills in which I live, lies astill and quiet valley. No road runs along it; but a stream with manycurves and loops, deep-set in hazels and alders, moves brimming down. There is no house to be seen; nothing but pastures and little woodswhich clothe the hill-sides on either hand. In one of these fields, not far from the stream, lies a secluded spot that I visit duly fromtime to time. It is hard enough to find the place; and I havesometimes directed strangers to it, who have returned withoutdiscovering it. Some twenty yards away from the stream, with a ring oflow alders growing round it, there is a pool; not like any other pool Iknow. The basin in which it lies is roughly circular, some ten feetacross. I suppose it is four or five feet deep. From the centre ofthe pool rises an even gush of very pure water, with a certain hue ofgreen, like a faintly-tinted gem. The water in its flow makes aperpetual dimpling on the surface; I have never known it to fail evenin the longest droughts; and in sharp frosty days there hangs a littlesmoke above it, for the water is of a noticeable warmth. 

This spring is strongly impregnated with iron, so strongly that it hasa sharp and medical taste; from what secret bed of metal it comes I donot know, but it must be a bed of great extent, for, though the springruns thus, day by day and year by year, feeding its waters with thebitter mineral over which it passes, it never loses its tinge; and theoldest tradition of the place is that it was even so centuries ago. 

All the rest of the pool is full of strange billowy cloudlike growths, like cotton-wool or clotted honey, all reddened with the iron of thespring; for it rusts on thus coming to the air. But the orifice youcan always see, and that is of a dark blueness; out of which the puregreen water rises among the vaporous and filmy folds, runs away brisklyout of the pool in a little channel among alders, all stained with thesame orange tints, and falls into the greater stream at a loop, tingingits waters for a mile. 

It is said to have strange health-giving qualities; and the water isdrunk beneath the moon by old country folk for wasting and weakeningcomplaints. Its strength and potency have no enmity to animal life, for the water-voles burrow in the banks and plunge with a splash in thestream; but it seems that no vegetable thing can grow within it, forthe pool and channel are always free of weeds. 

I like to stand upon the bank and watch the green water rise and dimpleto the top of the pool, and to hear it bickering away in its rustychannel. But the beauty of the place is not a simple beauty; there issomething strange and almost fierce about the red-stained water-course;something uncanny and terrifying about the filmy orange clouds thatstir and sway in the pool; and there sleeps, too, round the edges ofthe basin a bright and viscous scum, with a certain ugly radiance, shotwith colours that are almost too sharp and fervid for nature. It seemsas though some diligent alchemy was at work, pouring out from moment tomoment this strangely tempered potion. In summer it is more bearableto look upon, when the grass is bright and soft, when the tapestry ofleaves and climbing plants is woven over the skirts of the thicket, when the trees are in joyful leaf. But in the winter, when all tintsare low and spare, when the pastures are yellowed with age, and thehillside wrinkled with cold, when the alder-rods stand up stiff andblack, and the leafless tangled boughs are smooth like wire; then thepool has a certain horror, as it pours out its rich juice, all overhungwith thin steam. 

But I doubt not that I read into it some thoughts of my own; for it wason such a day of winter, when the sky was full of inky clouds, and thewood murmured like a falling sea in the buffeting wind, that I made agrave and sad decision beside the red pool, that has since tinged mylife, as the orange waters tinge the pale stream into which they fall. The shadow of that severe resolve still broods about the place for me. How often since in thought have I threaded the meadows, and looked withthe inward eye upon the green water rising, rising, and the crowdedorange fleeces of the pool! But stern though the resolve was, it wasnot an unhappy one; and it has brought into my life a firm and tonicquality, which seems to me to hold within it something of theastringent savour of the medicated waters, and perhaps something oftheir health-giving powers as well. 

II

The Deserted Shrine, The Manor House

I was making a vague pilgrimage to-day in a distant and unfamiliar partof the country, a region that few people ever visit, and saw two thingsthat moved me strangely. I left the high-road to explore a hamlet thatlay down in a broad valley to the left; and again diverged from thebeaten track to survey an old grange that lay at a little distanceamong the fields. Turning a corner by some cottages, I saw a smallancient chapel, of brown weathered stone, covered with orange lichen, the roof of rough stone tiles. In the narrow graveyard round it, thegrass grew long and rank; the gateway was choked by briars. I couldsee that the windows of the tiny building were broken. I have neverbefore in England seen a derelict church, and I clambered over the wallto examine it more closely. It stood very beautifully; from the lowwall of the graveyard, on the further side, you could look over a wideextent of rich water-meadows, fed by full streams; there was muchranunculus in flower on the edges of the water-courses, and a fewcattle moved leisurely about with a peaceful air. Far over themeadows, out of a small grove of trees, a manor-house held up itsenquiring chimneys. The door of the chapel was open, and I have seldomseen a more pitiful sight than it revealed. The roof within was of aplain and beautiful design, with carved bosses, and beams of some darkwood. The chapel was fitted with oak Jacobean woodwork, pews, areading-desk, and a little screen. At the west was a tiny balustradedgallery. But the whole was a scene of wretched confusion. Thewoodwork was mouldering, the red cloth of the pulpit hung raggedlydown, the leaves of the great prayer-book fluttered about the pavement, in the draught from the door. The whole place was gnawed by rats andshockingly befouled by birds; there was a litter of rotting nests uponthe altar itself. Yet in the walls were old memorial tablets, and thepassage of the nave was paved with lettered graves. It brought back tome the beautiful lines--

 "En ara, ramis ilicis obsita, Quae sacra Chryses nomina fert deae, Neglecta; jamdudum sepultus Aedituus jacet et sacerdos. "

Outside the sun fell peacefully on the mellow walls, and the starlingstwittered in the roof; but inside the deserted shrine there was a senseof broken trust, of old memories despised, of the altar of God shamedand dishonoured. It was a pious design to build the little chapelthere for the secluded hamlet; and loving thought and care had gone tomaking the place seemly and beautiful. The very stone of the wall, andthe beam of the roof cried out against the hard and untender usage thathad laid the sanctuary low. Here children had been baptized, tendermarriage vows plighted, and the dead laid to rest; and this was theend. I turned away with a sense of deep sadness; the very sunshineseemed blurred with a shadow of dreariness and shame. 

Then I made my way, by a stony road, towards the manor-house; andpresently could see its gables at the end of a pleasant avenue oflimes; but no track led thither. The gate was wired up, and the driveovergrown with grass. Soon, however, I found a farm-road which led upto the house from the village. On the left of the manor lay prosperousbarns and byres, full of sleek pigs and busy crested fowls. The teamscame clanking home across the water-meadows. The house itself becamemore and more beautiful as I approached. It was surrounded by a moat, and here, close at hand, stood another ancient chapel, in seemlyrepair. All round the house grew dense thickets of sprawling laurels, which rose in luxuriance from the edge of the water. Then I crossed alittle bridge with a broken parapet; and in front of me stood the houseitself. I have seldom seen a more perfectly proportioned orexquisitely coloured building. There were three gables in the front, the central one holding a beautiful oriel window, with a fine oak doorbelow. The whole was built of a pale red brick, covered with a greylichen that cast a shimmering light over the front. Tall chimneys ofsolid grace rose from a stone-shingled roof. The coigns, parapets andmullions were all of a delicately-tinted orange stone. To the rightlay a big walled garden, full of flowers growing with carelessrichness, the whole bounded by the moat, and looking out across thebroad green water-meadows, beyond which the low hills rose softly ingentle curves and dingles. 

A whole company of amiable dogs, spaniels and terriers, came out withan effusive welcome; a big black yard-dog, after a loud protestingbark, joined in the civilities. And there I sat down in the warm sun, to drink in the beauty of the scene, while the moor-hens criedplaintively in the moat, and the dogs disposed themselves at my feet. The man who designed this old place must have had a wonderful sense ofthe beauty of proportion, the charm of austere simplicity. Generationafter generation must have loved the gentle dignified house, with itsnarrow casements, its high rooms. Though the name of the house, thoughthe tale of its dwellers was unknown to me, I felt the appeal of theold associations that must have centred about it. The whole air, thatquiet afternoon, seemed full of the calling of forgotten voices, anddead faces looked out from the closed lattices. So near to my heartcame the spirit of the ancient house, that, as I mused, I felt asthough even I myself had made a part of its past, and as though I werereturning from battling with the far-off world to the home ofchildhood. The house seemed to regard me with a mournful and tendergaze, as though it knew that I loved it, and would fain utter itssecrets in a friendly ear. Is it strange that a thing of man'sconstruction should have so wistful yet so direct a message for thespirit? Well, I hardly know what it was that it spoke of; but I feltthe care and love that had gone to the making of it, and the dignitythat it had won from rain and sun and the kindly hand of Nature; itspoke of hope and brightness, of youth and joy; and told me, too, thatall things were passing away, that even the house itself, though itcould outlive a few restless generations, was indeed _debita morti_, and bowed itself to its fall. 

And then I too, like a bird of passage that has alighted for a momentin some sheltered garden-ground, must needs go on my way. But the oldhouse had spoken with me, had left its mark upon my spirit. And I knowthat in weary hours, far hence, I shall remember how it stood, peeringout of its tangled groves, gazing at the sunrise and the sunset overthe green flats, waiting for what may be, and dreaming of the days thatare no more. 

III

Leucocholy

I have had to taste, during the last few days, I know not why, of thecup of what Gray called Leucocholy; it is not Melancholy, only the paleshadow of it. That dark giant is, doubtless, stalking somewhere in thebackground, and the shadow cast by his misshapen head passes over mylittle garden ground. 

I do not readily submit to this mood, and I would wish it away. Iwould rather feel joyful and free from blame; but Gray called it a goodeasy state, and it certainly has its compensations. It does not, likeMelancholy, lay a dark hand on duties and pleasures alike; it ispossible to work, to read, to talk, to laugh when it is by. But itsends flowing through the mind a gentle current of sad and weary imagesand thoughts, which still have a beauty of their own; it tinges one'slife with a sober greyness of hue; it heightens perception, though itprevents enjoyment. In such a mood one can sit silent a long time, with one's eyes cast upon the grass; one sees the delicate forms of thetender things that spring softly out of the dark ground; one hears witha poignant delight the clear notes of birds; something of the springlanguors move within the soul. There is a sense, too, of reaching outto light and joy, a stirring of the vague desires of the heart, atender hope, an upward-climbing faith; the heart sighs for a peace thatit cannot attain. 

To-day I walked slowly and pensively by little woods and pastures, taking delight in all the quiet life I saw, the bush pricked withpoints of green, the boughs thickened with small reddening buds, theslow stream moving through the pasture; all the tints faint, airy, anddelicate; the life of the world seemed to hang suspended, waiting forthe forward leap. In a little village I stood awhile to watch thegables of an ancient house, the wing of a ruined grange, peer solemnlyover the mellow brick wall that guarded a close of orchard trees. Alittle way behind, the blunt pinnacles of the old church-tower stoodup, blue and dim, over the branching elms; beyond all ran the long, pure line of the rising wold. Everything seemed so still, so serene, as a long, pale ray of the falling sun, which laboured among flyingclouds, touched the westward gables with gold--and mine the onlytroubled, unquiet spirit. Hard by there was an old man tottering aboutin a little garden, fumbling with some plants, like Laertes on theupland farm. His worn face, his ragged beard, his pitifully-patchedand creased garments made him a very type of an ineffectual sadness. Perhaps his thoughts ran as sadly as my own, but I do not think it wasso, because the minds of many country-people, and of almost all theold, of whatever degree, seem to me free from what is the curse ofdelicately-trained and highly-strung temperaments--namely, thetemptation to be always reverting to the past, or forecasting thefuture. Simple people and aged people put that aside, and live quiteserenely in the moment; and that is what I believe we ought all toattempt, for most moments are bearable, if one only does not importinto them the weight of the future and the regret of the past. Toseize the moment with all its conditions, to press the quality out ofit, that is the best victory. But, alas! we are so made that though wemay know that a course is the wise, the happy, the true course, wecannot always pursue it. I remember a story of a public man who borehis responsibilities very hardly, worried and agonised over them, saying to Mr Gladstone, who was at that time in the very thick of afierce political crisis: "But don't you find you lie awake at night, thinking how you ought to act, and how you ought to have acted?" MrGladstone turned his great, flashing eyes upon his interlocutor, andsaid, with a look of wonder: "No, I don't; where would be the use ofthat?" And again I remember that old Canon Beadon--who lived, I think, to his 104th year--said to a friend that the secret of long life in hisown case was that he had never thought of anything unpleasant after teno'clock at night. Of course, if you have a series of compartments inyour brain, and at ten o'clock can turn the key quietly upon the roomthat holds the skeletons and nightmares, you are a very fortunate man. 

But still, we can all of us do something. If one has the courage andgood sense, when in a melancholy mood, to engage in some piece ofpractical work, it is wonderful how one can distract the great beastthat, left to himself, crops and munches the tender herbage of thespirit. For myself I have generally a certain number of dull tasks toperform, not in themselves interesting, and out of which littlepleasure can be extracted, except the pleasure which always resultsfrom finishing a piece of necessary work. When I am wise, I seize upona day in which I am overhung with a shadow of sadness to clear off workof this kind. It is in itself a distraction, and then one has thepleasure both of having fought the mood and also of having left thefield clear for the mind, when it has recovered its tone, to settledown firmly and joyfully to more congenial labours. 

To-day, little by little, the cloudy mood drew off and left me smiling. The love of the peaceful and patient earth came to comfort me. Howpure and free were the long lines of ploughland, the broad back of thegently-swelling down! How clear and delicate were the February tints, the aged grass, the leafless trees! What a sense of coolness andrepose! I stopped a long time upon a rustic-timbered bridge to look ata little stream that ran beneath the road, winding down through a roughpasture-field, with many thorn-thickets. The water, lapsing slowlythrough withered flags, had the pure, gem-like quality of the winterstream; in summer it will become dim and turbid with infusorial life, but now it is like a pale jewel. How strange, I thought, to think ofthis liquid gaseous juice, which we call water, trickling in the cracksof the earth! And just as the fish that live in it think of it astheir world, and have little cognisance of what happens in the acid, unsubstantial air above, except the occasional terror of the dim, looming forms which come past, making the soft banks quiver and stir, so it may be with us; there may be a great mysterious world outside ofus, of which we sometimes see the dark manifestations, and yet of theconditions of which we are wholly unaware. 

And now it grew dark; the horizon began to redden and smoulder; thestream gleamed like a wan thread among the distant fields. It was timeto hurry home, to dip in the busy tide of life again. Where was my sadmood gone? The clear air seemed to have blown through my mind, handshad been waved to me from leafless woods, quiet voices of field andstream had whispered me their secrets; "We would tell, if we could, "they seemed to say. And I, listening, had learnt patience, too--forawhile. 

IV

The Flower

I have made friends with a new flower. If it had a simple andwholesome English name, I would like to know it, though I do not careto know what ugly and clumsy title the botany books may give it; but itlives in my mind, a perfect and complete memory of brightness andbeauty, and, as I have said, a friend. 

It was in a steep sea-cove that I saw it. Round a small circular basinof blue sea ran up gigantic cliffs, grey limestone bluffs; here andthere, where they were precipitous, slanted the monstrous wavy lines ofdistorted strata, thrust up, God alone knows how many ages ago, by somesharp and horrible shiver of the boiling earth. Little waves broke onthe pebbly beach at our feet, and all the air was full of pleasantsharp briny savours. A few boats were drawn up on the shingle;lobster-pots, nets, strings of cork, spars, oars, lay in pleasantconfusion, by the sandy road that led up to the tiny hamlet above. Wehad travelled far that day and were comfortably weary; we found asloping ledge of turf upon which we sat, and presently became awarethat on the little space of grass between us and the cliff must oncehave stood a cottage and a cottage garden. There was a broken wallbehind us, and the little platform still held some garden flowerssprawling wildly, a stunted fruitbush or two, a knotted apple-tree. 

My own flower, or the bushes on which it grew, had once, I think, formed part of the cottage hedge; but it had found a wider place to itsliking, for it ran riot everywhere; it scaled the cliff, where, too, the golden wall-flowers of the garden had gained a footing; it fringedthe sand-patches beyond us, it rooted itself firmly in the shingle. The plant had rough light-brown branches, which were now all starredwith the greenest tufts imaginable; but the flower itself! On many ofthe bushes it was not yet fully out, and showed only in an abundance ofsmall lilac balls, carefully folded; but just below me a cluster hadfound the sun and the air too sweet to resist, and had opened to thelight. The flower was of a delicate veined purple, a five-pointedstar, with a soft golden heart. All the open blossoms stared at mewith a tranquil gaze, knowing I would not hurt them. 

Below, two fishermen rowed a boat quietly out to sea, the sharpcreaking of the rowlocks coming lazily to our ears in the pauses of thewind. The little waves fell with a soft thud, followed by the crispecho of the surf, feeling all round the shingly cove. The whole place, in that fresh spring day, was unutterably peaceful and content. 

And I too forgot all my busy schemes and hopes and aims, the tiny partI play in the world, with so much petty energy, such anxiousresponsibility. My purple-starred flower approved of my acquiescence, smiling trustfully upon me. "Here, " it seemed to say, "I bloom andbrighten, spring after spring. No one regards me, no one cares for me;no one praises my beauty; no one sorrows when these leaves grow pale, when I fall from my stem, when my dry stalks whisper together in thewinter wind. But to you, because you have seen and loved me, I whispermy secret. " And then the flower told me something that I cannot writeeven if I would, because it is in the language unspeakable, of which StPaul wrote that such words are not lawful for a man to utter; but theyare heard in the third heaven of God. 

Then I felt that if I could but remember what the flower said I shouldnever grieve or strive or be sorrowful any more; but, as the wisePsalmist said, be content to tarry the Lord's leisure. Yet, even whenI thought that I had the words by heart, they ceased like a sweet musicthat comes to an end, and which the mind cannot recover. 

I saw many other things that day, things beautiful and wonderful, nodoubt; but they had no voice for me, like the purple flower; or if theyhad, the sea wind drowned them in the utterance, for their voices wereof the earth; but the flower's voice came, as I have said, from theinnermost heaven. 

I like well to go on pilgrimage; and in spite of weariness and rainyweather, and the stupid chatter of the men and women who congregatelike fowls in inn-parlours, I pile a little treasure of sights andsounds in my guarded heart, memories of old buildings, spring woods, secluded valleys. All these are things seen, impressions registeredand gratefully recorded. But my flower is somehow different from allthese; and I shall never again hear the name of the place mentioned, oreven see a map of that grey coast, without a quiet thrill of gladnessat the thought that there, spring by spring, blooms my little friend, whose heart I read, who told me its secret; who will wait for me toreturn, and indeed will be faithfully and eternally mine, whether Ireturn or no. 

V

The Fens

I have lately become convinced--and I do not say it eithersophistically, to plead a bad cause with dexterity, or resignedly, tomake the best out of a poor business; but with a true and heartyconviction--that the most beautiful country in England is the flatfenland. I do not here mean moderately flat country, low sweeps ofland, like the heaving of a dying groundswell; that has a miniaturebeauty, a stippled delicacy of its own, but it is not a fine quality ofcharm. The country that I would praise is the rigidly andmathematically flat country of Eastern England, lying but a few feetabove the sea, plains which were once the bottoms of huge and ancientswamps. 

In the first place, such country gives a wonderful sense of expanse andspace; from an eminence of a few feet you can see what in other partsof England you have to climb a considerable hill to discern. I love tofeast my eyes on the interminable rich level plain, with its black andcrumbling soil; the long simple lines of dykes and water-courses carrythe eye peacefully out to a great distance; then, too, by having allthe landscape compressed into so narrow a space, into a belt of whatis, to the eye, only a few inches in depth, you get an incomparablerichness of colour. The solitary distant clumps of trees surrounding alonely farm gain a deep intensity of tint from the vast green level allabout them; and the line of the low far-off wolds, that close the viewmany miles away, is of a peculiar delicacy and softness; the eye, too, is provided with a foreground of which the elements are of thesimplest; a reedy pool enclosed by willows, the clustered buildings ofa farmstead; a grey church-tower peering out over churchyard elms; andthus, instead of being checked by near objects, and hemmed in by thelimited landscape, the eye travels out across the plain with a sense offreedom and grateful repose. Then, too, there is the huge perspectiveof the sky; nowhere else is it possible to see, so widely, the slowmarch of clouds from horizon to horizon; it all gives a sense oflargeness and tranquillity such as you receive upon the sea, with theadditional advantage of having the solid earth beneath you, green andfertile, instead of the steely waste of waters. 

A day or two ago I found myself beside the lower waters of the Cam, inflat pastures, full of ancient thorn-trees just bursting into bloom. Igained the towing-path, which led me out gradually into the heart ofthe fen; the river ran, or rather moved, a sapphire streak, between itshigh green flood-banks; the wide spaces between the embanked path andthe stream were full of juicy herbage, great tracts of whitecow-parsley, with here and there a reed-bed. I stood long to listen tothe sharp song of the reed-warbler, slipping from spray to spray of awillow-patch. Far to the north the great tower of Ely rose blue anddim above the low lines of trees; in the centre of the pastures lay thelong brown line of the sedge-beds of Wicken Mere, almost the onlyuntouched tract of fenland; slow herds of cattle grazed, more and moreminute, in the unhedged pasture-land, and the solitary figure of alabourer moving homeward on the top of the green dyke, seemed in thelong afternoon to draw no nearer. Here and there were the floodgatesof a lode, with the clear water slowly spilling itself over the rim ofthe sluice, full of floating weed. There was something infinitelyreposeful in the solitude, the width of the landscape; there was nosense of crowded life, no busy figures, intent on their small aims, tocross one's path, no conflict, no strife, no bitterness, no insistentvoice; yet there was no sense of desolation, but rather the spectacleof glad and simple lives of plants and birds in the free air, theirwildness tamed by the far-off and controlling hand of man, the calmearth patiently serving his ends. I seemed to have passed out ofmodern life into a quieter and older world, before men congregated intocities, but lived the quiet and sequestered life of the country side;and little by little there stole into my heart something of a dreamfultranquillity, the calm of the slow brimming stream, the leisurelyherds, the growing grass. All seemed to be moving together, neitherlingering nor making haste, to some far-off end within the quiet mindof God. Everything seemed to be waiting, musing, living the untroubledlife of nature, with no thought of death or care or sorrow. I passed atrench of still water that ran as far as the eye could follow it acrossthe flat; it was full from end to end of the beautiful water violet, the pale lilac flowers, with their faint ethereal scent, clustered onthe head of a cool emerald spike, with the rich foliage of the plant, like fine green hair, filling the water. The rising of these beautifulforms, by some secret consent, in their appointed place and time, outof the fresh clear water, brought me a wistful sense of peace andorder, a desire for I hardly know what--a poised stateliness of life, atender beauty--if I could but win it for myself!

On and on, hour by hour, that still bright afternoon, I made my slowway over the fen; insensibly and softly the far-off villages fellbehind; and yet I seemed to draw no nearer to the hills of the horizon. Now and then I passed a lonely grange; once or twice I came near to atall shuttered engine-house of pale brick, and heard the slow beat ofthe pumps within, like the pulse of a hidden heart, which drew themarsh-water from a hundred runlets, and poured it slowly seawards. Field after field slid past me, some golden from end to end withbuttercups, some waving with young wheat, till at last I reached asolitary inn beside a ferry, with the quaint title: "_No hurry! fivemiles from anywhere. _" And here I met with a grave and kindly welcome, such as warms the heart of one who goes on pilgrimage: as though I wascertainly expected, and as if the lord of the place had given chargeconcerning me. It would indeed hardly have surprised me if I had beenhad into a room, and shown strange symbols of good and evil; or if Ihad been given a roll and a bottle, and a note of the way. But no suchpresents were made to me, and it was not until after I had left thelittle house, and had been ferried in an old blackened boat across thestream, that I found that I had the gifts in my bosom all the while. 

The roll was the fair sight that I had seen, in this world where it isso sweet to live. My cordial was the peace within my spirit. And asfor the way, it seemed plain enough that day, easy to discern andfollow; and the heavenly city itself as near and visible as the bluetowers that rose so solemnly upon the green horizon. 

VI

The Well and the Chapel

It is not often that one is fortunate enough to see two perfectlybeautiful things in one day. But such was my fortune in the latesummer, on a day that was in itself perfect enough to show whatSeptember can do, if he only has a mind to plan hours of delight forman. The distance was very blue and marvellously clear. The trees hadthe bronzed look of the summer's end, with deep azure shadows. Thecattle moved slowly about the fields, and there was harvesting goingon, so that the villages we passed seemed almost deserted. I will notsay whence we started or where we went, and I shall mention no names atall, except one, which is of the nature of a symbol or incantation; forI do not desire that others should go where I went, unless I could besure that they went with the same peace in their hearts that I borewith me that day. 

One of the places we visited on purpose; the other we saw by accident. On the small map we carried was marked, at the corner of a little woodthat seemed to have no way to it, a well with the name of a saint, ofwhom I never heard, though I doubt not she is written in the book ofGod. 

We reached the nearest point to the well upon the road, and we struckinto the fields; that was a sweet place where we found ourselves! Inancient days it had been a marsh, I think. For great ditches raneverywhere, choked with loose-strife and water-dock, and the groundquaked as we walked, a pleasant springy black mould, the dust ofendless centuries of the rich water plants. 

To the left, the ground ran up sharply in a minute bluff, with the softoutline of underlying chalk, covered with small thorn-thickets; and itwas all encircled with small, close woods, where we heard the pheasantsscamper. We found an old, slow, bovine man, with a cheerful face, whoreadily threw aside some fumbling work he was doing, and guided us; andwe should never have found the spot without him. He led us to astream, crossed by a single plank with a handrail, on which somechildren had put a trap, baited with nuts for the poor squirrels, thatlove to run chattering across the rail from wood to wood. Then weentered a little covert; it was very pleasant in there, all dark andgreen and still; and here all at once we came to the place; in thecovert were half a dozen little steep pits, each a few yards across, dug out of the chalk. From each of the pits, which lay side by side, achannel ran down to the stream, and in each channel flowed a smallbickering rivulet of infinite clearness. The pits themselves were afew feet deep; at the bottom of each was a shallow pool, choked withleaves; and here lay the rare beauty of the place. The water rose ineach pit out of secret ways, but in no place that we could see. Thefirst pit was still when we looked upon it; then suddenly the waterrose in a tiny eddy, in one corner, among the leaves, sending a littleripple glancing across the pool. It was as though something, branch orinsect, had fallen from above, the water leapt so suddenly. Then itrose again in another place, then in another; then five or six littlefreshets rose all at once, the rings crossing and recrossing. And itwas the same in all the pits, which we visited one by one; we descendedand drank, and found the water as cold as ice, and not less pure; whilethe old man babbled on about the waste of so much fine water, and ofits virtues for weak eyes: "Ain't it cold, now? Ain't it, then? MyGod, ain't it?"--he was a man with a rich store of simpleasseverations, --"And ain't it good for weak eyes neither! You mustjust come to the place the first thing in the morning, and wash youreyes in the water, and ain't it strengthening then!" So he chirped on, saying everything over and over, like a bird among the thickets. 

We paid him for his trouble, with a coin that made him so gratefullybewildered that he said to us: "Now, gentlemen, if there's anythingelse that you want, give it a name; and if you meet any one as you goaway, say 'Perrett told me' (Perrett's my name), and then you'll see!"What the precise virtue of this invocation was, we did not have anopportunity of testing, but that it was a talisman to unlock hiddendoors, I make no doubt. 

We went back silently over the fields, with the wonder of the thingstill in our minds. To think of the pure wells bubbling and flashing, by day and by night, in the hot summer weather, when the smell of thewood lies warm in the sun; on cold winter nights under moon and stars, for ever casting up the bright elastic jewel, that men call water, andfeeding the flowing stream that wanders to the sea. I was very full ofgratitude to the pure maiden saint that lent her name to the well and Iam sure she never had a more devout pair of worshippers. 

So we sped on in silence, thinking--at least I thought--how the waterleaped and winked in the sacred wells, and how clear showed the chalk, and the leaves that lay at the bottom: till at last we drew to ourother goal. "Here is the gate, " said my companion at last. 

On one side of the road stood a big substantial farm; on the other, bya gate, was a little lodge. Here a key was given us by an old heartyman, with plenty of advice of a simple and sententious kind, until Ifelt as though I were enacting a part in some little _Pilgrim'sProgress_, and as if _Mr Interpreter_ himself, with a very grave smile, would come out and have me into a room by myself, to see some oddpleasant show that he had provided. But it was perhaps more in themanner of _Evangelist_, for our guide pointed with his finger across avery wide field, and showed us a wicket to enter in at. 

Here was a great flat grassy pasture, the water again very near thesurface, as the long-leaved water-plants, that sprawled in all theditches, showed. But when we reached the wicket we seemed to be as farremoved from humanity as dwellers in a lonely isle. A few cattlegrazed drowsily, and the crisp tearing of the grass by their big lipscame softly across the pasture. Inside the wicket stood a singleancient house, uninhabited, and festooned with ivy into a thing morebush than house; though a small Tudor window peeped from the leaves, like the little suspicious eye of some shaggy beast. 

A stone's throw away lay a large square moat, full of water, allfringed with ancient gnarled trees; the island which it enclosed wasovergrown with tiny thickets of dishevelled box-trees, and hugesprawling laurels; we walked softly round it, and there was our goal: asmall church of a whitish stone, in the middle of a little close of oldsycamores in stiff summer leaf. 

It stood so remote, so quietly holy, so ancient, that I could think ofnothing but the "old febel chapel" of the _Morte d'Arthur_. It had, Iknow not why, the mysterious air of romance all about it. It seemed tosit, musing upon what had been and what should be, smilingly guardingsome tender secret for the pure-hearted, full of the peace the worldcannot give. 

Within it was cool and dark, and had an ancient holy smell; it wasfurnished sparely with seat and screen, and held monuments of oldknights and ladies, sleeping peacefully side by side, heads pillowed onhands, looking out with quiet eyes, as though content to wait. 

Upon the island in the moat, we learned, had stood once a flourishingmanor, but through what sad vicissitudes it had fallen into dust I carenot. Enough that peaceful lives had been lived there; children hadbeen born, had played on the moat-edge, had passed away to bearchildren of their own, had returned with love in their hearts for theold house. From the house to the church children had been borne forbaptism; merry wedding processions had gone to and fro, happy Christmasgroups had hurried backwards and forwards; and the slow funeral pomphad passed thither, under the beating of the slow bell, bearing onethat should not return. 

Something of the love and life and sorrow of the good days passed intomy mind, and I gave a tender thought to men and women whom I had neverknown, who had tasted of life, and of joyful things that have an end;and who now know the secret of the dark house to which we all are bound. 

When we at last rose unwillingly to go, the sun was setting, and flamedred and brave through the gnarled trunks of the little wood; the mistcrept over the pasture, and far away the lights of the lonely farmbegan to wink through the gathering dark. 

But I had seen! Something of the joy of the two sweet places hadsettled in my mind; and now, in fretful, weary, wakeful hours, it isgood to think of the clear wells that sparkle so patiently in the darkwood; and, better still, to wander in mind about the moat and thelittle silent church; and to wonder what it all means; what the love isthat creeps over the soul at the sight of these places, so full of aremote and delicate beauty; and whether the hunger of the heart forpeace and permanence, which visits us so often in our short anddifficult pilgrimage, has a counterpart in the land that is very faroff. 

VII

The Cuckoo

I have been much haunted, indeed infested, if the word may be pardoned, by cuckoos lately. When I was a child, acute though my observation ofbirds and beasts and natural things was, I do not recollect that I eversaw a cuckoo, though I often tried to stalk one by the ear, followingthe sweet siren melody, as it dropped into the expectant silence from ahedgerow tree; and I remember to have heard the notes of two, thatseemed to answer each other, draw closer each time they called. 

But of late I have become familiar with the silvery grey body and thegliding flight; and this year I have been almost dogged by them. Oneflew beside me, as I rode the other day, for nearly a quarter of a milealong a hedgerow, taking short gliding flights, and settling till Icame up; I could see his shimmering wings and his long barred tail. Idismounted at last, and he let me watch him for a long time, noting hissmall active head, his decent sober coat. Then, when he thought I hadseen enough, he gave one rich bell-like call, with the full force ofhis soft throat, and floated off. 

He seemed loath to leave me. But what word or gift, I thought, did hebring with him, false and pretty bird? Do I too desire that othersshould hatch my eggs, content with flute-like notes of pleasure?

And yet how strange and marvellous a thing this instinct is; that onebird, by an absolute and unvarying instinct, should forego the dearbusiness of nesting and feeding, and should take shrewd advantage ofthe labours of other birds! It cannot be a deliberately reasoned orcalculated thing; at least we say that it cannot; and yet not Darwinand all his followers have brought us any nearer to the method by whichsuch an instinct is developed and trained, till it has become anabsolute law of the tribe; making it as natural a thing for the cuckooto search for a built nest, and to cast away its foundling egg there, as it is for other birds to welcome and feed the intruder. It seems sosatanically clever a thing to do; such a strange fantastic whim of theCreator to take thought in originating it! It is this whimsicality, the _bizarre_ humour in Nature, that puzzles me more than anything inthe world, because it seems like the sport of a child with oddinconsequent fancies, and with omnipotence behind it all the time. Itseems strange enough to think of the laws that govern the breeding, nesting, and nurture of birds at all, especially when one considers allthe accidents that so often make the toil futile, like the stealing ofeggs by other birds, and the predatory incursions of foes. One wouldexpect a law, framed by omnipotence, to be invariable, not hampered byall kinds of difficulties that omnipotence, one might have thought, could have provided against. And then comes this further strangevariation in the law, in the case of this single family of birds, andthe mystery thickens and deepens. And stranger than all is theexistence of the questioning and unsatisfied human spirit, thatobserves these things and classifies them, and that yet gets no nearerto the solution of the huge, fantastic, patient plan! To make a law, as the Creator seems to have done; and then to make a hundred otherlaws that seem to make the first law inoperative; to play this giganticgame century after century; and then to put into the hearts of ourinquisitive race the desire to discover what it is all about; and toleave the desire unsatisfied. What a labyrinthine mystery! Depthbeyond depth, and circle beyond circle!

It is a dark and bewildering region that thus opens to the view. Butone conclusion is to beware of seeming certainties, to keep the windowsof the mind open to the light; not to be over-anxious about the littlepart we have to play in the great pageant, but to advance, step bystep, in utter trustfulness. 

Perhaps that is your message to me, graceful bird, with the rich joyfulnote! With what a thrill, too, do you bring back to me the brightnessof old forgotten springs, the childish rapture at the sweet tunablecry! Then, in those far-off days, it was but the herald of the glowingsummer days, the time of play and flowers and scents. But now the softnote, it seems, opens a door into the formless and uneasy world ofspeculation, of questions that have no answer, convincing me ofignorance and doubt, bidding me beat in vain against the bars that hemme in. Why should I crave thus for certainty, for strength? Answerme, happy bird! Nay, you guard your secret. Softer and more distantsound the sweet notes, warning me to rest and believe, telling me towait and hope. 

But one further thought! One is expected, by people of conventionaland orthodox minds, to base one's conceptions of God on the writings offrail and fallible men, and to accept their slender and eager testimonyto the occurrence of abnormal events as the best revelation of God thatthe world contains. And all the while we disregard his own patientwriting upon the wall. Every day and every hour we are confronted withstrange marvels, which we dismiss from our minds because, God forgiveus, we call them natural; and yet they take us back, by a ladder ofimmeasurable antiquity, to ages before man had emerged from a savagestate. Centuries before our rude forefathers had learned even toscratch a few hillocks into earthworks, while they lived a brutishlife, herding in dens and caves, the cuckoo, with her traditionsfaultlessly defined, was paying her annual visits, fluting about theforest glades, and searching for nests into which to intrude herspeckled egg. The patient witness of God! She is as direct arevelation of the Creator's mind, could we but interpret the mystery ofher instincts, as Augustine himself with his scheme of salvationlogically defined. Each of these missions, whether of bird or man, awonder and a marvel! But do we not tend to accept the eager andchildish hopes of humanity, arrayed with blithe certainty, as a nearerevidence of the mind of God than the bird that at his bidding pursuesher annual quest, unaffected by our hasty conclusions, unmoved by ourglorified visions? I have sometimes thought that Christ probably spokemore than is recorded about the observation of Nature; the hearts ofthose that heard him were so set on temporal ends and humanapplications, that they had not perhaps leisure or capacity torecollect aught but those few scattered words, that seem to speak of adeep love for and insight into the things of earth. They rememberedbetter that Christ blasted a fig-tree for doing what the Father badethe poor plant do, than his tender dwelling upon grasses and lilies, sparrow and sheep. The withering of the tree made an allegory: whilethe love of flowers and streams was to those simple hearts perhaps anunaccountable, almost an eccentric thing. But had Christ drawn humanbreath in our bleaker Northern air, he would have perhaps, if thosethat surrounded him had had leisure and grace to listen, drawn as graveand comforting a soul-music from our homely cuckoo, with her punctualobedience, her unquestioning faith, as he did from the birds andflowers of the hot hillsides, the pastoral valleys of Palestine. I amsure he would have loved the cuckoo, and forgiven her her heartlesscustoms. Those that sing so delicately would not have leisure andcourage to make their music so soft and sweet, if they had not a hardheart to turn to the sorrows of the world. 

Yet still I am no nearer the secret. God sends me, here the frozenpeak, there the blue sea; here the tiger, there the cuckoo; hereVirgil, there Jeremiah; here St Francis of Assisi, there Napoleon. Andall the while, as he pushes his fair or hurtful toys upon the stage, not a whisper, not a smile, not a glance escapes him; he thrusts themon, he lays them by; but the interpretation he leaves with us, andthere is never a word out of the silence to show us whether we haveguessed aright. 

VIII

Spring-time

Yesterday was a day of brisk airs. The wind was at work brushing greatinky clouds out of the sky. They came sailing up, those great roundedmasses of dark vapour, like huge galleons driving to the West, spillingtheir freight as they came. The air would be suddenly full of talltwisted rain-streaks, and then would come a bright burst of the sun. 

But a secret change came in the night; some silent power filled the airwith warmth and balm. And to-day, when I walked out of the town withan old and familiar friend, the spring had come. A maple had brokeninto bloom and leaf; a chestnut was unfolding his gummy buds; thecottage gardens were full of squills and hepatica; and the mezereonswere all thick with damask buds. In green and sheltered underwoodsthere were bursts of daffodils; hedges were pricked with green points;and a delicate green tapestry was beginning to weave itself over theroadside ditches. 

The air seemed full of a deep content. Birds fluted softly, and thehigh elms which stirred in the wandering breezes were all thick withtheir red buds. There was so much to look at and to point out that wetalked but fitfully; and there was, too, a gentle languor abroad whichmade us content to be silent. 

In one village which we passed, a music-loving squire had made aconcert for his friends and neighbours, and doubtless, too, for ourvagrant delight; we stood uninvited to listen to a tuneful stir ofviolins, which with a violoncello booming beneath, broke out verypleasantly from the windows of a village school-room. 

When body and mind are fresh and vigorous, these outside impressionsoften lose, I think, their sharp savours. One is preoccupied withone's own happy schemes and merry visions; the bird sings shrill withinits cage, and claps its golden wings. But on such soft and languorousdays as these days of early spring, when the body is unstrung, and thebonds and ties that fasten the soul to its prison are loosened andunbound, the spirit, striving to be glad, draws in through the passagesof sense these swift impressions of beauty, as a thirsty child drains acup of spring-water on a sun-scorched day, lingering over the limpidfreshness of the gliding element. The airy voices of the strings beingstilled, with a sort of pity for those penned in the crowded room, interchanging the worn coinage of civility, we stood a while looking inat a gate, through which we could see the cool front of a Georgianmanor-house, built of dusky bricks, with coigns and dressings of greystone. The dark windows with their thick white casements, theround-topped dormers, the steps up to the door, and a prim circle ofgrass which seemed to lie like a carpet on the pale gravel, gave thefeeling of a picture; the whole being framed in the sombre yews ofshrubberies which bordered the drive. It was hard to feel that thequiet house was the scene of a real and active life; it seemed so fullof a slumberous peace, and to be tenanted only by soft shadows of thepast. And so we went slowly on by the huge white-boarded mill, itscracks streaming with congealed dust of wheat, where the waterthundered through the sluices and the gear rattled within. 

We crossed the bridge, and walked on by a field-track that skirted theedge of the wold. How thin and clean were the tints of the dryploughlands and the long sweep of pasture! Presently we were at thefoot of a green drift-road, an old Roman highway that ran straight upinto the downs. On such a day as this, one follows a spirit in one'sfeet, as Shelley said; and we struck up into the wold, on the greenroad, with its thorn-thickets, until the chalk began to show whiteamong the ruts; and we were soon at the top. A little to the left ofus appeared, in the middle of the pasture, a tiny round-topped tumulusthat I had often seen from a lower road, but never visited. It wasfresher and cooler up here. On arriving at the place we found that itwas not a tumulus at all, but a little outcrop of the pure chalk. Ithad steep, scarped sides with traces of caves scooped in them. Thegrassy top commanded a wide view of wold and plain. 

Our talk wandered over many things, but here, I do not know why, wewere speaking of the taking up of old friendships, and the comfort anddelight of those serene and undisturbed relations which one sometimesestablishes with a congenial person, which no lapse of time or lack ofcommunication seems to interrupt--the best kind of friendship. Thereis here no blaming of conditions that may keep the two lives apart; nofeverish attempt to keep up the relation, no resentment if mutualintercourse dies away. And then, perhaps, in the shifting ofconditions, one's life is again brought near to the life of one'sfriend, and the old easy intercourse is quietly resumed. My companionsaid that such a relation seemed to him to lie as near to the solutionof the question of the preservation of identity after death as anyother phenomenon of life. "Supposing, " he said, "that such afriendship as that of which we have spoken is resumed after a break oftwenty years. One is in no respect the same person; one looksdifferent, one's views of life have altered, and physiologists tell usthat one's body has changed perhaps three times over, in the time, sothat there is not a particle of our frame that is the same; and yet theemotion, the feeling of the friendship remains, and remains unaltered. If the stuff of our thoughts were to alter as the materials of our bodyalter, the continuity of such an emotion would be impossible. Ofcourse it is difficult to see how, divested of the body, ourperceptions can continue; but almost the only thing we are reallyconscious of is our own identity, our sharp separation from the mass ofphenomena that are not ourselves. And, if an emotion can survive thetransmutation of the entire frame, may it not also survive thedissolution of that frame?"

"Could it be thus?" I said. "A ray of light falls through a chink in ashutter; through the ray, as we watch it, floats an infinite array oftiny motes, and it is through the striking of the light upon them thatwe are aware of the light; but they are never the same. Yet the rayhas a seeming identity, though even the very ripples of light thatcause it are themselves ever changing, ever renewed. Could not thesoul be such a ray, illuminating the atoms that pass through it, anditself a perpetual motion, a constant renewal?"

But the day warned us to descend. The shadows grew longer, and a greatpale light of sunset began to gather in the West. We came slowly downthrough the pastures, till we joined the familiar road again. And atlast we parted, in that wistful silence that falls upon the mood whentwo spirits have achieved a certain nearness of thought, have drawn asclose as the strange fence of identity allows. But as I went home, Istood for a moment at the edge of a pleasant grove, an outlyingpleasaunce of a great house on the verge of the town. The trees grewstraight and tall within it, and all the underwood was full of springflowers and green ground-plants, expanding to light and warmth; the skywas all full of light, dying away to a calm and liquid green, thecolour of peace. Here I encountered another friend, a retiring man ofletters, who lives apart from the world in dreams of his own. He is abright-eyed, eager creature, tall and shadowy, who has but a slighthold upon the world. We talked for a few moments of trivial things, till a chance question of mine drew from him a sad statement of his ownhealth. He had been lately, he said, to a physician, and had beenwarned that he was in a somewhat precarious condition. I tried tocomfort him, but he shook his head; and though he tried to speaklightly and cheerfully, I could see that there was a shadow of doomupon him. 

As I turned to go, he held up his hand, "Listen to the birds!" he said. We were silent, and could hear the clear flute-like notes of thrusheshidden in the tall trees, and the soft cooing of a dove. "That givesone, " he said, "some sense of the happiness which one cannot capturefor oneself!" He smiled mournfully, and in a moment I saw his lightfigure receding among the trees. What a world it is for sorrow! Myfriend was going, bearing the burden of a lonely grief, which I couldnot lighten for him; and yet the whole scene was full of so sweet acontent, the birds full of hope and delight, the flowers and leavesglad to feel themselves alive. What was one to make of it all? Whereto turn for light? What conceivable benefit could result from thusperpetually desiring to know and perpetually being baffled?

Yet, after all, to-day has been one of those rare days, like the goldsifted from the _débris_ of the mine, which has had for me, by somesubtle alchemy of the spirit, the permanent quality which is oftendenied to more stirring incidents and livelier experiences. I had seenthe mysteries of life and death, of joy and sorrow, sharply and sadlycontrasted. I had been one with Nature, with all her ardent ecstasies, her vital impulses; and then I had seen too the other side of thepicture, a soul confronted with the mystery of death, alone in theshapeless gloom; the very cries and stirrings and joyful dreams ofNature bringing no help, but only deepening the shadow. 

And there came too the thought of how little such easy speculations aswe had indulged in on the grassy mound, thoughts which seemed soradiant with beauty and mystery, how little they could sustain orcomfort the sad spirit which had entered into the cloud. 

So that bright first day of spring shaped itself for me into a day whennot only the innocent and beautiful flowers of the world rose into lifeand sunshine; but a day when sadder thoughts raised their head too, redflowers of suffering, and pale blooms of sadness; and yet these too canbe woven into the spirit's coronal, I doubt not, if one can but findheart to do it, and patience for the sorrowful task. 

IX

The Hare

I have just read a story that has moved me strangely, with a helplessbewilderment and a sad anger of mind. When the doors of a factory, inthe heart of a northern town, were opened one morning, a workman, goingto move a barrel that stood in a corner, saw something crouching behindit that he believed to be a dog or cat. He pushed it with his foot, and a large hare sprang out. I suppose that the poor creature had beenprobably startled by some dog the evening before, in a field close tothe town, had fled in the twilight along the streets, frightened andbewildered, and had slipped into the first place of refuge it hadfound; had perhaps explored its prison in vain, when the doors wereshut, with many dreary perambulations, and had then sunk into an uneasysleep, with frequent timid awakenings, in the terrifying unfamiliarplace. 

The man who had disturbed it shouted aloud to the other workmen whowere entering; the doors were shut, and the hare was chased by an eagerand excited throng from corner to corner; it fled behind some planks;the planks were taken up; it made, in its agony of fear, a great leapover the men who were bending down to catch it; it rushed into a cornerbehind some tanks, from which it was dislodged with a stick. For halfan hour the chase continued, until at last it was headed into awork-room, where it relinquished hope; it crouched panting, with itslong ears laid back, its pretty brown eyes wide open, as thoughwondering desperately what it had done to deserve such usage; until itwas despatched with a shower of blows, and the limp, bleeding bodyhanded over to its original discoverer. 

Not a soul there had a single thought of pity for the creature; theywent back to work pleased, excited, amused. It was a good story totell for a week, and the man who had struck the last blows became alittle hero for his deftness. The old savage instinct for prey hadswept fiercely up from the bottom of these rough hearts--heartscapable, too, of tenderness and grief, of compassion for suffering, gentle with women and children. It seems to be impossible to blamethem, and such blame would have been looked upon as silly and misplacedsentiment. Probably not even an offer of money, far in excess of themarket value of the dead body, if the hare could be caught unharmed, would have prevailed at the moment over the instinct for blood. 

There are many hares in the world, no doubt, and _nous sommes touscondamnés_. But that the power which could call into being soharmless, pretty, and delicately organised a creature does not care oris unable to protect it better, is a strange mystery. It cannot besupposed that the hare's innocent life deserved such chastisement; andit is difficult to believe that suffering, helplessly endured at onepoint of the creation, can be remedial at another. Yet one cannot bearto think that the extremity of terror and pain, thus borne by asensitive creature, either comes of neglect, or of cruel purpose, or ismerely wasted. And yet the chase and the slaughter of the unhappything cannot be anything but debasing to those who took part in it. And at the same time, to be angry and sorry over so wretched an episodeseems like trying to be wiser than the mind that made us. What singlegleam of brightness is it possible to extract from the pitiful littlestory? Only this: that there must lie some tender secret, not onlybehind what seems a deed of unnecessary cruelty, but in the implantingin us of the instinct to grieve with a miserable indignation over athing we cannot cure, and even in the withholding from us any hope thatmight hint at the solution of the mystery. 

But the thought of the seemly fur stained and bedabbled, the brighthazel eyes troubled with the fear of death, the silky ears, in whichrang the horrid din of pursuit, rises before me as I write, and castsme back into the sad mood, that makes one feel that the closer that onegazes into the sorrowful texture of the world, the more glad we maywell be to depart. 

X

The Diplodocus

I have had my imagination deeply thrilled lately by reading about thediscovery in America of the bones of a fossil animal called the_Diplodocus_. I hardly know what the word is derived from, but itmight possibly mean an animal which _takes twice as much_, ofnourishment, perhaps, or room; either twice as much as is good for it, or twice as much as any other animal. In either case it seems afelicitous description. The creature was a reptile, a gigantic toad orlizard that lived, it is calculated, about three million years ago. Itwas in Canada that this particular creature lived. The earth was thena far hotter place than now; a terrible steaming swamp, full of rankand luxuriant vegetation, gigantic palms, ferns as big as trees. Thediplodocus was upwards of a hundred feet long, a vast inert creature, with a tough black hide. In spite of its enormous bulk its brain wasonly the size of a pigeon's egg, so that its mental processes must havebeen of the simplest. It had a big mouth full of rudimentary teeth, ofno use to masticate its food, but just sufficing to crop the luxuriantjuicy vegetable stalks on which it lived, and of which it ate in thecourse of the day as much as a small hayrick would contain. Thepoisonous swamps in which it crept can seldom have seen the light ofday; perpetual and appalling torrents of rain must have raged there, steaming and dripping through the dim and monstrous forests, with theirfallen day, varied by long periods of fiery tropical sunshine. In thishot gloom the diplodocus trailed itself about, eating, eating; living acentury or so; loving, as far as a brain the size of a pigeon's egg canlove, and no doubt with a maternal tenderness for its loathlyoffspring. It had but few foes, though, in the course of endlessgenerations, there sprang up a carnivorous race of creatures which seemto have found the diplodocus tender eating. The particular diplodocusof which I speak probably died of old age in the act of drinking, andwas engulfed in a pool of the great curdling, reedy river that ranlazily through the forest. The imagination sickens before the thoughtof the speedy putrefaction of such a beast under such conditions; butthis process over, the creature's bones lay deep in the pool. 

Another feature of the earth at that date must have been the vastvolcanic agencies at work; whole continents were at intervals submergedor uplifted. In this case the whole of the forest country, where thediplodocus lay, was submerged beneath the sea, and sank to a depth ofseveral leagues; for, in the course of countless ages, sea-ooze, to adepth of at least three miles, was deposited over the forest, preserving the trunks and even the very sprays of the tropicalvegetation. Who would suppose that the secret history of this greatbeast would ever be revealed, as it lay century after century beneaththe sea-floor? But another convulsion took place, and a huge ridge ofcountry, forming the rocky backbone of North and South America, wasthrust up again by a volcanic convulsion, so that the diplodocus nowlay a mile above the sea, with a vast pile of downs over his head whichbecame a huge range of snow mountains. Then the rain and the sun begantheir work; and the whole of the immense bed of uplifted ocean-silt, now become chalk, was carried eastward by mighty rivers, forming thewhole continent of North America, between these mountains and theeastern sea. At last the tropic forest was revealed again, a widetract of petrified tree-trunks and fossil wood. And then out of anexcavation, made where one of the last patches of the chalk still layin a rift of the hills, where the old river-pool had been into whichthe great beast had sunk, was dug the neck-bone of the creature. Curiosity was aroused by the sight of this fragment of an unknownanimal, and bit by bit the great bones came to light; some portionswere missing, but further search revealed the remains of three otherspecimens of the great lizard, and a complete skeleton was put together. 

The mind positively reels before the story that is here revealed; we, who are feebly accustomed to regard the course of recorded history asthe crucial and critical period of the life of the world, must besobered by the reflection that the whole of the known history of thehuman race is not the thousandth, not the ten-thousandth part of thehistory of the planet. What does this vast and incredible panoramamean to us? What is it all about? This ghastly force at work, dealingwith life and death on so incredible a scale, and yet guarding itssecret so close? The diplodocus, I imagine, seldom indulged inreveries as to how it came to be there; it awoke to life; its businesswas to crawl about in the hot gloom, to eat, and drink, and sleep, topropagate its kind; and not the least amazing part of the history isthat at length should have arisen a race of creatures, human beings, that should be able to reconstruct, however faintly, by investigation, imagination, and deduction, a picture of the dead life of the world. It is this capacity for arriving at what has been, for tracing out thehuge mystery of the work of God, that appears to me the most wonderfulthing of all. And yet we seem no nearer to the solution of the secret;we come into the world with this incredible gift of placing ourselves, so to speak, on the side of the Creator, of surveying his work; and yetwe cannot guess what is in his heart; the stern and majestic eyes ofNature behold us stonily, permitting us to make question, to explore, to investigate, but withholding the secret. And in the light of thoseinscrutable eyes, how weak and arrogant appear our dogmatic systems ofreligion, that would profess to define and read the very purposes ofGod; our dearest conceptions of morality, our pathetic principles, paleand fade before these gigantic indications of mysterious, indifferentenergy. 

Yet even here, I think, the golden thread gleams out in the darkness;for slight and frail as our so-called knowledge, our beliefs, appear, before that awful, accumulated testimony of the past, yet the latestdevelopment is none the less the instant guiding of God; it is all asmuch a gift from him as the blind impulses of the great lizard in thedark forest; and again there emerges the mighty thought, the onlythought that can give us the peace we seek, that we are all in hishand, that nothing is forgotten, nothing is small or great in hissight; and that each of our frail, trembling spirits has its place inthe prodigious scheme, as much as the vast and fiery globe of the sunon the one hand, and, on the other, the smallest atom of dust thatwelters deep beneath the sea. All that is, exists; indestructible, august, divine, capable of endless rearrangement, infinitemodifications, but undeniably there. 

This truth, however dimly apprehended, however fitfully followed, oughtto give us a certain confidence, a certain patience. In careless moodswe may neglect it; in days of grief and pain we may feel that it cannothelp us; but it is the truth; and the more we can make it our own, thedeeper that we can set it in our trivial spirits, the better are weprepared to learn the lesson which the deepest instinct of our naturebids us believe, that the Father is trying to teach us, or is at leastwilling that we should learn if we can. 

XI

The Beetle

How strange it is that sometimes the smallest and commonest incident, that has befallen one a hundred times before, will suddenly open thedoor into that shapeless land of fruitless speculation; the land on towhich, I think, the Star Wormwood fell, burning it up and making itbitter; the land in which we most of us sometimes have to wander, andalways alone. 

It was such a trifling thing after all. I was bicycling verypleasantly down a country road to-day, when one of those small pungentbeetles, a tiny thing, in black plate-armour, for all the world like aminute torpedo, sailed straight into my eye. The eyelid, quicker eventhan my own thought, shut itself down, but too late. The little fellowwas engulphed in what Walt Whitman would call the liquid rims. Thesesmall, hard creatures are tenacious of life, and they have, moreover, the power of exuding a noxious secretion--an acrid oil, with a strongscent, and even taste, of saffron. It was all over in a moment. Irubbed my eye, and I suppose crushed him to death; but I could not gethim out, and I had no companion to extract him; the result was that myeye was painful and inflamed for an hour or two, till the tiny, black, flattened corpse worked its way out for itself. 

Now, that is not a very marvellous incident; but it set me wondering. In the first place, what a horrible experience for the creature; in amoment, as he sailed joyfully along, saying, "Aha, " perhaps, like thewar-horse among the trumpets, on the scented summer breeze, with thesun warm on his mail, to find himself stuck fast in a hot and oozycrevice, and presently to be crushed to death. His little taste of thepleasant world so soon over, and for me an agreeable hour spoilt, sofar as I could see, to no particular purpose. 

Now, one is inclined to believe that such an incident is what we callfortuitous; but the only hope we have in the world is to believe thatthings do not happen by chance. One believes, or tries to believe, that the Father of all has room in his mind for the smallest of hiscreatures; that not a sparrow, as Christ said, falls to the groundwithout his tender care. Theologians tell us that death entered intothe world by sin; but it is not consistent to believe that, whereasboth men and animals suffer and die, the sufferings and death of menare caused by their sins, or by the sins of their ancestors, whileanimals suffer and die without sin being the cause. Surely the causemust be the same for all the creation? and still less is it possible tobelieve that the suffering and death of creatures is caused by the sinof man, because they suffered and died for thousands of centuriesbefore man came upon the scene. 

If God is omnipotent and all-loving, we are bound to believe thatsuffering and death are sent by him deliberately, and not cruelly. Onesingle instance, however minute, that established the reverse, wouldvitiate the whole theory; and if so, then we are the sport of a powerthat is sometimes kind and sometimes malignant. An insupportablethought!

Is it possible to conceive that the law of sin works in the lowercreation, and that they, too, are punished, or even wisely corrected, for sinning against such light as they have? Had the little beetlethat sailed across my path acted in such a way that he had deserved hisfate? Or was his death meant to make him a better, a larger-mindedbeetle? I cannot bring myself to believe that. Perhaps aphilosophical theologian would say that creation was all one, and thatsuffering at one point was remedial at some other point. I am not in aposition to deny the possibility of that, but I am equally unable toaffirm that it is so. There is no evidence which would lead me tothink it. It only seems to me necessary to affirm it, in order toconfirm the axiom that God is omnipotent and all-loving. Much innature and in human life would seem to be at variance with that. 

It may be said that one is making too much of a minute incident; butsuch incidents are of hourly occurrence all the world over; and theonly possible method for arriving at truth is the scientific method ofcumulative evidence. The beetle was small, indeed, and infinitelyunimportant in the scheme of things. But he was all in all to himself. The world only existed so far as he was concerned, through his tinyconsciousness. 

The old-fashioned religious philosophers held that man was the crownand centre of creation, and that God was mainly preoccupied with man'sdestiny. They maintained that all creatures were given us for our useand enjoyment. The enjoyment that I derived from the beetle, in thiscase, was not conspicuous. But I suppose that such cheerful optimistswould say that the beetle was sent to give me a little lesson inpatience, to teach me not to think so much about myself. But, as amatter of fact, the little pain I suffered made me think more of myselfthan I had previously been doing; it turned me for the time from abland and hedonistic philosopher into a petulant pessimist, because itseemed that no one was the better for the incident; certainly, if lifeis worth having at all, the beetle was no better off, and in my owncase I could trace no moral improvement. I had been harmlessly enoughemployed in getting air and exercise in the middle of hard work. Itwas no vicious enjoyment that was temporarily suspended. 

Again, there are people who would say that to indulge in such reveriesis morbid; that one must take the rough with the smooth, and nottrouble about beetles or inflamed eyes. But if one is haunted by thehopeless desire to search out the causes of things, such arguments donot assist one. Such people would say, "Oh, you must take a larger orwider view of it all, and not strain at gnats!" But the essence ofGod's omnipotence is, that while he can take the infinitely wide viewof all created things, he can also take, I would fain believe, theinfinitely just and minute point of view, and see the case from thestandpoint of the smallest of his creatures!

What, then, is my solution? That is the melancholy part of it; I amnot prepared to offer one. I am met on every side by hopelessdifficulties. I am tempted to think that God is not at all what weimagine him to be; that our conceptions of benevolence and justice andlove are not necessarily true of him at all. That he is not in theleast like our conceptions of him; that he has no particular tendernessabout suffering, no particular care for animal life. Nature would seemto prove that at every turn; and yet, if it be true, it leaves mestruggling in a sad abyss of thought; it substitutes for our grave, beautiful, and hopeful conceptions of God a kind of black mysterywhich, I confess, lies very heavy on the heart, and seems to makeeffort vain. 

And thus I fall back again upon faith and hope. I know that I wish allthings well, that I desire with all my heart that everything thatbreathes and moves should be happy and joyful; and I cannot believe inmy heart that it is different with God. And thus I rest in the trustthat there is somewhere, far-off, a beauty and a joy in suffering; andthat, perhaps, death itself is a fair and a desirable thing. 

As I rode to-day in the summer sun, far off, through the haze, I couldsee the huge Cathedral towers and portals looming up over the trees. Even so might be the gate of death! As we fare upon our pilgrimage, that shadowy doorway waits, silent and sombre, to receive us. Thatgate, the gate of death, seems to me, as in strength and health I sweepalong the pleasant road of life, a terrible, an appalling place. Butshall I feel so, when indeed I tread the threshold, and see the darkarches, the mysterious windows to left and right? It may prove a cooland secure haven of beauty and refreshment, rich in memory, echoingwith melodious song. The poor beetle knows about it now, whatever itis; he is wise with the eternal wisdom of all that have entered in, leaving behind them the frail and delicate tabernacle, in which thespirit dwelt, and which is so soon to moulder into dust. 

XII

The Farm-yard

There is a big farm-yard close to the house where I am staying justnow; it is a constant pleasure, as I pass that way, to stop and watchthe manners and customs of the beasts and birds that inhabit it; I amashamed to think how much time I spend in hanging over a gate, to watchthe little dramas of the byre. I am not sure that pigs are analtogether satisfactory subject of contemplation. They always seem tome like a fallen race that has seen better days. They are able, intellectual, inquisitive creatures. When they are driven from placeto place, they are not gentle or meek, like cows and sheep, who followthe line of least resistance. The pig is suspicious and cautious; heis sure that there is some uncomfortable plot on foot, not wholly forhis good, which he must try to thwart if he can. Then, too, he neverseems quite at home in his deplorably filthy surroundings; he looks atyou, up to the knees in ooze, out of his little eyes, as if he wouldlive in a more cleanly way, if he were permitted. Pigs always remindme of the mariners of Homer, who were transformed by Circe; there is adreadful humanity about them, as if they were trying to endure theirbase conditions philosophically, waiting for their release. 

But cows bring a deep tranquillity into the spirit; their glossy skins, their fragrant breath, their contented ease, their mild gaze, theirEpicurean rumination tend to restore the balance of the mind, and makeone feel that vegetarianism must be a desirable thing. There is thedignity of innocence about the cow, and I often wish that she did notbear so poor a name, a word so unsuitable for poetry; it is lamentablethat one has to take refuge in the archaism of _kine_, when the thingitself is so gentle and pleasant. 

But the true joy of the farm-yard is, undoubtedly, in the domesticfowls. It is long since I was frightened of turkeys; but I confessthat there is still something awe-inspiring about an old turkey-cock, with a proud and angry eye, holding his breath till his wattles areblue and swollen, with his fan extended, like a galleon in full sail, his wings held stiffly down, strutting a few rapid steps, and thenslowly revolving, like a king in royal robes. There is somethingtremendous about his supremacy, his almost intolerable pride and glory. 

And then we come to cocks and hens. The farm-yard cock is anincredibly grotesque creature. His furious eye, his blood-red crest, make him look as if he were seeking whom he might devour. But he isthe most craven of creatures. In spite of his air of just anger, hehas no dignity whatever. To hear him raise his voice, you would thinkthat he was challenging the whole world to combat. He screamsdefiance, and when he has done, he looks round with an air ofsatisfaction. "There! that is what you have to expect if you interferewith me!" he seems to say. But an alarm is given; the poultry seekrefuge in a hurried flight. Where is the champion? You would expectto see him guarding the rear, menacing his pursuer; but no, he hasheaded the flight, he is far away, leading the van with a desperateintentness. 

This morning I was watching the behaviour of a party of fowls, who weresitting together on a dusty ledge above the road, sheltering from thewind. I do not know whether they meant to be as humorous as they were, but I can hardly think they were not amused at each other. They stoodand lay very close together, with fierce glances, and quick, jerkymotions of the head. Now and then one, tired of inaction, raised adeliberate claw, bowed its head, scratched with incredible rapidity, shook its tumbled feathers, and looked round with angryself-consciousness, as though to say: "I will ask any one to think meabsurd at his peril. " Now and then one of them kicked diligently atthe soil, and then, turning round, scrutinised the place intently, andpicked delicately at some minute object. One examined the neck of herneighbour with a fixed stare, and then pecked the spot sharply. Onesettled down on the dust, and gave a few vigorous strokes with her legsto make herself more comfortable. Occasionally they all crooned andwailed together, and at the passing of a cart all stood up defiantly, as if intending to hold their fort at all hazards. Presently a womancame out of a house-door opposite, at which the whole party ranfuriously and breathlessly across the road, as if their lives dependedupon arriving in time. There was not a gesture or a motion that wasnot admirably conceived, intensely dramatic. 

Again, what is more delightfully absurd than to see a hen find a largemorsel which she cannot deal with at one gulp? She has no sense ofdiplomacy or cunning; her friends, attracted by her motions, close inabout her; she picks up the treasured provender, she runs, bewilderedwith anxiety, till she has distanced her pursuers; she puts the objectdown and takes a couple of desperate pecks; but her kin are at herheels; another flight follows, another wild attempt; for half an hourthe same tactics are pursued. At last she is at bay; she makes oneprodigious effort, and gets the treasure down with a convulsiveswallow; you see her neck bulge with the moving object; while she looksat her baffled companions with an air of meek triumph. 

Ducks, too, afford many simple joys to the contemplative mind. A slowprocession of white ducks, walking delicately, with heads lifted highand timid eyes, in a long line, has the air of an ecclesiasticalprocession. The singers go before, the minstrels follow after. Thereis something liturgical, too, in the way in which, as if by apreconcerted signal, they all cry out together, standing in a group, with a burst of hoarse cheering, cut off suddenly by an intolerablesilence. The arrival of ducks upon the scene, when the fowls are fed, is an impressive sight. They stamp wildly over the pasture, falling, stumbling, rising again, arrive on the scene with a desperateintentness, and eat as though they had not seen food for months. 

The pleasure of these farm-yard sights is two-fold. It is partly thesense of grave, unconscious importance about the whole business, serious lives lived with such whole-hearted zeal. There is no sense ofdivided endeavour; the discovery of food is the one thing in the world, and the sense of repletion is also the sense of virtue. But there issomething pathetic, too, about the taming to our own ends of theseforest beasts, these woodland birds; they are so unconscious of the sadreasons for which we desire their company, so unsuspicious, so serene!Instead of learning by the sorrowful experience of generations what ourdark purposes are, they become more and more fraternal, more and moredependent. And yet how little we really know what their thoughts are. They are so unintelligent in some regions, so subtly wise in others. We cannot share our thoughts with them; we cannot explain anything tothem. We can sympathise with them in their troubles, but cannot conveyour sympathy to them. There is a little bantam hen here, a great pet, who comes up to the front door with the other bantams to be fed. Shehas been suffering for some time from an obscure illness. She arriveswith the others, full of excitement, and begins to pick at the grainthrown them; but the effort soon exhausts her; she goes sadly apart, and sits with dim eye and ruffled plumage, in silent suffering, wondering, perhaps, why she is not as brisk and joyful as ever, what isthe sad thing that has befallen her. And one can do nothing, expressnothing of the pathetic sorrow that fills one's mind. But, none theless, one tries to believe, to feel, that this suffering is notfortuitous, is not wasted--how could one endure the thought otherwise, if one did not hope that "the earnest expectation of the creaturewaiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God!"

XIII

The Artist

I have been reading with much emotion the life of a great artist. Itis a tender, devoted record; and there is an atmosphere of delicatebeauty about the style. It is as though his wife, who wrote the book, had gained through the years of companionship, a pale, pure reflectionof her husband's simple and impassioned style, just as the moon'sclear, cold light is drawn from the hot fountains of the sun. And yet, there is an individuality about the style, and the reflection is ratherof the same nature as the patient likeness of expression which is to beseen in the faces of an aged pair, who have travelled in love and unitydown the vale of years together. 

In this artist's own writing, which has a pure and almost childlike_naïveté_ of phrasing, there is a glow, not of rhetoric or language, but of emotion, an almost lover-like attitude towards his friends, which is yet saved from sentimentality by an obvious sincerity offeeling. In this he seems to me to be different from the majority ofartistic natures and temperaments. It is impossible not to feel, as arule, when one is brought into contact with an artistic temperament, that the basis of it is a kind of hardness, a fanaticism of spirit. There is, of course, in the artistic temperament, an abundance ofsensitiveness which is often mistaken for feeling. But it is notgenerally an unselfish devotion, which desires to give, to lavish, tomake sacrifices for the sake of the beloved. It is, after all, impossible to serve two masters; and in the highly developed artist, the central passion is the devotion to art, and sins against art arethe cardinal and unpardonable sins. The artist has an eager thirst forbeautiful impressions, and his deepest concern is how to translatethese impressions into the medium in which he works. Many an artisthas desired and craved for love. But even love in the artist is notthe end; love only ministers to the sacred fire of art, and is treatedby him as a costly and precious fuel, which he is bound to use to feedthe central flame. If one examines the records of great artisticcareers, this will, I think, be found to be a true principle; and itis, after all, inevitable that it should be so, in the case of a naturewhich has the absorbing desire for self-expression. Perhaps, it is notalways consciously recognised by the artist, but the fact is there; hetends to regard the deepest and highest experiences of life asministering to the fulness of his nature. I remember hearing a greatmaster of musical art discussing the music of a young man ofextraordinary promise; he said: "Yes, it is very beautiful, very pure;he is perfect in technique and expression, as far as it goes; but it isincomplete and undeveloped. What he wants is to fall in love. "

A man who is not bound by the noble thraldom of art, who is full ofvitality and emotion, but yet without the imperative desire forself-expression, regards life in a different mood. He may be fully aseager to absorb beautiful impressions, he may love the face of theearth, the glories of hill and plain, the sweet dreams of art, thelingering cadences of music; but he takes them as a child takes food, with a direct and eager appetite, without any impulse to dip them inhis own personality, or to find an expression for them. The point forhim is not how they strike him and affect him, but that they are there. Such a man will perhaps find his deepest experience in the mysteries ofhuman relationship; and he will so desire the happiness of those heloves, that he will lose himself in efforts to remove obstacles, tolighten burdens, to give rather than to receive joy. And this, Ithink, is probably the reason why so few women, even those possessed ofthe most sensitive perception and apprehension, achieve the highesttriumphs of art; because they cannot so subordinate life to art, because they have a passionate desire for the happiness of others, andfind their deepest satisfaction in helping to further it. Who does notknow instances of women of high possibilities, who have quietlysacrificed the pursuit of their own accomplishments to the tendance ofsome brilliant self-absorbed artist? With such love is often mingled atender compassionateness, as of a mother for a high-spirited and eagerchild, who throws herself with perfect sympathy into his aims andtastes, while all the time there sits a gentle knowledge in thebackground of her heart, of the essential unimportance of the thingsthat the child desires so eagerly, and which she yet desires sowhole-heartedly for him. Women who have made such a sacrifice do itwith no feeling that they are resigning the best for the second best, but because they have a knowledge of mysteries that are even higherthan the mysteries of art; and they have their reward, not in thecontemplation of the sacrifice that they have made, but in havingdesired and attained something that is more beautiful still than anydream that the artist cherishes and follows. 

Yet the fact remains that it is useless to preach to the artist themystery that there is a higher region than the region of art. A manmust aim at the best 'that he can conceive; and it is not possible togive men higher motives, by removing the lower motives that they cancomprehend. Such an attempt is like building without foundations; andthose who have relations with artists should do all they can toencourage them to aim at what they feel to be the highest. 

But, on the other hand, it is a duty for the artist to keep his heartopen, if he can, to the higher influences. He must remember, thatthough the eye can see certain colours, and hear certain vibrations ofsound, yet there is an infinite scale of colour, and an infinitegradation of sound, both above and below what the eye and the ear canapprehend, and that mortal apprehension can only appropriate to itselfbut a tiny fragment of the huge gamut. He ought to believe that if heis faithful to the best that he can apprehend, a door may be opened tohim which may lead him into regions which are at present closed to him. To accept the artistic conscience, the artistic aim, as the highestideal of which the spirit is capable, is to be a Pharisee in art, to beself-sufficient, arrogant, limited. It is a kind of spiritual pride, awilful deafness to more remote voices; and it is thus of all sins, theone which the artist, who lives the life of perception, whose mindmust, above all things, be open and transparent, should be loth tocommit. He should rather keep his inner eye--for the artist is likethe great creatures that, in the prophet's vision, stood nearest to thepresence, who were full of eyes, without and within--open to theunwonted apparition which may, suddenly, like a meteor of the night, sail across the silent heaven. It may be that, in some moment offuller perception, he may even have to divorce the sweeter and moresubtle mistress in exchange for one who comes in a homelier guise, andtake the beggar girl for his queen. But the abnegation will be nosacrifice; rather a richer and livelier hope. 

XIV

Young Love

We had a charming idyll here to-day. A young husband and wife came tostay with us in all the first flush of married happiness. One realisedall day long that other people merely made a pleasant background fortheir love, and that for each there was but one real figure on thescene. This was borne witness to by a whole armoury of gentle looks, swift glances, silent gestures. They were both full to the brim of adelicate laughter, of over-brimming wonder, of tranquil desire. And weall took part in their gracious happiness. In the evening they sangand played to us, the wife being an accomplished pianist, the husband afine singer. But though the glory of their art fell in rainbow showerson the audience, it was for each other that they sang and played. Wesat in the dim light of a little panelled room, the lamps making acircle of light about the happy pair; seldom have I felt the revelationof personality more. The wife played to us a handful of beautifulthings; but I noticed that she could not interpret the sadder anddarker strains, into which the shadow and malady of a suffering spirithad passed; but into little tripping minuets full of laughter andlight, and into melodies that spoke of a pure passion of sweetness andhuman delight, her soul passed, till the room felt as though floodedwith the warmth of the sun. And he, too, sang with all his might somejoyful and brave utterances, with the lusty pride of manhood; and in agentler love-song too, that seemed to linger in a dream of delight bycrystal streams, the sweet passion of the heart rose clear and true. But when he too essayed a song of sorrow and reluctant sadness, therewas no spirit in it; it seemed to him, I suppose, so unlike life, andthe joy of life, --so fantastic and unreal an outpouring of the heart. 

We sat long in the panelled room, till it seemed all alive with softdreams and radiant shapes, that floated in a golden air. All that wasdark and difficult seemed cast out and exercised. But it was all sosincere and contented a peace that the darker and more sombre shadowshad no jealous awakening; for the two were living to each other, not ina selfish seclusion, but as though they gave of their joy in handfulsto the whole world. The raptures of lovers sometimes take them back sofar into a kind of unashamed childishness that the spectacle rouses thecontempt and even the indignation of world-worn and cynical people. But here it never deviated from dignity and seemliness; it only seemednew and true, and the best gift of God. These two spirits seemed, withhands intertwined, to have ascended gladly into the mountain, and tohave seen a transfiguration of life: which left them not in a blissfuleminence of isolation, but rather, as it were, beckoning othersupwards, and saying that the road was indeed easy and plain. And sothe sweet hour passed, and left a fragrance behind it; whatever mightbefall, they had tasted of the holy wine of joy; they had blessed thecup, and bidden us too to set our lips to it. 

XV

A Strange Gathering

I was walking one summer day in the pleasant hilly country near myhome. There is a road which I often traverse, partly because it is avery lonely one, partly because it leads out on a high brow or shoulderof the uplands, and commands a wide view of the plain. Moreover, theroad is so deeply sunken between steep banks, overgrown with hazels, that one is hardly aware how much one climbs, and the wide clear viewat the top always breaks upon the eye with a certain shock of agreeablesurprise. A little before the top of the hill a road turns off, leading into a long disused quarry, surrounded by miniature cliffs, full of grassy mounds and broken ground, overgrown with thickets andfloored with rough turf. It is a very enchanting place in spring, andindeed at all times of the year; many flowers grow there, and the birdssing securely among the bushes. I have always imagined that the RedDeeps, in _The Mill on the Floss_, was just such a place, and thescenes described as taking place there have always enacted themselvesfor me in the quarry. I have always had a fancy too that if there areany fairies hereabouts, which I very much doubt, for I fear that thenew villas which begin to be sprinkled about the countryside havescared them all away, they would be found here. I visited the placeone moonlight night, and I am sure that the whole dingle was full of abright alert life which mocked my clumsy eyes and ears. If I couldhave stolen upon the place unawares, I felt that I might have seenstrange businesses go forward, and tiny revels held. 

That afternoon, as I drew near, I was displeased to see that my littleretreat was being profaned by company. Some brakes were drawn up inthe road, and I heard loud voices raised in untuneful mirth. As I camenearer I was much bewildered to divine who the visitors were. Theyseemed on the point of departing; two of the brakes were full, and intoanother some men were clambering. As I came close to them I was stillmore puzzled. The majority of the party were dressed all alike, inrough brown clothes, with soft black felt hats; but in each of thebrakes that were tenanted sat a man as well, with a braided cap, in asort of uniform. Most of the other men were old or elderly; some hadwhite beards or whiskers, almost all were grizzled. They were talking, too, in an odd, inconsequent, chirping kind of way, not listening toeach other; and moreover they were strangely adorned. Some had theirhats stuck full of flowers, others were wreathed with leaves. A fewhad chains of daisies round their necks. They seemed as merry and asobedient as children. Inside the gate, in the centre of the quarry, was a still stranger scene. Here was a ring of elderly and aged men, their hats wreathed with garlands, hand-in-hand, executing a slow andsolemn dance in a circle. One, who seemed the moving spirit, a smallwiry man with a fresh-coloured face and a long chin-beard, was leapinghigh in the air, singing some rustic song, and dragging his less activecompanions round and round. The others all entered into the spirit ofthe dance. One very old and feeble man, with a smile on his face, wasexecuting little clumsy hops, deeply intent on the performance. A fewothers stood round admiring the sport; a little apart was a tall graveman, talking loudly to himself, with flowers stuck all over him, whowas spinning round and round in an ecstasy of delight. Becoming giddy, he took a few rapid steps to the left, but fell to the ground, where helay laughing softly, and moving his hands in the air. Presently one ofthe officials said a word to the leader of the dance; the ring brokeup, and the performers scattered, gathering up little bundles of leavesand flowers that lay all about in some confusion, and then trooping outto the brakes. The quarry was deserted. Several of the group wavedtheir hands to me, uttering unintelligible words, and holding outflowers. 

I was so much surprised at the odd scene that I asked one of theofficials what it all meant. He said politely that it was a picnicparty from the Pauper Lunatic Asylum at H----. The mystery wasexplained. I said: "They seem to be enjoying themselves. " "Yes, indeed, sir, " he said, "they are like children; they look forward tothis all the year; there is no greater punishment than to deprive a manof his outing. " He entered the last brake as he said these words, andthe carriages moved off, a shrill and aged cheer rising from thin andpiping voices on the air. 

The whole thing did not strike me as grotesque, but as infinitelypathetic and even beautiful. Here were these old pitiful creatures, sodeeply afflicted, condemned most of them to a lifelong seclusion, whowere recalling and living over again their childish sports anddelights. What dim memories of old spring days, before their saddisabilities had settled upon them, were working in those aged andfeeble brains! What pleased me best was the obvious and light-heartedhappiness of the whole party, a compensation for days of starvedmonotony. No party of school-children on a holiday could have beenmore thoughtlessly, more intently gay. Here was a desolate company, one would have thought, of life's failures, facing one of the saddestand least hopeful prospects that the world can afford; yet on this dayat least they were full to the brim of irresponsible and completehappiness and delight, tasting an enjoyment, it seemed, more vivid thanoften falls to my own lot. In the presence of such happiness it seemedso useless, so unnecessary to ask why so heavy a burden was bound ontheir backs, because here at all events was a scene of the purest andmost innocent rapture. I went on my way full of wonder and even ofhope. I could not fathom the deep mystery of the failure, thesuffering, the weakness that runs across the world like an ugly crackacross the face of a fair building. But then how tenderly and wiselydoes the great Artificer lend consolation and healing, repairing andfilling so far as he may, the sad fracture; he seems to know betterthan we can divine the things that belong to our peace; so that as Ilooked across the purple rolling plain, with all its wooded ridges, itsrich pastures, the smoke going up from a hundred hamlets, a confidence, a quiet trust seemed to rise in my mind, filling me with a strangeyearning to know what were the thoughts of the vast Mind that makes usand sustains us, mingled with a faith in some large and far-off issuethat shall receive and enfold our little fretful spirits, as the seareceives the troubled leaping streams, to move in slow unison with thewide and secret tides. 

XVI

The Cripple

I went to-day to see an old friend whom I had not met for ten years. Some time ago he had a bad fall which for a time crippled him, but fromwhich it was hoped he would recover; but he must have received someobscure and deep-seated injury, because after improving for a time, hebegan to go backwards, and has now to a great extent lost the use ofhis limbs. He was formerly a very active man, both intellectually andphysically. He had a prosperous business in the country town on theoutskirts of which he lives. He was one of those tall spare men, black-haired and black-eyed, capable of bearing great fatigue, full tothe brim of vitality. He was a great reader, fond of music and art;married to a no less cultivated and active wife, but childless. Therenever was a man who had a keener enjoyment of existence in all itsaspects. It used to be a marvel to me to see at how many points a mancould touch life, and the almost child-like zest which he threw intoeverything which he did. 

On arriving at the house, a pleasant old-fashioned place with a bigshady garden, I was shown into a large book-lined study, and therepresently crept and tottered into the room, leaning on two sticks, afigure which I can only say in no respect recalled to me therecollection of my friend. He was bent and wasted, his hair was white;and there was that sunken look about the temples, that tracery of linesabout the eyes that tells of constant suffering. But the voice wasunaltered, full, resonant, and distinct as ever. He sat down and wassilent for a moment. I think that the motion even from one room intoanother caused him great pain. Then he began to talk; first he told meof the accident, and his journeys in search of health. "But thecomfort is, " he added, "that the doctors have now decided that they cando no more for me, and I need leave home no more. " He told me that hestill went to his business every day--and I found that it wasprospering greatly--and that though he could not drive, he could getout in a wheeled chair; he said nothing of his sufferings, andpresently began to talk of books and politics. Gradually I realisedthat I was in the company of a thoroughly cheerful man. It was not thecheerfulness that comes of effort, of a determined attempt to beinterested in old pursuits, but the abundant and overflowingcheerfulness of a man who has still a firm grasp on life. He argued, he discussed with the same eager liveliness; and his laugh had thecareless and good-humoured ring of a man whose mind was entirelycontent. 

His wife soon entered; and we sat for a long time talking. I waskeenly moved by the relations between them; she displayed none of thatminute attention to his needs, none of that watchful anxiety which Ihave often thought, tenderly lavished as it is upon invalids, mustbring home to them a painful sense of their dependence andhelplessness; and he too showed no trace of that fretful exigence whichis too often the characteristic of those who cannot assist themselves, and which almost invariably arises in the case of eager and activetemperaments thus afflicted, those whose minds range quickly fromsubject to subject, and who feel their disabilities at every turn. Atone moment he wanted his glasses to read something from a book that laybeside him. He asked his wife with a gentle courtesy to find them. They were discovered in his own breast-pocket, into which he could noteven put his feeble hand, and he apologised for his stupidity with anaffectionate humility which made me feel inclined to tears, especiallywhen I saw the pleasure which the performance of this trifling serviceobviously caused her. It was just the same, I afterwards noticed, witha young attendant who waited on him at luncheon, an occasion whichrevealed to me the full extent of his helplessness. 

I gathered from his wife in the course of the afternoon that though hislife was not threatened, yet that there was no doubt that hishelplessness was increasing. He could still hold a book and turn thepages; but it was improbable that he could do so for long, and he wasamusing himself by inventing a mechanical device for doing this. Butshe too talked of the prospect with a quiet tranquillity. She saidthat he was making arrangements to direct his business from his house, as it was becoming difficult for him to enter the office. 

He himself showed the same unabated cheerfulness during the whole of myvisit, and spoke of the enjoyment it had brought him. There was notthe slightest touch of self-pity about his talk. 

I should have admired and wondered at the fortitude of this gallantpair, if I had seen signs of repression and self-conquest about them;if they had relapsed even momentarily into repining, if they had shownsigns of a faithful determination to make the best of a bad business. But I could discern no trace of such a mood about either of them. Whether this kindly and sweet patience has been acquired, after hardand miserable wrestlings with despair and wretchedness, I cannot say, but I am inclined to think that it is not so. It seems to me rather tobe the display of perfect manliness and womanliness in the presence ofan irreparable calamity, a wonderful and amazing compensation, sentquietly from the deepest fortress of Love to these simple and generousnatures, who live in each other's lives. I tried to picture to myselfwhat my own thoughts would be if condemned to this sad condition; Icould only foresee a fretful irritability, a wild anguish, alternatingwith a torpid stupefaction. "I seem to love the old books better thanever, " my friend had said, smiling softly, in the course of theafternoon; "I used to read them hurriedly and greedily in the old days, but now I have time to think over them--to reflect--I never knew what apleasure reflection was. " I could not help feeling as he said thewords that with me such a stroke as he had suffered would have dashedthe life, the colour, out of books, and left them faded and witheredhusks. Half the charm of books, I have always thought, is theinter-play of the commentary of life and experience. I ventured to askhim if this was not the case. "No, " he said, "I don't think it is--Iseem more interested in people, in events, in thoughts than ever; andone gets them from a purer spring--I don't know if I can explain, " headded, "but I think that one sees it all from a different perspective, in a truer light, when one's own desires and possibilities are so muchmore limited. " When I said good-bye to him, he smiled at me and hopedthat I should repeat my visit. "Don't think of me as unhappy, " headded, and his wife, who was standing by him, said, "Indeed you neednot;" and the two smiled at each other in a way which made me feel thatthey were speaking the simple truth, and that they had found aninterpretation of life, a serene region to abide in, which I, with allmy activities, hopes, fears, businesses, had somehow missed. The pityof it! and yet the beauty of it! as I went away I felt that I hadindeed trodden on holy ground, and seen the transfiguration of humanityand pain into something august, tranquil, and divine. 

XVII

Oxford

There are certain things in the world that are so praiseworthy that itseems a needless, indeed an almost laughable thing to praise them; suchthings are love and friendship, food and sleep, spring and summer; suchthings, too, are the wisest books, the greatest pictures, the noblestcities. But for all that I mean to try and make a little hymn in prosein honour of Oxford, a city I have seen but seldom, and which yetappears to me one of the most beautiful things in the world. 

I do not wish to single out particular buildings, but to praise thewhole effect of the place, such as it seemed to me on a day of brightsun and cool air, when I wandered hour after hour among the streets, bewildered and almost intoxicated with beauty, feeling as a poor manmight who has pinched all his life, and made the most of single coins, and who is brought into the presence of a heap of piled-up gold, andtold that it is all his own. 

I have seen it said in foolish books that it is a misfortune to Oxfordthat so many of the buildings have been built out of so perishable avein of stone. It is indeed a misfortune in one respect, that ittempts men of dull and precise minds to restore and replace buildingsof incomparable grace, because their outline is so exquisitely blurredby time and decay. I remember myself, as a child, visiting Oxford, andthinking that some of the buildings were almost shamefully ruinous ofaspect; now that I am wiser I know that we have in these battered andfretted palace-fronts a kind of beauty that fills the mind with analmost despairing sense of loveliness, till the heart aches withgratitude, and thrills with the desire to proclaim the glory of thesight aloud. 

These black-fronted blistered facades, so threatening, so sombre, yetscreening so bright and clear a current of life; with the tender greenof budding spring trees, chestnuts full of silvery spires, glossy-leaved creepers clinging, with tiny hands, to cornice andparapet, give surely the sharpest and most delicate sense that it ispossible to conceive of the contrast on which the essence of so muchbeauty depends. To pass through one of these dark and smoke-stainedcourts, with every line mellowed and harmonised, as if it had grown upso out of the earth; to find oneself in a sunny pleasaunce, carpetedwith velvet turf, and set thick with flowers, makes the spirit sighwith delight. Nowhere in the world can one see such a thing as thosegreat gate-piers, with a cognisance a-top, with a grille of iron-workbetween them, all sweetly entwined with some slim vagrant creeper, thatgive a glimpse and a hint--no more--of a fairy-land of shelter andfountains within. I have seen such palaces stand in quiet and statelyparks, as old, as majestic, as finely proportioned as the buildings ofOxford; but the very blackness of the city air, and the drifting smokeof the town, gives that added touch of grimness and mystery that thecountry airs cannot communicate. And even fairer sights are containedwithin; those panelled, dark-roofed halls, with their array ofportraits gravely and intently regarding the stranger; the chapels, with their splendid classical screens and stalls, rich and dim withancient glass. The towers, domes, and steeples; and all set not in amere paradise of lawns and glades, but in the very heart of a city, itself full of quaint and ancient houses, but busy with all theactivity of a brisk and prosperous town; thereby again giving thestrong and satisfying sense of contrast, the sense of eager andevery-day cares and pleasures, side by side with these secluded havensof peace, the courts and cloister, where men may yet live a life ofgentle thought and quiet contemplation, untroubled, nay, evenstimulated, by the presence of a bustling life so near at hand, whichyet may not intrude upon the older dream. 

I do not know whether my taste is entirely trustworthy, but I confessthat I find the Italianate and classical buildings of Oxford finer thanthe Gothic buildings. The Gothic buildings are quainter, perhaps, morepicturesque, but there is an air of solemn pomp and sober dignity aboutthe classical buildings that harmonises better with the sense of wealthand grave security that is so characteristic of the place. The Gothicbuildings seem a survival, and have thus a more romantic interest, amore poetical kind of association. But the classical porticos andfacades seem to possess a nobler dignity, and to provide a moreappropriate setting for modern Oxford; because the spirit of Oxford ismore the spirit of the Renaissance than the spirit of the Schoolmen;and personally I prefer that ecclesiasticism should be more of aflavour than a temper; I mean that though I rejoice to think that soberecclesiastical influences contribute a serious grace to the life ofOxford, yet I am glad to feel that the spirit of the place is liberalrather than ecclesiastical. Such traces as one sees in the chapels ofthe Oxford Movement, in the shape of paltry stained glass, starvedreredoses, modern Gothic woodwork, would be purely deplorable from theartistic point of view, if they did not possess a historical interest. They speak of interrupted development, an attempt to put back theshadow on the dial, to return to a narrower and more rigid tone, to putold wine into new bottles, which betrays a want of confidence in theexpansive power of God. I hate with a deep-seated hatred all suchattempts to bind and confine the rising tide of thought. I want to seereligion vital and not formal, elastic and not cramped by precedent andtradition. And thus I love to see worship enshrined in noble classicalbuildings, which seem to me to speak of a desire to infuse theintellectual spirit of Greece, the dignified imperialism of Rome intothe more timid and secluded ecclesiastical life, making it fuller, larger, more free, more deliberate. 

But even apart from the buildings, which are after all but the body ofthe place, the soul of Oxford, its inner spirit, is what lends it itssatisfying charm. On the one hand, it gives the sense of the dignityof the intellect; one reflects that here can be lived lives of statelysimplicity, of high enthusiasm, apart from personal wealth, and yetsurrounded by enough of seemly dignity to give life the charm of graveorder and quiet solemnity. Here are opportunities for peaceful andcongenial work, to the sound of mellodious bells; uninterrupted hours, as much society of a simple kind as a man can desire, and the wholewith a background of exquisite buildings and rich gardens. And then, too, there is the tide of youthful life that floods every corner of theplace. It is an endless pleasure to see the troops of slim and alertyoung figures, full of enjoyment and life, with all the best gifts oflife, health, work, amusement, society, friendship, lying ready totheir hand. The sense of this beating and thrilling pulse of lifecirculating through these sombre and splendid buildings is what givesthe place its inner glow; this life full of hope, of sensation, ofemotion, not yet shadowed or disillusioned or weary, seems to be as thefire on the altar, throwing up its sharp darting tongues of flame, itsclouds of fragrant smoke, giving warmth and significance and a fieryheart to a sombre shrine. 

And so it is that Oxford is in a sort a magnetic pole for England; apole not, perhaps, of intellectual energy, or strenuous liberalism, orclamorous aims, or political ideas; few, perhaps, of the sturdy forcesthat make England potently great, centre there. The greatness ofEngland is, I suppose, made up by her breezy, loud-voiced sailors, herlively, plucky soldiers, her ardent, undefeated merchants, her tranquiladministrators; by the stubborn adventurous spirit that makes itself athome everywhere, and finds it natural to assume responsibilities. Butto Oxford set the currents of what may be called intellectual emotion, the ideals that may not make for immediate national greatness, butwhich, if delicately and faithfully nurtured, hold out at least a hopeof affecting the intellectual and spiritual life of the world. Thereis something about Oxford which is not in the least typical of England, but typical of the larger brotherhood that is independent ofnationalities; that is akin to the spirit which in any land and inevery age has produced imperishable monuments of the ardent human soul. The tribe of Oxford is the tribe from whose heart sprang the Psalms ofDavid; Homer and Sophocles, Plato and Virgil, Dante and Goethe are allof the same divine company. It may be said that John Bull, the sturdyangel of England, turns his back slightingly upon such influences; thathe regards Oxford as an incidental ornament of his person, like a sealthat jingles at his fob. But all generous and delicate spirits do hera secret homage, as a place where the seeds of beauty and emotion, ofwisdom and understanding, are sown, as in a secret garden. Hearts suchas these, even whirling past that celestial city, among her poorsuburbs, feel an inexpressible thrill at the sight of her towers anddomes, her walls and groves. _Quam dilecta sunt tabernacula_, theywill say; and they will breathe a reverent prayer that there may be noleading into captivity and no complaining in her streets. 

XVIII

Authorship

I found myself at dinner the other day next to an old friend, whom Isee but seldom; a quiet, laborious, able man, with the charm of perfectmodesty and candour, who, moreover, writes a very beautiful and lucidstyle. I said to him that I conceived it to be my mission, whenever Imet him, to enquire what he was writing, and to beg him to write more. He said smilingly that he was very much occupied in his work, which isteaching, and found little time to write; "besides, " he said, "I thinkthat one writes too much. " He went on to say that though he lovedwriting well enough when he was in the mood for it, yet that the labourof shaping sentences, and lifting them to their places, was very severe. 

I felt myself a little rebuked by this, for I will here confess thatwriting is the one pleasure and preoccupation of my own life, though Ido not publish a half of what I write. It set me wondering whether Idid indeed write too much; and so I said to him: "You mean, I suppose, that one gets into the habit of serving up the same ideas over and overagain, with a different sauce, perhaps; but still the same ideas?""Yes, " he said, "that is what I mean. When I have written anythingthat I care about, I feel that I must wait a long time before thecistern fills again. "

We went on to talk of other things; but I have since been reflectingwhether there is truth in what my friend said. If his view is true ofwriting, then it is surely the only art that is so hampered. We shouldnever think that an artist worked too much; we might feel that he didnot perhaps finish his big pictures sufficiently; but if he did notspare labour in finishing his pictures, we should never find fault withhim for doing, say, as Turner did, and making endless studies andsketches, day after day, of all that struck him as being beautiful. Weshould feel indeed that some of these unconsidered and rapid sketcheshad a charm and a grace that the more elaborate pictures might miss;and in any case we should feel that the more that he worked, the firmerand easier would become his sweep of hand, the more deft his power ofindicating a large effect by an economy of resource. The musician, too: no one would think of finding fault with him for working every dayat his art; and it is the same with all craftsmen; the more theyworked, the surer would their touch be. 

Now I am inclined to believe that what makes writing good is not somuch the pains taken with a particular piece of work, the retouching, the corrections, the dear delays. Still more fruitful than this labouris the labour spent on work that is never used, that never sees thelight. Writing is to me the simplest and best pleasure in the world;the mere shaping of an idea in words is the occupation of all others Imost love; indeed, to speak frankly, I plan and arrange all my daysthat I may secure a space for writing, not from a sense of duty, butmerely from a sense of delight. The whole world teems with subjectsand thoughts, sights of beauty and images of joy and sorrow, that Idesire to put into words; and to forbid myself to write would be toexercise the strongest self-denial of which I am capable. Of course Ido not mean that I can always please myself. I have piles ofmanuscripts laid aside which fail either in conception or expression, or in both. But there are a dozen books I would like to write if I hadthe time. 

To be honest, I do not believe in fretting too much over a piece ofwriting. Writing, laboriously constructed, painfully ornamented, isoften, I think, both laborious and painful to read; there is a sense ofstrain about it. It is like those uneasy figures that one sees in thecarved gargoyles of old churches, crushed and writhing for ever under asense of weight painfully sustained, or holding a gaping mouth open, for the water-pipe to discharge its contents therethrough. Howeveringenious these carvings are, they always give a sense of tension andoppression to the mind; and it is the same with laboured writers; mytheory of writing rather is that the conception should be as clear aspossible, and then that the words should flow like a transparentstream, following as simply as possible the shape and outline of thethought within, like a waterbreak over a boulder in a stream's bed. This, I think, is best attained by infinite practice. If a piece ofwork seems to be heavy and muddy, let it be thrown aside ungrudgingly;but the attempt, even though it be a failure, makes the next attempteasier. 

I do not think that one can write for very long at a time to muchpurpose; I take the two or three hours when the mind is clearest andfreshest, and write as rapidly as I can; this secures, it seems to me, a clearness and a unity which cannot be attained by fretful labour, bypoking and pinching at one's work. One avoids by rapidity and ardourthe dangerous defect of repetition; a big task must be divided intosmall sharp episodes to be thus swiftly treated. The thought of such awriter as Flaubert lying on his couch or pacing his room, the rackedand tortured medium of his art, spending hours in selecting the oneperfect word for his purpose, is a noble and inspiring picture; butsuch a process does not, I fear, always end in producing the effect atwhich it aims; it improves the texture at a minute point; it sacrificeswidth and freedom. 

Together with clearness of conception and resource of vocabulary mustcome a certain eagerness of mood. When all three qualities arepresent, the result is good work, however rapidly it may be produced. If one of the three is lacking, the work sticks, hangs, and grates; andthus what I feel that the word-artist ought to do is to aim at workingon these lines, but to be very strict and severe about the ultimateselection of his work. If, for instance, in a big task, a section hasbeen dully and impotently written, let him put the manuscript aside, and think no more of it for a while; let him not spend labour inattempting to mend bad work; then, on some later occasion, let himagain get his conception clear, and write the whole section again; ifhe loves writing for itself he will not care how often this process isrepeated. 

I am speaking here very frankly; and I will own that for myself, whenthe day has rolled past and when the sacred hour comes, I sit down towrite with an appetite, a keen rapture, such as a hungry man may feelwhen he sits down to a savoury meal. There is a real physical emotionthat accompanies the process; and it is a deep and lively distress thatI feel when I am living under conditions that do not allow me toexercise my craft, at being compelled to waste the appropriate hours inother occupations. 

It may be fairly urged that with this intense impulse to write, I oughtto have contrived to make myself into a better writer; and it might bethought that there is something either grotesque or pathetic in so muchemotional enjoyment issuing in so slender a performance. But theessence of the happiness is that the joy resides in the doing of thework and not in the giving it to the world; and though I do not pretendnot to be fully alive to the delight of having my work praised andappreciated, that is altogether a secondary pleasure which in no waycompetes with the luxury of expression. 

I am not ungrateful for this delight; it may, I know, be withdrawn fromme; but meanwhile the world seems to be full to the brim of expressiveand significant things. There is a beautiful old story of a saint whosaw in a vision a shining figure approaching him, holding in his hand adark and cloudy globe. He held it out, and the saint lookingattentively upon it, saw that it appeared to represent the earth inminiature; there were the continents and seas, with clouds sweepingover them; and, for all that it was so minute, he could see cities andplains, and little figures moving to and fro. The angel laid hisfinger on a part of the globe, and detached from it a small cluster ofislands, drawing them out of the sea; and the saint saw that they werepeopled by a folk, whom he knew, in some way that he could not whollyunderstand, to be dreary and uncomforted. He heard a voice saying, "_He taketh up the isles as a very small thing_"; and it darted intohis mind that his work lay with the people of those sad islands; thathe was to go thither, and speak to them a message of hope. 

It is a beautiful story; and it has always seemed to me that the workof the artist is like that. He is to detach from the great peopledglobe what little portion seems to appeal to him most; and he must thensay what he can to encourage and sustain men, whatever thoughts of joyand hope come most home to him in his long and eager pilgrimage. 

XIX

Hamlet

We were talking yesterday about the stage, a subject in which I amashamed to confess I take but a feeble interest, though I fullyrecognise the appeal of the drama to certain minds, and itspossibilities. One of the party, who had all his life been a greatfrequenter of theatres, turned to me and said: "After all, there is oneplay which seems to be always popular, and to affect all audiences, thepoor, the middle-class, the cultivated, alike--_Hamlet_. " "Yes, " Isaid, "and I wonder why that is?" "Well, " he said, "it is this, Ithink: that beneath all its subtleties, all its intellectual force, ithas an emotional appeal to every one who has lived in the world; everyone sees himself more or less in Hamlet; every one has been in asituation in which he felt that circumstances were too strong for him;and then, too, " he added, "there is always a deep and romantic interestabout the case of a man who has every possible external advantage, youth, health, wealth, rank, love, ardour, and zest, who is yet utterlymiserable, and moves to a dark end under a shadow of doom. "

I thought, and think this a profound and delicate criticism. There is, of course, a great deal more in _Hamlet_; there is its high poetry, itsmournful dwelling upon deep mysteries, its supernatural terrors, itsworldly wisdom, its penetrating insight; but these are all accessoriesto the central thought; the conception is absolutely firm throughout. The hunted soul of Hamlet, after a pleasant and easy drifting upon thestream of happy events, finds a sombre curtain suddenly twitched aside, and is confronted with a tragedy so dark, a choice so desperate, thatthe reeling brain staggers, and can hardly keep its hold upon theevents and habits of life. Day by day the shadow flits beside him;morning after morning he uncloses his sad eyes upon a world, which hehad found so sweet, and which he now sees to be so terrible; theinsistent horror breeds a whole troop of spectres, so that all thequiet experiences of life, friendship, love, nature, art, become bigwith uneasy speculations and surmises; from the rampart-platform by thesea until the peal of ordnance is shot off, as the poor bodies arecarried out, every moment brings with it some shocking or broodingexperience. Hamlet is not strong enough to close his eyes to thesethings; if for a moment he attempts this, some tragic thought plucks athis shoulder, and bids the awakened sleeper look out into thestruggling light. Neither is he strong enough to face the situationwith resolution and courage. He turns and doubles before the pursuingFury; he hopes against hope that a door of escape may be opened. Hepoisons the air with gloom and suspicion; he feeds with wilful sadnessupon the most melancholy images of death and despair. And though thegreat creator of this mournful labyrinth, this atrocious dilemma, caninvolve the sad spirit with an art that thrills all the most delicatefibres of the human spirit, he cannot stammer out even the mostfaltering solution, the smallest word of comfort or hope. He leavesthe problem, where he took it up, in the mighty hands of God. 

And thus the play stands as the supreme memorial of the torturedspirit. The sad soul of the prince seems like an orange-banded bee, buzzing against the glass of some closed chamber-window, wonderingheavily what is the clear yet palpable medium that keeps it, in spiteof all its efforts, from re-entering the sunny paradise of tree andflower, that lies so close at hand, and that is yet unattainable; untilone wonders why the supreme Lord of the place cannot put forth afinger, and release the ineffectual spirit from its fruitless pain. Asthe play gathers and thickens to its crisis, one experiences--and thisis surely a test of the highest art--the poignant desire to explain, toreason, to comfort, to relieve; even if one cannot help, one longs atleast to utter the yearning of the heart, the intense sympathy that onefeels for the multitude of sorrows that oppress this laden spirit; toassuage if only for a moment, by an answering glance of love, the firethat burns in those stricken eyes. And one must bear away from thestory not only the intellectual satisfaction, the emotional excitement, but a deep desire to help, as far as a man can, the woes of spiritswho, all the world over, are in the grip of these dreary agonies. 

And that, after all, is the secret of the art that deals with thepresentment of sorrow; with the art that deals with pure beauty the endis plain enough; we may stay our hearts upon it, plunge with gratitudeinto the pure stream, and recognise it for a sweet and wholesome giftof God; but the art that makes sorrow beautiful, what are we to do withthat? We may learn to bear, we may learn to hope that there is, in themind of God, if we could but read it, a region where both beauty andsadness are one; and meanwhile it may teach us to let our heart go out, in love and pity, to all who are bound upon their pilgrimage inheaviness, and passing uncomforted through the dark valley. 

XX

A Sealed Spirit

A few weeks ago I was staying with a friend of mine, a clergyman in thecountry. He told me one evening a very sad story about one of hisparishioners. This was a man who had been a clerk in a London Bank, whose eyesight had failed, and who had at last become totally blind. He was, at the time when this calamity fell upon him, about forty yearsof age. The Directors of the Bank gave him a small pension, and he hada very small income of his own; he was married, with one son, who wasshortly after taken into the Bank as a clerk. The man and his wifecame into the parish, and took a tiny cottage, where they lived verysimply and frugally. But within a year or two his hearing had alsofailed, and he had since become totally deaf. It is almost appallingto reflect upon the condition of helplessness to which this doublecalamity can reduce a man. To be cut off from the sights and sounds ofthe world, with these two avenues of perception closed, so as to beable to take cognisance of external things only through scent andtouch! It would seem to be well-nigh unendurable! He had learnt toread raised type with his fingers, and had been presented by somefriends with two or three books of this kind. His speech was, as isalways the case, affected, but still intelligible. Only the simplestfacts could be communicated to him, by means of a set of cards, withwords in raised type, out of which a few sentences could be arranged. But he and his wife had invented a code of touch, by means of which shewas able to a certain extent, though of course very inadequately, tocommunicate with him. I asked how he employed himself, and I was toldthat he wrote a good deal, --curious, rhapsodical compositions, dwellingmuch on his own thoughts and fancies. "He sits, " said the Vicar, "forhours together on a bench in his garden, and walks about, guided by hiswife. His sense of both smell and touch have become extraordinarilyacute; and, afflicted as he is, I am sure he is not at all an unhappyman. " He produced some of the writings of which he had spoken. Theywere written in a big, clear hand. I read them with intense interest. Some of them were recollections of his childish days, set in a somewhatantique and biblical phraseology. Some of them were curious reveries, dwelling much upon the perception of natural things through scent. Hecomplained, I remember, that life was so much less interesting inwinter because scents were so much less sweet and less complex than insummer. But the whole of the writings showed a serene exaltation ofmind. There was not a touch of repining or resignation about them. Hespoke much of the aesthetic pleasure that he received from an increasedpower of disentangling the component elements of a scent, such as camefrom his garden on a warm summer day. Some of the writings that wereshown me were religious in character, in which the man spoke of aconstant sense of the nearness of God's presence, and of a strange joythat filled his heart. 

On the following day the Vicar suggested that we should go to see him;we turned out of a lane, and found a little cottage with a thatchedroof, standing in a small orchard, bright with flowers. On a bench wesaw the man sitting, entirely unconscious of our presence. He was atall, strongly-built fellow with a beard, bronzed and healthy inappearance. His eyes were wide open, and, but for a curious fixity ofgaze, I should not have suspected that he was blind. His hands werefolded on his knee, and he was smiling; once or twice I saw his lipsmove as if he was talking to himself. "We won't go up to him, " saidthe Vicar, "as it might startle him; we will find his wife. " So wewent up to the cottage door, and knocked. It was opened to us by asmall elderly woman, with a grave, simple look, and a very pleasantsmile. The little place was wonderfully clean and neat. The Vicarintroduced me, saying that I had been much interested in her husband'swritings, and had come to call on him. She smiled briskly, and saidthat he would be much pleased. We walked down the path; when we werewithin a few feet of him, he became aware of our presence, and turnedhis head with a quiet, expectant air. His wife went up to him, tookhis hand, and seemed to beat on it softly with her fingers; he smiled, and presently raised his hat, as if to greet us, and then took up alittle writing-pad which lay beside him, and began to write. A littleconversation followed, his wife reading out what he had written, andthen interpreting our remarks to him. What struck me most was theabsence of egotism in what he wrote. He asked the Vicar one or twoquestions, and desired to know who I was. I went and sate down besidehim; he wrote in his book that it was a pleasure to him to meet astranger. Might he take the liberty of seeing him in his own way? "Hemeans, " said the wife, smiling, "might he put his hand on yourface--some people do not like it, " she added apologetically, "and hewill quite understand if you do not. " I said that I was delighted; andthe blind man thereupon laid his hand upon my sleeve, and with anincredible deftness and lightness of touch, so that I hardly felt it, passed his finger-tips over my coat and waistcoat, lingered for amoment over my watch-chain, then over my tie and collar, and then verygently over my face and hair; it did not last half a minute, and therewas something curiously magnetic in the touch of the slim firm fingers. "Now I see him, " he wrote; "please thank him. " "It will please him, "said the Vicar, "if we ask him to describe you. " In a moment, after afew touches of his wife's hand, he smiled, and wrote down a reallyremarkably accurate picture of my appearance. We then asked him a fewquestions about himself. "Very well and very happy, " he wrote, "fullof the love of God;" and then added, "You will perhaps think that I gettired of doing nothing, but the time is too short for all I want todo. " "It is quite true, " said his wife, smiling as she read it. "Heis as pleased as a child with everything, and every one is so good tohim. " Presently she asked him to read aloud to us; and in a voice ofgreat distinctness, he read a few verses of the Book of Job from a bigvolume. The voice was high and resonant, but varied strangely inpitch. He asked at the end whether we had heard every word, and beingtold that we had, smiled very sweetly and frankly, like a boy who hasperformed a task well. The Vicar suggested that he should come for aturn with us, at which he visibly brightened, and said he would like towalk through the village. He took our arms, walking between us; andwith a delicate courtesy, knowing that we could not communicate withhim, talked himself, very quietly and simply, almost all the way, partly of what he was convinced we were passing, --guessing, I imagine, mainly by a sense of smell, and interpreting it all with astonishingaccuracy, though I confess I was often unable even to detect the scentswhich guided him. We walked thus for half an hour, listening to hisquiet talk. Two or three people came up to us. Each time the Vicarchecked him, and he held out his hand to be shaken; in each case herecognised the person by the mere touch of the hand. "Mrs Purvis, isn't it? Well, you see me in very good company this morning, don'tyou? It is so kind of the Vicar and his friend to take me out, and itis pleasant to meet friends in the village. " He seemed to know allabout the affairs of the place, and made enquiries after various people. 

It was a very strange experience to walk thus with a fellow-creaturesuffering from these sad limitations, and yet to be conscious of beingin the presence of so perfectly contented and cheerful a spirit. Before we parted, he wrote on his pad that he was working hard. "I amtrying to write a little book; of course I know that I can never seeit, but I should like to tell people that it is possible to live a lifelike mine, and to be full of happiness; that God sends me abundance ofjoy, so that I can say with truth that I am happier now than ever I wasin the old days. Such peace and joy, with so many to love me; solittle that I can do for others, except to speak of the marvellousgoodness of God, and of the beautiful thoughts he gives me. " "Yes, hehas written some chapters, " said the faithful wife; "but he does notwant any one to see them till they are done. "

I shall never forget the sight of the two as we went away: he stood, smiling and waving his hand, under an apple-tree in full bloom, withthe sun shining on the flowers. It gave me the sense of a pure andsimple content such as I have rarely experienced. The beauty andstrength of the picture have dwelt with me ever since, showing me thata soul can be thus shut up in what would seem to be so dark a prison, with the windows, through which most of us look upon the world, closedand shuttered; and yet not only not losing the joy of life, but seemingto taste it in fullest measure. If one could but accept thus one's ownlimitations, viewing them not as sources of pleasure closed, but asopening the door more wide to what remains; the very simplicity andrarity of the perceptions that are left, gaining in depth and qualityfrom their isolation. But beyond all this lies that well-spring ofinner joy, which seems to be withheld from so many of us. Is it indeedwithheld? Is it conferred upon this poor soul simply as a tendercompensation? Can we not by quiet passivity, rather than by resoluteeffort, learn the secret of it? I believe myself that the source isthere in many hearts, but that we visit it too rarely, and forget it inthe multitude of little cares and businesses, which seem so important, so absorbing. It is like a hidden treasure, which we go so far abroadto seek, and for which we endure much weariness of wandering; while allthe while it is buried in our own garden-ground; we have paced to andfro above it many times, never dreaming that the bright thing laybeneath our feet, and within reach of our forgetful hand. 

XXI

Leisure

It was a bright day in early spring; large, fleecy clouds floated in ablue sky; the wind was cool, but the sun lay hot in sheltered places. 

I was spending a few days with an old friend, at a little house hecalls his Hermitage, in a Western valley; we had walked out, had passedthe bridge, and had stood awhile to see the clear stream flowing, avein of reflected sapphire, among the green water-meadows; we hadclimbed up among the beech-woods, through copses full of primroses, toa large heathery hill, where a clump of old pines stood inside anancient earth-work. The forest lay at our feet, and the doves cooedlazily among the tree-tops; beyond lay the plain, with a long range ofsmooth downs behind, where the river broadened to the sea-pool, whichnarrowed again to the little harbour; and, across the clusteredhouse-roofs and the lonely church tower of the port, we could see aglint of the sea. 

We sat awhile in silence; then "Come, " I said, "I am going to beimpertinent! I am in a mood to ask questions, and to have fullanswers. "

"And I, " said my host placidly, "am always in the mood to answerquestions. "

I would call my friend a poet, because he is sealed of the tribe, ifever man was; yet he has never written verses to my knowledge. He is abig, burly, quiet man, gentle and meditative of aspect; shy beforecompany, voluble in private. Half-humorous, half melancholy. He hasbeen a man of affairs, prosperous, too, and shrewd. But nothing in hislife was ever so poetical as the way in which, to the surprise and evenconsternation of all his friends, he announced one day, when he wasturned of forty, that he had had enough of work, and that he would dono more. Well, he had no one to say him nay; he has but few relations, none in any way dependent on him; he has a modest competence; and, being fond of all leisurely things--books, music, the open air, thecountry, flowers, and the like--he has no need to fear that his timewill be unoccupied. 

He looked lazily at me, biting a straw. "Come, " said I again, "here isthe time for a catechism. I have reason to think you are over forty?"

"Yes, " said he, "the more's the pity!"

"And you have given up regular work, " I said, "for over a year; and howdo you like that?"

"Like it?" he said. "Well, so much that I can never work again; andwhat is stranger still is that I never knew what it was to be reallybusy till I gave up work. Before, I was often bored; now, the day isnever long enough for all I have to do. "

"But that is a dreadful confession, " I said; "and how do you justifyyourself for this miserable indifference to all that is held to be ofimportance?"

"Listen!" he said, smiling and holding up his hand. There floated upout of the wood the soft crooning of a dove, like the over-brimming ofa tide of content. "There's the answer, " he added. "How does thatdove justify his existence? and yet he has not much on his mind. "

"I have no answer ready, " I said, "though there is one, I am sure, ifyou will only give me time; but let that come later: more questionsfirst, and then I will deliver judgment. Now, attend to thisseriously, " I said. "How do you justify it that you are alone in theworld, not mated, not a good husband and father? The dove has not gotthat on his conscience. "

"Ah!" said my friend, "I have often asked myself that. But for manyyears I had not the time to fall in love; if I had been an idle man itwould have been different, and now that I am free--well, I regard itas, on the whole, a wise dispensation. I have no domestic virtues; Iam a pretty commonplace person, and I think there is no reason why Ishould perpetuate my own feeble qualities, bind my dull qualities upcloser with the life of the world. Besides, I have a theory that theworld is made now very much as it was in the Middle Ages. There wasbut one choice then--a soldier or a monk. Now, I have no combativeblood in me; I hate a row; I am a monk to the marrow of my bones, andthe monks are the failures from the point of view of race. No monkshould breed monks; there are enough of his kind in the hive already. "

"You a monk?" said I, laughing. "Why, you are nothing of the kind; youare just the sort of man for an adoring wife and a handful of bigchildren. I must have a better answer. "

"Well, then, " said he, rather seriously, "I will give you a betteranswer. There are some people whose affections are made to run, strongand straight, in a narrow channel. The world holds but one woman for aman of that type, and it is his business to find her; but there areothers, and I am one, who dribble away their love in a hundredchannels--in art, in nature, among friends. To speak frankly, I havehad a hundred such passions. I made friends as a boy, quickly andromantically, with all kinds of people--some old, some young. Then Ihave loved books, and music, and, above all, the earth and the thingsof the earth. To the wholesome, normal man these things are but anagreeable background, and the real business of life lies with wife andchild and work. But to me the real things have been the beautifulthings--sunrise and sunset, streams and woods, old houses, talk, poetry, pictures, ideas. And I always liked my work, too. "

"And you did it well?" I said. 

"Oh, yes, well enough, " he replied. "I have a clear head, and I amconscientious; and then there was some fun to be got out of it attimes. But it was never a part of myself for all that. And the reasonwhy I gave it up was not because I was tired of it, but because I wasgetting to depend too much upon it. I should very soon have beenunable to do without it. "

"But what is your programme?" I said, rather urgently. "Don't you wantto be of some use in the world? To make other people better andhappier, for instance. "

"My dear boy, " said my companion, with a smile, "do you know that youare talking in a very conventional way? Of course, I desire thatpeople should be better and happier, myself among the number; but howam I to set about it? Most people's idea of being better and happieris to make other people subscribe to make them richer. They want morethings to eat and drink and wear; they want success and respectability, to be sidesmen and town councillors, and even Members of Parliament. Nothing is more hopelessly unimaginative than ordinary people's aimsand ideas, and the aims and ideas, too, that are propounded frompulpits. I don't want people to be richer and more prosperous; I wantthem to be poorer and simpler. Which is the better man, the shepherdthere on the down, out all day in the air, seeing a thousand prettythings, or the grocer behind his counter, living in an odour of lardand cheese, bowing and fussing, and drinking spirits in the evening?Of course, a wholesome-minded man may be wholesome-minded everywhereand anywhere; but prosperity, which is the Englishman's idea ofrighteousness, is a very dangerous thing, and has very little of whatis divine about it. If I had stuck to my work, as all my friendsadvised me, what would have been the result? I should have had moremoney than I want, and nothing in the world to live for but my work. Of course, I know that I run the risk of being thought indolent andunpractical. If I were a prophet, I should find it easy enough toscold everybody, and find fault with the poor, peaceful world. But asI am not, I can only follow my own line of life, and try to see andlove as many as I can of the beautiful things that God flings down allround us. I am not a philanthropist, I suppose; but most of thephilanthropists I have known have seemed to me tiresome, self-seekingpeople, with a taste for trying to take everything out of God's hands. I am an individualist, I imagine. I think that most of us have to findour way, and to find it alone. I do try to help a few quiet people atthe right moment; but I believe that every one has his own circle--somelarger, some smaller--and that one does little good outside it. Ifevery one would be content with that, the world would be mended in atrice. "

"I am glad that you, at least, admit that there is something to bemended, " I said. 

"Oh, yes, " said he, "the general conditions seem to me to want mending;but that, I humbly think, is God's matter, and not mine. The world isslowly broadening and improving, I believe. In these days, when weshoot our enemies and then nurse them, we are coming, I believe, to seeeven the gigantic absurdity of war; but all that side of it is too bigfor me. I am no philosopher! What I believe we ought to do is to bepatient, kind, and courageous in a corner. Now, I will give you aninstance. I had a friend who was a good, hard-working clergyman; abrave, genial, courageous creature; he had a town parish not far fromhere; he liked his work, and he did it well. He was the friend of allthe boys and girls in the parish; he worked a hundred useful, humbleinstitutions. He was nothing of a preacher, and a poor speaker; butsomething generous, honest, happy seemed to radiate from the man. Ofcourse, they could not let him alone. They offered him a Bishopric. All his friends said he was bound to take it; the poor fellow wrote tome, and said that he dared not refuse a sphere of wider influence, andall that. I wrote and told him my mind--namely, that he was doing asplendid piece of quiet, sober work, and that he had better stick toit. But, of course, he didn't. Well, what is the result? He isworried to death. He has a big house and a big household; he is awelcome guest in country-houses and vicarages; he opens churches, heconfirms; he makes endless poor speeches, and preaches weak sermons. His time is all frittered away in directing the elaborate machinery ofa diocese; and all his personal work is gone. I don't say he doesn'timpress people. But his strength lay in his personal work, his work asa neighbour and a friend. He is not a clever man; he never says asuggestive thing--he is not a sower of thoughts, but a simple pastor. Well, I regard it as a huge and lamentable mistake that he should everhave changed his course; and the motive that made him do it was a badone, only disguised as an angel of light. Instead of being the stokerof the train, he is now a distinguished passenger in a first-classcarriage. "

"Well, " I said, "I admit that there is a good deal in what you say. But if such a summons comes to a man, is it not more simple-minded tofollow it dutifully? Is it not, after all, part of the guiding of God?"

"Ah!" said my host, "that is a hard question, I admit. But a man mustlook deep into his heart, and face a situation of the kind bravely andsimply. He must be quite sure that it is a summons from God, and not atemptation from the world. I admit that it may be the former. But inthe case of which I have just spoken, my friend ought to have seen thatit was the latter. He was made for the work he was doing; he wasobviously not made for the other. And to sum it up, I think that Godputs us into the world to live, not necessarily to get influence overother people. If a man is worth anything, the influence comes; and Idon't call it living to attend public luncheons, and to writeunnecessary letters, because public luncheons are things which need notexist, and are only amusements invented by fussy and idle people. I amnot at all against people amusing themselves. But they ought to do itquietly and inexpensively, and not elaborately and noisily. The onlything that is certain is that men must work and eat and sleep and die. Well, I want them to enjoy their work, their food, their rest; and thenI should like them to enjoy their leisure hours peacefully and quietly. I have done as much in my twenty years of business as a man in awell-regulated state ought to do in the whole of his life; and the restI shall give, God willing, to leisure--not eating my cake in a corner, but in quiet good fellowship, with an eye and an ear for this wonderfuland beautiful world. " And my companion smiled upon me a large, gentle, engaging smile. 

"Yes, " I said, "you have answered well, and you have given me plenty tothink about. And at all events you have a point of view, and that is agreat thing. "

"Yes, " said he, "a great thing, as long as one is not sure one isright, but ready to learn, and not desirous to teach. That is themistake. We are children at school--we ought not to forget that; butmany of us want to sit in the master's chair, and rap the desk, andcane the other children. "

And so our talk wandered to other things; then we were silent for alittle, while the birds came home to their roosts, and the treesshivered in the breeze of sunset; till at last the golden glow gatheredin the west, and the sun went down in state behind the crimson line ofsea. 

XXII

The Pleasures of Work

I desire to do a very sacred thing to-day: to enunciate a couple ofplatitudes and attest them. It is always a solemn moment in life whenone can sincerely subscribe to a platitude. Platitudes are the thingswhich people of plain minds shout from the steps of the staircase oflife as they ascend; and to discover the truth of a platitude byexperience means that you have climbed a step higher. 

The first enunciation is, that in this world we most of us do what welike. And the corollary to that is, that we most of us like what we do. 

Of course, we must begin by taking for granted that we most of us areobliged to do something. But that granted, it seems to me that it isvery rare to find people who do not take a certain pleasure in theirwork, and even secretly congratulate themselves on doing it with acertain style and efficiency. To find a person who has not somespecies of pride of this nature is very rare. Other people may notshare our opinion of our own work. But even in the case of those whosework is most open to criticism, it is almost invariable to find thatthey resent criticism, and are very ready to appropriate praise. I hada curiously complete instance of this the other day. In a parish whichI often visit, the organ in the church is what is called presided overby the most infamous executant I have ever heard--an elderly man, whoseldom plays a single chord correctly, and whose attempts to use thepedals are of the nature of tentative and unsuccessful experiments. His performance has lately caused a considerable amount of indignationin the parish, for a new organ has been placed in the church, of farlouder tone than the old instrument, and my friend the organist ishopelessly adrift upon it. The residents in the place have almost madeup their minds to send a round-robin to the Vicar to ask that the_pulsator organorum_, the beater of the organ, as old Cathedralstatutes term him, may be deposed. The last time I attended service, one of those strangely appropriate verses came up in the course of thePsalms, which make troubled spirits feel that the Psalter does indeedutter a message to faithful individual hearts. "_I have desired thatthey, even my enemies, _" ran the verse, "_should not triumph over me;for when my foot slipped, they rejoiced greatly against me. _" In thecourse of the verse the unhappy performer executed a perfect fandangoon the pedals. I looked guiltily at the senior churchwarden, and sawhis mouth twitch. 

In the same afternoon I fell in with the organist, in the course of astroll, and discoursed to him in a tone of gentle condolence about thedifficulties of a new instrument. He looked blankly at me, and thensaid that he supposed that some people might find a change ofinstrument bewildering, but that for himself he felt equally at home onany instrument. He went on to relate a series of compliments thatwell-known musicians had paid him, which I felt must either have beenimperfectly recollected, or else must have been of a consolatory oreven ironical nature. In five minutes, I discovered that my friend wasthe victim of an abundant vanity, and that he believed that hisvocation in life was organ-playing. 

Again, I remember that, when I was a schoolmaster, one of my colleagueswas a perfect byword for the disorder and noise that prevailed in hisform. I happened once to hold a conversation with him on disciplinarydifficulties, thinking that he might have the relief of confiding histroubles to a sympathising friend. What was my amazement when Idiscovered that his view of the situation was, that every one wasconfronted with the same difficulties as himself, and that he obviouslybelieved that he was rather more successful than most of us in dealingwith them tactfully and strictly. 

I believe my principle to be of almost universal application; and thatif one could see into the heart of the people who are accounted, andrightly accounted, to be gross and conspicuous failures, we should findthat they were not free from a certain pleasant vanity about their ownqualifications and efficiency. The few people whom I have met who areapt to despond over their work are generally people who do itremarkably well, and whose ideal of efficiency is so high that theycriticise severely in themselves any deviation from their standard. Moreover, if one goes a little deeper--if, for instance, one cordiallyre-echoes their own criticisms upon their work--such criticisms are aptto be deeply resented. 

I will go further, and say that only once in the course of my life haveI found a man who did his work really well, without any particularpride and pleasure in it. To do that implies an extraordinary degreeof will-power and self-command. 

I do not mean to say that, if any professional person found himselfsuddenly placed in the possession of an independent income, greaterthan he had ever derived from his professional work, his pleasure inhis work would be sufficient to retain him in the exercise of it. Wehave most of us an unhappy belief in our power of living a pleasurableand virtuous life of leisure; and the desire to live what is called thelife of a gentleman, which character has lately been defined as aperson who has no professional occupation, is very strong in the heartsof most of us. 

But, for all that, we most of us enjoy our work; the mere fact that onegains facility, and improves from day to day, is a source of sincerepleasure, however far short of perfection our attempts may fall; and, generally speaking, our choice of a profession is mainly dictated by acertain feeling of aptitude for and interest in what we propose toundertake. 

It is, then, a happy and merciful delusion by which we are bound. Wegrow, I think, to love our work, and we grow, too, to believe in ourmethod of doing it. We cannot, a great preacher once said, all deludeourselves into believing that we are richer, handsomer, braver, moredistinguished than others; but there are few of us who do not cherish asecret belief that, if only the truth were known, we should prove to bemore interesting than others. 

To leave our work for a moment, and to turn to ordinary socialintercourse. I am convinced that the only thing that can account forthe large number of bad talkers in the world is the wide-spread beliefthat prevails among individuals as to their power of contributinginterest and amusement to a circle. One ought to keep this in mind, and bear faithfully and patiently the stream of tiresome talk thatpours, as from a hose, from the lips of diffuse and lengthyconversationalists. I once made a terrible mistake. I complimented, from the mere desire of saying something agreeable, and finding mychoice of praiseworthy qualities limited, an elderly, garrulousacquaintance on his geniality, on an evening when I had writheduneasily under a steady downpour of talk. I have bitterly rued myinsincerity. Not only have I received innumerable invitations from theman whom the Americans would call my complimentee, but when I am in hiscompany I see him making heroic attempts to make his conversationpractically continuous. How often since that day have I sympathisedwith St James in his eloquent description of the deadly and poisonouspower of the tongue! A bore is not, as is often believed, a merelyselfish and uninteresting person. He is often a man who laboursconscientiously and faithfully at an accomplishment, the exercise ofwhich has become pleasurable to him. And thus a bore is the hardest ofall people to convert, because he is, as a rule, conscious of virtueand beneficence. 

On the whole, it is better not to disturb the amiable delusions of ourfellow-men, unless we are certain that we can improve them. To breakthe spring of happiness in a virtuous bore is a serious responsibility. It is better, perhaps, both in matters of work and in matters of sociallife, to encourage our friends to believe in themselves. We must not, of course, encourage them in vicious and hurtful enjoyment, and thereare, of course, bores whose tediousness is not only not harmless, but apositively noxious and injurious quality. There are bores who have butto lay a finger upon a subject of universal or special interest, tomake one feel that under no circumstances will one ever be able toallow one's thoughts to dwell on the subject again; and such a personshould be, as far as possible, isolated from human intercourse, like asufferer from a contagious malady. But this extremity of noxiousnessis rare. And it may be said that, as a rule, one does more to increasehappiness by a due amount of recognition and praise, even when one isrecognising rather the spirit of a performance than the actual result;and such a course of action has the additional advantage of making oneinto a person who is eagerly welcomed and sought after in all kinds ofsociety. 

XXIII

The Abbey

The fresh wind blew cheerily as we raced, my friend and I, across along stretch of rich fen-land. The sunlight, falling somewhat dimlythrough a golden haze, lay very pleasantly on the large pasture-fields. There are few things more beautiful, I think, than these great levelplains; they give one a delightful sense of space and repose. Thedistant lines of trees, the far-off church towers, the long dykes, thehamlets half-hidden in orchards, the "sky-space and field-silence, "give one a feeling of quiet rustic life lived on a large and simplescale, which seems the natural life of the world. 

Our goal was the remains of an old religious house, now a farm. Wewere soon at the place; it stood on a very gentle rising ground, oncean island above the fen. Two great columns of the Abbey Church servedas gate-posts. The house itself lay a little back from the road, acomfortable cluster of big barns and outhouses, with great walnut treesall about, in the middle of an ancient tract of pasture, full ofdimpled excavations, in which the turf grew greener and more compact. The farm-house itself, a large irregular Georgian building covered withrough orange plaster, showed a pleasant tiled roof among the barns, over a garden set with venerable sprawling box-trees. We found afriendly old labourer, full of simple talk, who showed us the orchard, with its mouldering wall of stone, pierced with niches, the line of drystew-ponds, the refectory, now a great barn, piled high with heaps ofgrain and straw. We walked through byres tenanted by comfortable pigsrouting in the dirt. We hung over a paling to watch the creased anddiscontented face of an old hog, grunting in shrill anticipation of ameal. Our guide took us to the house, where we found a transept of thechurch, now used as a brew-house, with the line of the staircase stillvisible, rising up to a door in the wall that led once to thedormitory, down the steps of which, night after night, the shiveringand sleepy monks must have stumbled into their chilly church forprayers. The hall of the house was magnificent with great Normanarches, once the aisle of the nave. 

The whole scene had the busy, comfortable air of a place full ofpatriarchal life, the dignity of a thing existing for use and not forshow, of quiet prosperity, of garnered provender and well-fed stock. Though it made no deliberate attempt at beauty, it was full of a seemlyand homely charm. The face of the old fellow that led us about, chirping fragments of local tradition, with a mild pride in the factthat strangers cared to come and see the place, wore the contented, weather-beaten look that comes of a life of easy labour spent in theopen air. His patched gaiters, the sacking tied round him with a cordto serve as an apron, had the same simple appropriateness. We walkedleisurely about, gathering a hundred pretty impressions, --as the oldfilbert-trees that fringed the orchard, the wall-flowers, which ourguide called the blood-warriors, on the ruined coping, a flight ofpigeons turning with a sharp clatter in the air. At last he left us togo about his little business; and we, sitting on a brokenmounting-block in the sunshine, gazed lazily and contentedly at thescene. 

We attempted to picture something of the life of the Benedictines whobuilt the house. It must have been a life of much quiet happiness. Wetried to see in imagination the quaint clustered fabrics, the ancientchurch, the cloister, the barns, the out-buildings. The brethren musthave suffered much from cold in winter. The day divided by services, the nights broken by prayers; probably the time was dull enough, butpassed quickly, like all lives full of monotonous engagements. Theywere not particularly ascetic, these Benedictines, and insisted much onmanual labour in the open air. Probably at first the monks did theirfarm-work as well; but as they grew richer, they employed labourers, and themselves fell back on simpler and easier garden-work. Perhapssome few were truly devotional spirits, with a fire of prayer andaspiration burning in their hearts; but the majority would be quietmen, full of little gossip about possible promotions, about lands andcrops, about wayfarers and ecclesiastics who passed that way and wereentertained. Very few, except certain officials like the Cellarer, whowould have to ride to market, ever left the precincts of the place, butlaid their bones in the little graveyard east of the church. We make amistake in regarding the life and the buildings as having been sopicturesque, as they now appear after the long lapse of time. Thechurch was more venerable than the rest; but the refectory, at the timeof the dissolution, cannot have been long built; still, the old tiledplace, with its rough stone walls, must have always had a quaint andirregular air. 

Probably it was as a rule a contented and amiable society. The regularhours, the wholesome fatigue which the rule entailed, must have tendedto keep the inmates in health and good-humour. But probably there wasmuch tittle-tattle; and a disagreeable, jealous, or scheming inmatemust have been able to stir up a good deal of strife in a societyliving at such close quarters. One thinks loosely that it must haveresembled the life of a college at the University, but that is anentire misapprehension; for the idea of a college is liberty with justenough discipline to hold it together, while the idea of a monasterywas discipline with just enough liberty to make life tolerable. 

Well, it is all over now! the idea of the monastic life, which was tomake a bulwark for quiet-minded people against the rougher world, is nolonger needed. The work of the monks is done. Yet I gave anaffectionate thought across the ages to the old inmates of the place, whose bones have mouldered into the dust of the yard where we sat. Itseemed half-pleasant, half-pathetic to think of them as they went abouttheir work, sturdy, cheerful figures, looking out over the wide fenwith all its clear pools and reed-beds, growing old in the familiarscene, passing from the dormitory to the infirmary, and from theinfirmary to the graveyard, in a sure and certain hope. They tooenjoyed the first breaking of spring, the return of balmy winds, thepushing up of the delicate flowers in orchard and close, with somethingof the same pleasure that I experience to-day. The same wonder that Ifeel, the same gentle thrill speaking of an unattainable peace, anunruffled serenity that lies so near me in the spring sunshine, flashed, no doubt, into those elder spirits. Perhaps, indeed, theirheart went out to the unborn that should come after them, as my heartgoes out to the dead to-day. 

And even the slow change that has dismantled that busy place, andestablished it as the quiet farmstead that I see, holds a hope withinit. There must indeed have been a sad time when the buildings wereslipping into decay, and the church stood ruined and roofless. But howsoon the scars are healed! How calmly nature smiles at the eagerschemes of men, breaks them short, and then sets herself to harmoniseand adorn the ruin, till she makes it fairer than before, writing herpatient lesson of beauty on broken choir and tottering wall, flingingher tide of fresh life over the rents, and tenderly drawing back thebroken fragments into her bosom. If we could but learn from her not tofret or grieve, to gather up what remains, to wait patiently and wiselyfor our change!

So I reasoned softly to myself in a train of gentle thought, till theplough-horses came clattering in, and the labourers plodded gratefullyhome; and the sun went down over the flats in a great glory of orangelight. 

XXIV

Wordsworth

I believe that I was once taken to Rydal Mount as a small boy, ledthere meekly, no doubt, in a sort of dream; but I retain not theremotest recollection of the place, except of a small flight of stonesteps, which struck me as possessing some attractive quality or other. And I have since read, I suppose, a good many descriptions of theplace; but on visiting it, as I recently did, I discovered that I hadnot the least idea of what it was like. And I would here shortly speakof the extraordinary kindness which I received from the presenttenants, who are indeed of the hallowed dynasty; it may suffice to saythat I could only admire the delicate courtesy which enabled people, who must have done the same thing a hundred times before, to show methe house with as much zest and interest, as if I was the first pilgrimthat had ever visited the place. 

In the first place, the great simplicity of the whole struck me. It islike a little grange or farm. The rooms are small and low, and of apleasant domesticity; it is a place apt for a patriarchal life, wheresimple people might live at close quarters with each other. The houseis hardly visible from the gate. You turn out of a steep lane, embowered by trees, into a little gravel sweep, approaching the housefrom the side. But its position is selected with admirable art; theground falls steeply in front of it, and you look out over a widevalley, at the end of which Windermere lies, a tract of sapphire blue, among wooded hills and dark ranges. Behind, the ground rises stillmore steeply, to the rocky, grassy heights of Nab Scar; and the roadleads on to a high green valley among the hills, a place of unutterablepeace. 

In this warm, sheltered nook, hidden in woods, with its southerlyaspect, the vegetation grows with an almost tropical luxuriance, sothat the general impression of the place is by no means typicallyEnglish. Laurels and rhododendrons grow in dense shrubberies; thetrees are full of leaf; flowers blossom profusely. There is a littleorchard beneath the house, and everywhere there is the fragrant andpungent smell of sun-warmed garden-walks and box-hedges. There arelittle terraces everywhere, banked up with stone walls built into thesteep ground, where stonecrops grow richly. One of these leads to alittle thatched arbour, where the poet often sat; below it, the groundfalls very rapidly, among rocks and copse and fern, so that you lookout on to the tree-tops below, and catch a glimpse of the steely watersof the hidden lake of Rydal. 

Wordsworth lived there for more than thirty years; and half a centuryhas passed since he died. He was a skilful landscape gardener; and Isuppose that in his lifetime, when the walks were being constructed andthe place laid out, it must have had a certain air of newness, ofinterference with the old wild peace of the hillside, which it hassince parted with. Now it is all as full of a quiet and settled order, as if it had been thus for ever. One little detail deserves a specialmention; just below the house, there is an odd, circular, low, grassymound, said to be the old meeting-place for the village council, inprimitive and patriarchal days, --the Mount, from which the place hasits name. 

I thought much of the stately, simple, self-absorbed poet, whom somehowone never thinks of as having been young; the lines of Milton hauntedme, as I moved about the rooms, the garden-terraces:--

 "_In this mount he appeared; under this tree Stood visible; among these pines his voice I heard; here with him at this fountain talked. _"

The place is all permeated with the thought of him, his deep andtranquil worship of natural beauty, his love of the kindly earth. 

I do not think that Wordsworth is one whose memory evokes a deeppersonal attachment. I doubt if any figures of bygone days do that, unless there is a certain wistful pathos about them; unless somethingof compassion, some wish to proffer sympathy or consolation, mingleswith one's reverence. I have often, for instance, stayed at a housewhere Shelley spent a few half-rapturous, half-miserable months. There, meditating about him, striving to reconstruct the picture of hislife, one felt that he suffered much and needlessly; one would havewished to shelter, to protect him if it had been possible, or at leastto have proffered sympathy to that inconsolable spirit. One's heartgoes out to those who suffered long years ago, whose love of the earth, of life, of beauty, was perpetually overshadowed by the pain that comesfrom realising transitoriness and decay. 

But Wordsworth is touched by no such pathos. He was extraordinarilyprosperous and equable; he was undeniably self-sufficient. Even thesorrows and bereavements that he had to bear were borne gently andphilosophically. He knew exactly what he wanted to do, and did it. Those sturdy, useful legs of his bore him many a pleasant mile. Healways had exactly as much money as he needed, in order to live hislife as he desired. He chose precisely the abode he preferred; hisfame grew slowly and solidly. He became a great personage; he wastreated with immense deference and respect. He neither claimed nordesired sympathy; he was as strong and self-reliant as the old yeomenof the hills, of whom he indeed was one; his vocation was poetry, justas their vocation was agriculture; and this vocation he pursued in asbusiness-like and intent a spirit as they pursued their farming. 

Wordsworth, indeed, was armed at all points by a strong and simplepride, too strong to be vanity, too simple to be egotism. He is one ofthe few supremely fortunate men in the history of literature, becausehe had none of the sensitiveness or indecision that are so often thecurse of the artistic temperament. He never had the least misgivingsabout the usefulness of his life; he wrote because he enjoyed it; heate and drank, he strolled and talked, with the same enjoyment. He hada perfect balance of physical health. His dreams never left him cold;his exaltations never plunged him into depression. He felt themysteries of the world with a solemn awe, but he had no uneasyquestionings, no remorse, no bewilderment, no fruitless melancholy. 

He bore himself with the same homely dignity in all companies alike; hewas never particularly interested in any one; he never had any fear ofbeing thought ridiculous or pompous. His favourite reading was his ownpoetry; he wished every one to be interested in his work, because hewas conscious of its supreme importance. He probably made the mistakeof thinking that it was his sense of poetry and beauty that made himsimple and tranquil. As a matter of fact, it was the simplicity andtranquillity of his temperament that gave him the power of enjoyment inso large a measure. There is no growth or expansion about his life; hedid not learn his serene and impassioned attitude through failures andmistakes: it was his all along. 

And yet what a fine, pure, noble, gentle life it was! The very thoughtof him, faring quietly about among his hills and lakes, murmuring hiscalm verse, in a sober and temperate joy, looking everywhere for thesame grave qualities among quiet homekeeping folk, brings with it ahigh inspiration. But we tend to think of Wordsworth as a father and apriest, rather than as a brother and a friend. He is a leader and aguide, not a comrade. We must learn that, though he can perhaps turnour heart the right way, towards the right things, we cannotnecessarily acquire that pure peace, that solemn serenity, by obeyinghis precepts, unless we too have something of the same strong calmnessof soul. In some moods, far from sustaining and encouraging us, thethought of his equable, impassioned life may only fill us withunutterable envy. But still to have sat in his homely rooms, to havepaced his little terraces, does bring a certain imagined peace into themind, a noble shame for all that is sordid or mean, a hatred for theconventional aims, the pitiful ambitions of the world. 

Alas, that the only sound from the little hill-platform, the emboweredwalks, should be the dull rolling of wheels--motors, coaches, omnibuses--in the road below! That is the shadow of his greatness. Itis a pitiable thought that one of the fruits of his genius is that ithas made his holy retreat fashionable. The villas rise in rows alongthe edges of the clear lakes, under the craggy fell-sides, where thefeathery ashes root among the mimic precipices. A stream ofchattering, vacuous, indifferent tourists pours listlessly along theroad from _table-d'hôte_ to _table-d'hôte_. The turbid outflow of thevulgar world seems a profanation of these august haunts. One hopesdespairingly that something of the spirit of lonely beauty speaks tothese trivial heads and hearts. But is there consolation in this?What would the poet himself have felt if he could have foreseen it all?

I descended the hill-road and crossed the valley highway; it was fullof dust; the vehicles rolled along, crowded with men smoking cigars andreading newspapers, tired women, children whose idea of pleasure hadbeen to fill their hands with ferns and flowers torn from cranny andcovert. I climbed the little hill opposite the great Scar; its greentowering head, with its feet buried in wood, the hardy trees stragglingup the front wherever they could get a hold among the grey crags, rosein sweet grandeur opposite to me. I threaded tracks of shimmeringfern, out of which the buzzing flies rose round me; I went by silent, solitary places where the springs soak out of the moorland, while Ipondered over the bewildering ways of the world. The life, the idealsof the great poet, set in the splendid framework of the great hills, seemed so majestic and admirable a thing. But the visible results--thehumming of silly strangers round his sacred solitudes, thecontaminating influence of commercial exploitation--made onefruitlessly and hopelessly melancholy. 

But even so the hills were silent; the sun went down in a great gloryof golden haze among the shadowy ridges. The valleys lay out at myfeet, the rolling woodland, the dark fells. There fell a mood ofstrange yearning upon me, a yearning for the peaceful secret that, asthe orange sunset slowly waned, the great hills seemed to guard andhold. What was it that was going on there, what solemn pageant, whatsweet mystery, that I could only desire to behold and apprehend? Iknow not! I only know that if I could discern it, if I could tell it, the world would stand to listen; its littleness, its meanness, wouldfade in that august light; the peace of God would go swiftly andsecretly abroad. 

XXV

Dorsetshire

I am travelling just now, and am this week at _Dorchester_, in thecompany of my oldest and best friend. We like the same things; and Ican be silent if I will, while I can also say anything, howeverwhimsical, that comes into my mind; there are few things better thanthat in the world, and I count the precious hours very gratefully;_appono lucro_. 

Dorsetshire gives me the feeling of being a very old country. The bigdowns seem like the bases of great rocky hills which have through longages been smoothed and worn away, softened and mellowed, the rocks, grain by grain, carried downwards into the flat alluvial meadowlandsbeneath. In these rich pastures, all intersected with clear streams, runnels and water-courses, full at this season of rich water-plants, the cattle graze peacefully. The downs have been ploughed and sown upto the sky-line. Then there are fine tracts of heather and pines inplaces. And then, too, there is a sense of old humanity, of ancientwars about the land. There are great camps and earthworks everywhere, with ramparts and ditches, both British and Roman. The wolds fromwhich the sea is visible are thickly covered with barrows, each holdingthe mouldering bones of some forgotten chieftain, laid to rest, howmany centuries ago, with the rude mourning of a savage clan. I stoodon one of the highest of these the other day, on a great gorse-cladheadland, and sent my spirit out in quest of the old warrior that laybelow--"Audisne haec, Amphiaräe, sub terram condite?" But there was noanswer from the air; though in my sleep one night I saw a wild, red-bearded man, in a coat of skins, with rude gaiters, and a hat offoxes' fur on his head; he carried a long staff in his hand, pointedwith iron, and looked mutely and sorrowfully upon me. Who knows if itwas he?

And then of later date are many ruinous strongholds, with Cyclopeanwalls, like the huge shattered bulk of _Corfe_, upon its green hill, between the shoulders of great downs. There are broken abbeys, pinnacled church-towers in village after village. And then, too, inhamlet after hamlet, rise quaint stone manors, high-gabled, many-mullioned, in the midst of barns and byres. One of the sweetestplaces I have seen is _Cerne Abbas_. The road to it winds gently upamong steep downs, a full stream gliding through flat pastures at thebottom. The hamlet has a forgotten, wistful air; there are many housesin ruins. Close to the street rises the church-tower, of rich andbeautiful design, with gurgoyles and pinnacles, cut out of a softorange stone and delicately weathered. At the end of the villagestands a big farm-house, built out of the abbey ruins, with a fineoriel in one of the granaries. In a little wilderness of trees, theground covered with primroses, stands the exquisite old gatehouse withmullioned windows. I have had for years a poor little engraving of theplace, and it seemed to greet me like an old friend. Then, in thepasture above, you can see the old terraces and mounds of the monasticgarden, where the busy Benedictines worked day by day; further still, on the side of the down itself, is cut a very strange and ancientmonument. It is the rude and barbarous figure of a naked man, sixtyyards long, as though moving northwards, and brandishing a huge knottedclub. It is carved deep into the turf, and is overgrown with roughgrass. No one can even guess at the antiquity of the figure, but it isprobably not less than three thousand years old. Some say that itrecords the death of a monstrous giant of the valley. The good monksChristianised it, and named it _Augustine_. But it seems to becertainly one of the frightful figures of which Caesar speaks, on whichcaptives were bound with twisted osiers, and burnt to death for aDruidical sacrifice. The thing is grotesque, vile, horrible; the verystones of the place seemed soaked with terror, cruelty and death. Evenrecently foul and barbarous traditions were practised there, it issaid, by villagers, who were Christian only in name. Yet it laypeacefully enough to-day, the shadows of the clouds racing over it, thewind rustling in the grass, with nothing to break the silence but thetwitter of birds, the bleat of sheep on the down, and the crying ofcocks in the straw-thatched village below. 

What a strange fabric of history, memory, and tradition is hereunrolled, of old unhappy far-off things! How bewildering to think ofthe horrible agonies of fear, the helpless, stupefied creatures lyingbound there, the smoke sweeping over them and the flames cracklingnearer, while their victorious foes laughed and exulted round them, andthe priests performed the last hideous rites. And all the while Godwatched the slow march of days from the silent heaven, and worked outhis mysterious purposes! And yet, surveying the quiet valley to-day, it seems as though there were no memory of suffering or sorrow in it atall. 

We climbed the down; and there at our feet the world lay like a map, with its fields, woods, hamlets and church-towers, the great rich plainrolling to the horizon, till it was lost in haze. How infinitelyminute and unimportant seemed one's own life, one's own thoughts, theschemes of one tiny moving atom on the broad back of the hills. Andyet my own small restless identity is almost the only thing in theworld of which I am assured!

There came to me at that moment a thrill of the spirit which comes butrarely; a deep hope, the sense of a secret lying very near, if onecould only grasp it; an assurance that we are safe and secure in thehand of God, and a certainty that there is a vast reality behind, veiled from us only by the shadows of fears, ambitions, and desires. And the thought, too, came that all the tiny human beings that moveabout their tasks in the plain beneath--nay, the animals, the trees, the flowers, every blade of grass, every pebble--each has its place inthe great and awful mystery. Then came the sense of the vastfellowship of created things, the tender Fatherhood of the God who madeus all. I can hardly put the thought into words; but it was one ofthose sudden intuitions that seem to lie deeper even than the mind andthe soul, a message from the heart of the world, bidding one wait andwonder, rest and be still. 

XXVI

Portland

I will put another little sketch side by side with the last, for thesake of contrast; I think it is hardly possible within the compass of afew days to have seen two scenes of such minute and essentialdifference. At _Cerne_ I had the tranquil loneliness of thecountryside, the silent valley, the long faintly-tinted lines ofpasture, space and stillness; the hamlets nestled among trees in thedingles of the down. To-day I went south along a dusty road; at firstthere were quiet ancient sights enough, such as the huge grass-grownencampment of _Maiden Castle_, now a space of pasture, but stillguarded by vast ramparts and ditches, dug in the chalk, and for athousand years or more deserted. The downs, where they faced the sea, were dotted with grassy barrows, air-swept and silent. We topped thehill, and in a moment there was a change; through the haze we saw theroofs of _Weymouth_ laid out like a map before us, with the smokedrifting west from innumerable chimneys; in the harbour, guarded by theslender breakwaters, floated great ironclads, black and sinister bulks;and beyond them frowned the dark front of _Portland_. Very soon thehouses began to close in upon the road, --brick-built, pretentious, bow-windowed villas; then we were in the streets, showing a wholesomeantiquity in the broad-windowed mansions of mellow brick, which spranginto life when the honest king George III. Made the quiet portfashionable by spending his simple summers there. There was the king'slodging itself, Gloucester House, now embedded in a hotel, with the bigpilastered windows of its saloons giving it a faded courtly air. Soonwe were by the quays, with black red-funnelled steamers unloading, andall the quaint and pretty bustle of a port. We went out to apromontory guarded by an old stone fort, and watched a red merchantsteamer roll merrily in, blowing a loud sea-horn. Then over alow-shouldered ridge, and we were by the great inner roads, full ofshipping; we sat for a while by the melancholy walls of an ancientTudor castle, now crumbling into the sea; and then across the narrowcauseway that leads on to _Portland_. On our right rose the _ChesilBank_, that mysterious mole of orange shingle, which the sea, for somestrange purpose of its own, has piled up, century after century, foreighteen miles along the western coast. And then the grim front of_Portland Island_ itself loomed out above us. The road ran up steeplyamong the bluffs, through line upon line of grey-slated houses; to theleft, at the top of the cliff, were the sunken lines of the huge fort, with the long slopes of its earthworks, the glacis overgrown withgrass, and the guns peeping from their embrasures; to the left, dippingto the south, the steep grey crags, curve after curve. The streetswere alive with an abundance of merry young sailors and soldiers, brisk, handsome boys, with the quiet air of discipline that converts acountry lout into a self-respecting citizen. An old bronzed sergeantled a child with one hand, and with the other tried to obey her shrilldirections about whirling a skipping-rope, so that she might skipbeside him; he looked at us with a half-proud, half-shamefaced smile, calling down a rebuke for his inattention from the girl. 

We wound slowly up the steep roads smothered in dust; landwards theview was all drowned in a pale haze, but the steep grey cliffs by_Lulworth_ gleamed with a tinge of gold across the sea. 

At the top, one of the dreariest landscapes I have ever seen met thesight. The island lies, so to speak, like a stranded whale, the greathead and shoulders northwards to the land. The moment you surmount thetop, the huge, flat side of the monster is extended before you, shelving to the sea. Hardly a tree grows there; there is nothing but along perspective of fields, divided here and there by stone walls, withscattered grey houses at intervals. There is not a feature of any kindon which the eye can rest. In the foreground the earth is alltunnelled and tumbled; quarries stretch in every direction, with huge, gaunt, straddling, gallows-like structures emerging, a wheel spinningat the top, and ropes travelling into the abyss; heaps of grey_débris_, interspersed with stunted grass, huge excavations, uglyravines with a spout of grim stone at the seaward opening, like theburrowings of some huge mole. The placid green slopes of the fort givean impression of secret strength, even grandeur. Otherwise it is but aragged, splashed aquarelle of grey and green. Over the _débris_ appearat a distance the blunt ominous chimneys of the convict prison, whichseems to put the finishing touch on the forbidding character of thescene. 

To-day the landward view was all veiled in haze, which seemed to shutoff the sad island from the world. On a clear day, no doubt, the viewmust be full of grandeur, the inland downs, edged everywhere with thetall scarped cliffs, headland after headland, with the long soft lineof the _Chesil Bank_ below them. But on a day of sea mist, it must be, I felt, one of the saddest and most mournful regions in the world, withno sound but the wail of gulls, and the chafing of the surge below. 

XXVII

Canterbury Tower

To-day I had a singular pleasure heightened by an intermingledstrangeness and even terror--qualities which bring out the quality ofpleasure in the same way that a bourdon in a pedal-point passage bringsout the quality of what a German would, I think, call the _over-work_. I was at _Canterbury_, where the great central tower is wreathed withscaffolding, and has a dim, blurred outline from a distance, as thoughit were being rapidly shaken to and fro. I found a friendly andcommunicable man who offered to take me over it; we climbed a dizzylittle winding stair, with bright glimpses at intervals, throughloop-holes, of sunlight and wheeling birds; then we crept along the topof a vaulted space with great pockets of darkness to right and left. Soon we were in the gallery of the lantern, from which we could see thelittle people crawling on the floor beneath, like slow insects. Andthen we mounted a short ladder which took us out of one of the greatbelfry windows, on to the lowest of the planked galleries. What afrail and precarious structure it seemed: the planks bent beneath ourfeet. And here came the first exquisite delight--that of being closeto the precipitous face of the tower, of seeing the carved work whichhad never been seen close at hand since its erection except by thejackdaws and pigeons. I was moved and touched by observing how fineand delicate all the sculpture was. There were rows and rows of littleheraldic devices, which from below could appear only as tiny frettedpoints; yet every petal of rose or _fleur-de-lys_ was as scrupulouslyand cleanly cut as if it had been meant to be seen close at hand; awaste of power, I suppose; but what a pretty and delicate waste! anddone, I felt, in faithful days, when the carving was done as much todelight, if possible, the eye of God, as to please the eye of man. Higher and higher we went, till at last we reached the parapet. Andthen by a dizzy perpendicular ladder to which I committed myself infaith, we reached a little platform on the very top of one of thepinnacles. The vane had just been fixed, and the stone was splashedwith the oozing solder. And now came the delight of the huge view allround: the wooden heights, the rolling hills; old church towers rosefrom flowering orchards; a mansion peeped through immemorial trees; andfar to the north-east we could see the white cliff of _Pegwell Bay_;endeared to me through the beautiful picture by Dyce, where the palecrags rise from the reefs green with untorn weeds. There on thehorizon I could see shadowy sails on the steely sea-line. 

Near at hand there were the streets, and then the Close, with itscomfortable canonical houses, in green trim gardens, spread out like amap at my feet. We looked down on to the tops of tall elm-trees, andsaw the rooks walking and sitting on the grey-splashed platforms oftwigs, that swayed horribly in the breeze. It was pleasant to see, asI did, the tiny figure of my reverend host walking, a dot of black, inhis garden beneath, reading in a book. The long grey-leaded roof ranbroad and straight, a hundred feet below. One felt for a moment as aGod might feel, looking on a corner of his created world, and seeingthat it was good. One seemed to have surmounted the earth, and towatch the little creeping orbits of men with a benevolent compassion, perceiving how strait they were. The large air hissed briskly in thepinnacles, and roared through the belfry windows beneath. I cannotdescribe the eager exhilaration which filled me; but I guessed that theimpulse which bids men fling themselves from such heights is not amorbid prepossession, not a physical dizziness, but an intemperate andoverwhelming joy. It seems at such a moment so easy to float and swimthrough the viewless air, as if one would be borne up on the wings ofangels. 

But, alas! the hour warned us to return. On our way down we disturbeda peevish jackdaw from her nest; she had dragged up to that intolerableheight a pile of boughs that would have made a dozen nests; she hadinterwoven for the cup to hold her eggs a number of strips of purloinedcanvas. There lay the three speckled eggs, the hope of the race, whilethe chiding mother stood on a pinnacle hard by, waiting for theintruder to begone. 

A strange sense of humiliation and smallness came upon me as we emergedat last into the nave; the people that had seemed so small andinsignificant, were, alas! as big and as important as myself; I felt asan exile from the porches of heaven, a fallen spirit. 

XXVIII

Prayer

I am often baffled when I try to think what prayer is; if our thoughtsdo indeed lie open before the eyes of the Father, like a little clearglobe of water which a man may hold in his hand--and I am sure theydo--it certainly seems hardly worth while to put those desires intowords. Many good Christians seem to me to conceive of prayers partlyas a kind of tribute they are bound to pay, and partly as requests thatare almost certain to be refused. With such people religion, then, means the effort which they make to trust a Father who hears prayers, and very seldom answers them. But this does not seem to be a veryreasonable attitude. 

I confess that liturgical prayer does not very much appeal to me. Itdoes not seem to me to correspond to any particular need in my mind. It seems to me to sacrifice almost all the things that I mean byprayer--the sustained intention of soul, the laying of one's ownproblems before the Father, the expression of one's hopes for others, the desire that the sorrows of the world should be lightened. Ofcourse, a liturgy touches these thoughts at many points; but theexercise of one's own liberty of aspiration and wonder, the pursuing ofa train of thought, the quiet dwelling upon mysteries, are all lost ifone has to stumble and run in a prescribed track. To follow a servicewith uplifted attention requires more mental agility than I possess;point after point is raised, and yet, if one pauses to meditate, towonder, to aspire, one is lost, and misses the thread of the service. I suppose that there is or ought to be something in the united act ofintercession. But I dislike all public meetings, and think them awaste of time. I should make an exception in favour of the Sacrament, but the rapid disappearance of the majority of a congregation beforethe solemn act seems to me to destroy the sense of unity with singularrapidity. As to the old theory that God requires of his followers thatthey should unite at intervals in presenting him with a certain amountof complimentary effusion, I cannot even approach the idea. Theholiest, simplest, most benevolent being of whom I can conceive wouldbe inexpressibly pained and distressed by such an intention on the partof the objects of his care; and to conceive of God as greedy ofrecognition seems to me to be one of the conceptions which insult thedignity of the soul. 

I have heard lately one or two mediaeval stories which illustrate whatI mean. There is a story of a pious monk, who, worn out by longvigils, fell asleep, as he was saying his prayers before a crucifix. He was awakened by a buffet on the head, and heard a stern voicesaying, "Is this an oratory or a dormitory?" I cannot conceive of anystory more grotesquely human than the above, or more out of keepingwith one's best thoughts about God. Again, there is a story which istold, I think, of one of the first monasteries of the Benedictineorder. One of the monks was a lay brother, who had many little menialtasks to fulfil; he was a well-meaning man, but extremely forgetful, and he was often forced to retire from some service in which he wastaking part, because he had forgotten to put the vegetables on to boil, or omitted other duties which would lead to the discomfort of thebrethren. Another monk, who was fond of more secular occupations, suchas wood-carving and garden-work, and not at all attached to habits ofprayer, seeing this, thought that he would do the same; and he too usedto slip away from a service, in order to return to the business that heloved better. The Prior of the monastery, an anxious, humble man, wasat a loss how to act; so he called in a very holy hermit, who lived ina cell hard by, that he might have the benefit of his advice. Thehermit came and attended an Office. Presently the lay brother rosefrom his knees and slipped out. The hermit looked up, followed himwith his eyes, and appeared to be greatly moved. But he took noaction, and only addressed himself more assiduously to his prayers. Shortly after, the other brother rose and went out. The hermit lookedup, and seeing him go, rose too, and followed him to the door, where hefetched him a great blow upon the head that nearly brought him to theground. Thereupon the stricken man went humbly back to his place andaddressed himself to his prayers; and the hermit did the same. 

The Office was soon over, and the hermit went to the Prior's room totalk the matter over. The hermit said: "I bore in my mind what youtold me, dear Father, and when I saw one of the brethren rise from hisprayers, I asked God to show me what I should do; but I saw a wonderfulthing; there was a shining figure with our brother, his hand upon theother's sleeve; and this fair comrade, I have no doubt, was an angel ofGod, that led the brother forth, that he might be about his Father'sbusiness. So I prayed the more earnestly. But when our other brotherrose, I looked up; and I saw that he had been plucked by the sleeve bya little naked, comely boy, very swarthy of hue, that I saw had nobusiness among our holy prayers; he wore a mocking smile on his face, as though he prevailed in evil. So I rose and followed; and just asthey came to the door, I aimed a shrewd blow, for it was told me whatto do, at the boy, and struck him on the head, so that he fell to theground, and presently went to his own place; and then our brother cameback to his prayers. "

The Prior mused a little over this wonder, and then he said, smiling:"It seemed to me that it was our brother that was smitten. " "Verylike, " said the hermit, "for the two were close together, and I thinkthe boy was whispering in the brother's ear; but give God the glory;for the dear brother will not offend again. "

There is an abundance of truth in this wholesome ancient tale; but Iwill not draw the morals out here. All I will say is that the oldtheory of prayer, simple and childlike as it is, seems to have acurious vitality even nowadays. It presupposes that the act of prayeris in itself pleasing to God; and that is what I am not satisfied of. 

That theory seems to prevail even more strongly in the Roman Church ofto-day than in our own. The Roman priest is not a man occupiedprimarily with pastoral duties; his business is the business of prayer. To neglect his daily offices is a mortal sin, and when he has saidthem, his priestly duty is at an end. This does not seem to me to bearany relation to the theory of prayer as enunciated in the Gospel. There the practice of constant and secret prayer, of a direct andinformal kind, is enjoined upon all followers of Christ; but Our Lordseems to be very hard upon the lengthy and public prayers of thePharisees, and indeed against all formality in the matter at all. Theonly united service that he enjoined upon his followers was theSacrament of the common meal; and I confess that the saying of formalliturgies in an ornate building seems to me to be a practice which hasdrifted very far away from the simplicity of individual religion whichChrist appears to have aimed at. 

My own feeling about prayer is that it should not be relegated tocertain seasons, or attended by certain postures, or even couched indefinite language; it should rather be a constant uplifting of theheart, a stretching out of the hands to God. I do not think we shouldask for definite things that we desire; I am sure that our definitedesires, our fears, our plans, our schemes, the hope that visits one ahundred times a day, our cravings for wealth or success or influence, are as easily read by God, as a man can discern the tiny atoms andfilaments that swim in his crystal globe. But I think we may ask to beled, to be guided, to be helped; we may put our anxious littledecisions before God; we may ask for strength to fulfil hard duties; wemay put our desires for others' happiness, our hopes for our country, our compassion for sorrowing or afflicted persons, our horror ofcruelty and tyranny before him; and here I believe lies the force ofprayer; that by practising this sense of aspiration in his presence, wegain a strength to do our own part. If we abstain from prayer, if welimit our prayers to our own small desires, we grow, I know, petty andself-absorbed and feeble. We can leave the fulfilment of our concreteaims to God; but we ought to be always stretching out our hands andopening our hearts to the high and gracious mysteries that lie allabout us. 

A friend of mine told me that a little Russian peasant, whom he hadvisited often in a military hospital, told him, at their lastinterview, that he would tell him a prayer that was always effective, and had never failed of being answered. "But you must not use it, " hesaid, "unless you are in a great difficulty, and there seems no wayout. " The prayer which he then repeated was this: "Lord, remember KingDavid, and all his grace. "

I have never tested the efficacy of this prayer, but I have a thousandtimes tested the efficacy of sudden prayer in moments of difficulty, when confronted with a little temptation, when overwhelmed withirritation, before an anxious interview, before writing a difficultpassage. How often has the temptation floated away, the irritationmastered itself, the right word been said, the right sentence written!To do all we are capable of, and then to commit the matter to the handof the Father, that is the best that we can do. 

Of course, I am well aware that there are many who find this kind ofhelp in liturgical prayer; and I am thankful that it is so. But formyself, I can only say that as long as I pursued the customary path, and confined myself to fixed moments of prayer, I gained very littlebenefit. I do not forego the practice of liturgical attendance evennow; for a solemn service, with all the majesty of an old and beautifulbuilding full of countless associations, with all the resources ofmusical sound and ceremonial movement, does uplift and rejoice thesoul. And even with simpler services, there is often something vaguelysustaining and tranquillising in the act. But the deeper secret liesin the fact that prayer is an attitude of soul, and not a ceremony;that it is an individual mystery, and not a piece of venerable pomp. Iwould have every one adopt his own method in the matter. I would notfor an instant discourage those who find that liturgical usage upliftsthem; but neither would I have those to be discouraged who find that ithas no meaning for them. The secret lies in the fact that our aimshould be a relation with the Father, a frank and reverent confidence, a humble waiting upon God. That the Father loves all his children withan equal love I doubt not. But he is nearest to those who turn to himat every moment, and speak to him with a quiet trustfulness. He aloneknows why he has set us in the middle of such a bewildering world, where joy and sorrow, darkness and light, are so strangelyintermingled; and all that we can do is to follow wisely and patientlysuch clues as he gives us, into the cloudy darkness in which he seemsto dwell. 

XXIX

The Death-bed of Jacob

I heard read the other morning, in a quiet house-chapel, a chapterwhich has always seemed to me one of the most perfectly beautifulthings in the Bible. And as it was read, I felt, what is always a testof the highest kind of beauty, that I had never known before howperfect it was. It was the 48th chapter of Genesis, the blessing ofEphraim and Manasses. Jacob, feeble and spent, is lying in the quiet, tranquil passiveness of old age, with bygone things passing like dreamsbefore the inner eye of the spirit--in that mood, I think, when onehardly knows where the imagined begins or the real ends. He is toldthat his son Joseph is coming, and he strengthens himself for aneffort. Joseph enters, and, in a strain of high solemnity, Jacobspeaks of the promise made long before on the stone-strewn hills ofBethel, and its fulfilment; but even so he seems to wander in histhought, the recollection of his Rachel comes over him, and he cannotforbear to speak of her: "_And as for me, when I came from Padan, Rachel died by me in the land of Canaan, in the way, and when yet therewas but a little way to come unto Ephrath; and I buried her there inthe way of Ephrath; the same is Bethlehem. _"

Could there be anything more human, more tender than that? The memoryof the sad day of loss and mourning, and then the gentle, agedprecision about names and places, the details that add nothing, and yetare so natural, so sweet an echo of the old tale, the symbols of thestory, that stand for so much and mean so little, --"_the same isBethlehem_. " Who has not heard an old man thus tracing out theparticulars of some remote recollected incident, dwelling for thehundredth time on the unimportant detail, the side-issue, so needlesslyanxious to avoid confusion, so bent on useless accuracy. 

Then, as he wanders thus, he becomes aware of the two boys, standing inwonder and awe beside him; and even so he cannot at once piece togetherthe facts, but asks, with a sudden curiosity, "_Who are these?_" Thenit is explained very gently by the dear son whom he had lost, and whostands for a parable of tranquil wisdom and loyal love. The old mankisses and embraces the boys, and with a full heart says, "_I had notthought to see thy face; and lo, God hath showed me also thy seed. _"And at this Joseph can bear it no more, puts the boys forward, who seemto be clinging shyly to him, and bows himself down with his face to theearth, in a passion of grief and awe. 

And then the old man will not bless them as intended, but gives thericher blessing to the younger; with those words which haunt the memoryand sink into the heart: "_The angel which redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads. _" And Joseph is moved by what he thinks to be amistake, and would correct it, so as to give the larger blessing to hisfirstborn. But Jacob refuses. "_I know it, my son, I know it . .. Healso shall be great, but truly his younger brother shall be greaterthan he. _"

And so he adds a further blessing; and even then, at that deep moment, the old man cannot refrain from one flash of pride in his old prowess, and speaks, in his closing words, of the inheritance he won from theAmorite with his sword and bow; and this is all the more human becausethere is no trace in the records of his ever having done anything ofthe kind. He seems to have been always a man of peace. And so thesweet story remains human to the very end. I care very little what thecritics may have to say on the matter. They may call it legendary ifthey will, they may say that it is the work of an Ephraimite scribe, bent on consecrating the Ephraimite supremacy by the aid of tradition. But the incident appears to me to be of a reality, a force, atenderness, that is above historical criticism. Whatever else may betrue, there is a breathing reality in the picture of the old weakpatriarch making his last conscious effort; Joseph, that wise andprudent servant, whose activities have never clouded his clear naturalaffections; the boys, the mute and awed actors in the scene, not madeto utter any precocious phrases, and yet centring the tenderness ofhope and joy upon themselves. If it is art, it is the perfection ofart, which touches the very heart-strings into a passion of sweetnessand wonder. 

Compare this ancient story with other achievements of the human mindand soul: with Homer, with Virgil, with Shakespeare. I think they palebeside it, because with no sense of effort or construction, with allthe homely air of a simple record, the perfectly natural, the perfectlypathetic, the perfectly beautiful, is here achieved. There is nopainting of effects, no dwelling on accessories, no consciousness ofbeauty; and yet the heart is fed, the imagination touched, the spiritsatisfied. For here one has set foot in the very shrine of truth andbeauty, and the wise hand that wrote it has just opened the door of theheart, and stands back, claiming no reward, desiring no praise. 

XXX

By the Sea of Galilee

I have often thought that the last chapter of St John's Gospel is oneof the most bewildering and enchanting pieces of literature I know. Isuppose Robert Browning must have thought so, because he makes thereading of it, in that odd rich poem, _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, thesign, together with testing a plough, of a man's conversion, from theunreal life of talk and words, to the realities of life; though I havenever divined why he used this particular chapter as a symbol; andindeed I hope no one will ever make it clear to me, though I daresaythe connection is plain enough. 

It is bewildering, because it is a postscript, added, with a singularartlessness, after the Gospel has come to a full close. Perhaps StJohn did not even write it, though the pretty childlike conclusionabout the world itself not being able to contain the books that mightbe written about Christ has always seemed to me to be in his spirit, the words of a very simple-minded and aged man. It is enchanting, because it contains two of the most beautiful episodes in the whole ofthe Gospel History, the charge to St Peter to feed the lambs and sheepof the fold, where one of the most delicate nuances of language is lostin the English translation, and the appearance of Jesus beside the seaof Galilee. I must not here discuss the story of the charge to StPeter, though I once heard it read, with exquisite pathos, when anarchbishop of Canterbury was being enthroned with all the pomp andcircumstance of ecclesiastical ceremony, in such a way that it broughtout, by a flash of revelation, the true spirit of the scene we wereattending; we were simple Christians, it seemed, assembled only to seta shepherd over a fold, that he might lead a flock in green pasturesand by waters of comfort. 

But a man must not tell two tales at once, or he loses the savour ofboth. Let us take the other story. 

The dreadful incidents of the Passion are over; the shame, the horror, the humiliation, the disappointment. The hearts of the Apostles musthave been sore indeed at the thought that they had deserted theirfriend and Master. Then followed the mysterious incidents of theResurrection, about which I will only say that it is plain from thedocuments, if they are accepted as a record at all, from theastonishing change which seems to have passed over the Apostles, converting their timid faithfulness into a tranquil boldness, thatthey, at all events, believed that some incredibly momentous thing hadhappened, and that their Master was among them again, returning throughthe gates of Death. 

They go back, like men wearied of inaction, tired of agitated thought, to their homely trade. All night the boat sways in the quiet tide, butthey catch nothing. Then, as the morning begins to come in about thepromontories and shores of the lake, they see the figure of one movingon the bank, who hails them with a familiar heartiness, as a man mightdo who had to provide for unexpected guests, and had nothing to givethem to eat. I fancy, I know not whether rightly, that they see in hima purchaser, and answer sullenly that they have nothing to sell. Thenfollows a direction, which they obey, to cast the net on the right sideof the boat. Perhaps they thought the stranger--for it is clear thatas yet they had no suspicion of his identity--had seen some sign of amoving shoal which had escaped them. They secure a great haul of fish. Then John has an inkling of the truth; and I know no words which thrillme more strangely than the simple expression that bursts from his lips:_It is the Lord!_ With characteristic impetuosity Peter leaps into thewater, and wades or swims ashore. 

And then comes another of the surprising touches of the story. As amother might tenderly provide a meal for her husband and sons who havebeen out all night, they find that their visitant has made and lit alittle fire, and is broiling fish, how obtained one knows not; then thehaul is dragged ashore, the big shoal leaping in the net; and thenfollows the simple invitation and the distribution of the food. Itseems as though that memorable meal, by the shore of the lake, with thefresh brightness of the morning breaking all about them, must have beenpartaken of in silence; one can almost hear the soft crackling of thefire, and the waves breaking on the shingle. They dared not ask himwho he was: they knew; and yet, considering that they had only partedfrom him a few days before, the narrative implies that some mysteriouschange must have passed over him. Perhaps they were wondering, as wemay wonder, how he was spending those days. He was seen only in suddenand unexpected glimpses; where was he living, what was he doing throughthose long nights and days in which they saw him not? I can only saythat for me a deep mystery broods over the record. The glimpses ofhim, and even more his absences, seem to me to transcend the powers ofhuman invention. That these men lived, that they believed they saw theLord, seems to me the only possible explanation, though I admit to thefull the baffling mystery of it all. 

And then the scene closes with absolute suddenness; there is no attemptto describe, to amplify, to analyse. There follows the charge toPeter, the strange prophecy of his death, and the still strangerrepression of curiosity as to what should be the fate of St John. 

But the whole incident, coming to us as it does out of the hiddenancient world, defying investigation, provoking the deepest wonder, remains as faint and sweet as the incense of the morning, as the coolbreeze that played about the weary brows of the sleepless fishermen, and stirred the long ripple of the clear lake. 

XXXI

The Apocalypse

I think that there are few verses of the Bible that give one a moresudden and startling thrill than the verse at the beginning of theviiith chapter of the Revelation. _And when he had opened the seventhseal there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour_. Thevery simplicity of the words, the homely note of specified time, is initself deeply impressive. But further, it gives the dim sense of someawful and unseen preparation going forward, a period allowed in whichthose that stood by, august and majestic as they were, should collecttheir courage, should make themselves ready with bated breath for somedire pageant. Up to that moment the vision had followed hard on theopening of each seal. Upon the opening of the first, had resounded apeal of thunder, and the voice of the first beast had called theawestruck eyes and the failing heart to look upon the sight: _Come andsee_! Then the white horse with the crowned conqueror had riddenjoyfully forth. At the opening of the second seal, had sprung forththe red horse, and the rider with the great sword. When the third wasopened, the black horse had gone forth, the rider bearing the balances;and then had followed the strange and naïve charge by the unknownvoice, which gives one so strong a sense that the vision was beingfaithfully recorded rather than originated, the voice that quoted aprice for the grain of wheat and barley, and directed the protection ofthe vineyard and olive-yard. This homely reference to the simple foodof earth keeps the mind intent upon the actual realities and needs oflife in the midst of these bewildering sights. Then at the fourthopening, the pale horse, bestridden by Death, went mournfully abroad. At the fifth seal, the crowded souls beneath the altar cry out forrestlessness; they are clothed in white robes, and bidden to be patientfor a while. Then, at the sixth seal, falls the earthquake, theconfusion of nature, the dismay of men, before the terror of the angerof God; and the very words _the wrath of the Lamb_, have a marvelloussignificance; the wrath of the Most Merciful, the wrath of one whosevery symbol is that of a blithe and meek innocence. Then the earth isguarded from harm, and the faithful are sealed; and in words of thesublimest pathos, the end of pain and sorrow is proclaimed, and thepromise that the redeemed shall be fed and led forth by fountains ofliving waters. And then, at the very moment of calm and peace, theseventh seal is opened, --and nothing follows! the very angels of heavenseem to stand with closed eyes, compressed lips, and beating heart, waiting for what shall be. 

And then at last the visions come crowding before the gaze again--theseven trumpets are sounded, the bitter, burning stars fall, the locustsswarm out from the smoking pit, and death and woe begin their work;till at last the book is delivered to the prophet, and his heart isfilled with the sweetness of the truth. 

I have no desire to trace the precise significance of these things. Ido not wish that these tapestries of wrought mysteries should besuspended upon the walls of history. I do not think that they can beso suspended; nor have I the least hope that these strange sights, sofull both of brightness and of horror, should ever be seen by mortaleye. But that a human soul should have lost itself in these augustdreams, that the book of visions should have been thus strangelyguarded through the ages, and at last, clothed in the sweet cadences ofour English tongue, should be read in our ears, till the words aresoaked through and through with rich wonder and tenderassociations--that is, I think, a very wonderful and divine thing. Thelives of all men that have an inner eye for beauty are full of suchmysteries, and surely there is no one, of those that strive to piercebelow the dark experiences of life, who is not aware, as he reckonsback the days of his life, of hours when the seals of the book havebeen opened. It has been so, I know, in my own life. Sometimes, atthe rending of the seal, a gracious thing has gone forth, bearingvictory and prosperity. Sometimes a dark figure has ridden away, changing the very face of the earth for a season. Sometimes a thunderof dismay has followed, or a vision of sweet peace and comfort; andsometimes one has assuredly known that a seal has been broken, to befollowed by a silence in heaven and earth. 

And thus these solemn and mournful visions retain a great hold over themind; it is, with myself, partly the childish associations of wonderand delight. One recurred so eagerly to the book, because, instead ofmere thought and argument, earthly events, wars and dynasties, here wasa gallery of mysterious pictures, things seen out of the body, scenesof bright colour and monstrous forms, enacted on the stage of heaven. That is entrancing still; but beyond and above these strange forms andpictured fancies, I now discern a deeper mystery of thought; not pureand abstract thought, flashes of insight, comforting grace, kindleddesires, but rather that more complex thought that, through aperception of strange forms, a waving robe of scarlet, a pavementbright with jewels, a burning star, a bird of sombre plumage, a darkgrove, breathes a subtle insight, like a strain of unearthly music, interpreting the hopes and fears of the heart by haunted glimpses andobscure signs. I do not know in what shadowy region of the soul thesethings draw near, but it is in a region which is distinct and apart, aregion where the dreaming mind projects upon the dark its dimly-wovenvisions; a region where it is not wise to wander too eagerly andcarelessly, but into which one may look warily and intently at seasons, standing upon the dizzy edge of time, and gazing out beyond the flamingramparts of the world. 

XXXII

The Statue

I saw a strange and moving thing to-day. I went with a friend to visita great house in the neighbourhood. The owner was away, but my friendenjoyed the right of leisurely access to the place, and we thought wewould take the opportunity of seeing it. 

We entered at the lodge, and walked through the old deer-park with itshuge knotted oaks, its wide expanse of grass. The deer were feedingquietly in a long herd. The great house itself came in sight, with itsportico and pavilions staring at us, so it seemed, blankly andseriously, with shuttered eyes. The whole place unutterably still anddeserted, like a house seen in a dream. 

There was one particular thing that we came to visit; we left the houseon the left, and turned through a little iron gate into a thick groveof trees. We soon became aware that there was open ground before us, and presently we came to a space in the heart of the wood, where therewas a silent pool all overgrown with water-lilies; the bushes grewthickly round the edge. The pool was full of water-birds, coots, andmoor-hens, sailing aimlessly about, and uttering strange, melancholycries at intervals. On the edge of the water stood a small marbletemple, streaked and stained by the weather. As we approached it, myfriend told me something of the builder of the little shrine. He was aformer owner of the place, a singular man, who in his later days hadlived a very solitary life here. He was a man of wild and waywardimpulses, who had drunk deeply in youth of pleasure and excitement. Hehad married a beautiful young wife, who had died childless in the firstyear of their marriage, and he had abandoned himself after this eventto a despairing seclusion, devoted to art and music. He had filled thegreat house with fine pictures, he had written a book of poems, andsome curious stilted volumes of autobiographical prose; but he had noart of expression, and his books had seemed like a powerless attempt togive utterance to wild and melancholy musings; they were written in apompous and elaborate style, which divested the thoughts of such charmas they might have possessed. 

He had lived thus to a considerable age in a wilful sadness, unlovingand unloved. He had cared nothing for the people of the place, entertained no visitors; rambling, a proud solitary figure, about thedemesne, or immured for days together in his library. Had the storynot been true, it would have appeared like some elaborate fiction. 

He built this little temple in memory of the wife whom he had lost, andoften visited it, spending hours on hot summer days wandering about thelittle lake, or sitting silent in the portico. We went up to thebuilding. It was a mere alcove, open to the air. But what arrested myattention was a marble figure of a young man, in a sitting position, lightly clad in a tunic, the neck, arms, and knees bare; one knee wasflung over the other, and the chin was propped on an arm, the elbow ofwhich rested on the knee. The face was a wonderful and expressivepiece of work. The boy seemed to be staring out, not seeing what helooked upon, but lost in a deep agony of thought. The face waswonderfully pure and beautiful; and the anguish seemed not the anguishof remorse, but the pain of looking upon things both sweet andbeautiful, and of yet being unable to take a share in them. The wholefigure denoted a listless melancholy. It was the work of a famousFrench sculptor, who seemed to have worked under close and minutedirection; and my friend told me that no less than three statues hadbeen completed before the owner was satisfied. 

On the pedestal were sculptured the pathetic words, _Oímoi mal authis_. There was a look of revolt of dumb anger upon the face that lay behindits utter and hopeless sadness. I knew too well, by a swift instinct, what the statue stood for. Here was one, made for life, activity, andjoy, who yet found himself baffled, thwarted, shut out from theparadise that seemed to open all about him; it was the face of one whohad found satiety in pleasure, and sorrow in the very heart of joy. There was no taint of grossness or of luxury in the face, but rather astrength, an intellectual force, a firm lucidity of thought. I confessthat the sight moved me very strangely. I felt a thrill of the deepestcompassion, a desire to do something that might help or comfort, ayearning wish to aid, to explain, to cheer. The silence, thestillness, the hopelessness of the pathetic figure woke in me theintensest desire to give I knew not what--an overwhelming impulse ofpity. It seemed a parable of all the joy that is so sternly checked, all the hopes made vain, the promise disappointed, the very death ofthe soul. It seemed infinitely pathetic that God should have made sofair a thing, and then withheld joy. And it seemed as though I hadlooked into the very soul of the unhappy man who had set up so strangeand pathetic an allegory of his sufferings. The boy seemed as thoughhe would have welcomed death--anything that brought an end; yet thehealth and suppleness of the bright figure held out no hope of that. It was the very type of unutterable sorrow, and that not in an outwornbody, and reflected in a face dim with sad experience, but in aperfectly fresh and strong frame, built for action and life. I cannotsay what remote thoughts, what dark communings, visited me at thesight. I seemed confronted all at once with the deepest sadness of theworld, as though an unerring arrow had pierced my very heart--an arrowwinged by beauty, and shot on a summer day of sunshine and song. 

Is there any faith that is strong enough and deep enough to overcomesuch questionings? It seemed to bring me near to all those pale andhopeless agonies of the world; all the snapping short of joy, theconfronting of life with death--those dreadful moments when the heartasks itself, in a kind of furious horror, "How can it be that I amfilled so full of all the instinct of joy and life, and yet bidden tosuffer and to die?"

The only hope is in an utter and silent resignation; in the beliefthat, if there is a purpose in the gift of joy, there is a purpose inthe gift of suffering. And as thus, in that calm afternoon, in thesilent wood, by the shining pool, I lifted up my heart to God to beconsoled, I felt a great hope draw near, as when the vast tide flowslandward, and fills the dry, solitary sand-pools with the leapingbrine. "Only wait, " said the deep and tender voice, "only endure, onlybelieve; and a sweetness, a beauty, a truth beyond your utmost dreamsshall be revealed. "

XXXIII

The Mystery of Suffering

Here is a story which has much occupied my thoughts lately. A man inmiddle life, with a widowed sister and her children depending on him, living by professional exertions, is suddenly attacked by a painful, horrible, and fatal complaint. He goes through a terrible operation, and then struggles back to his work again, with the utmost courage andgallantry. Again the complaint returns, and the operation is repeated. After this he returns again to his work, but at last, after enduringuntold agonies, he is forced to retire into an invalid life, after afew months of which he dies in terrible suffering, and leaves hissister and the children nearly penniless. 

The man was a quiet, simple-minded person, fond of his work, fond ofhis home, conventional and not remarkable except for the simply heroicquality he displayed, smiling and joking up to the moment of theadministering of anaesthetics for his operations, and bearing hissufferings with perfect patience and fortitude, never saying animpatient word, grateful for the smallest services. 

His sister, a simple, active woman, with much tender affection andconsiderable shrewdness, finding that the fear of incurring needlessexpense distressed her brother, devoted herself to the ghastly andterrible task of nursing him through his illnesses. The childrenbehaved with the same straightforward affection and goodness. None ofthe circle ever complained, ever said a word which would lead one tosuppose that they had any feeling of resentment or cowardice. Theysimply received the blows of fate humbly, resignedly, and cheerfully, and made the best of the situation. 

Now, let us look this sad story in the face, and see if we can deriveany hope or comfort from it. In the first place, there was nothing inthe man's life which would lead one to suppose that he deserved orneeded this special chastening, this crucifixion of the body. He wasby instinct humble, laborious, unselfish, and good, all of whichqualities came out in his illness. Neither was there anything in thelife or character of the sister which seemed to need this stern andsevere trial. The household had lived a very quiet, active, usefullife, models of good citizens--religious, contented, drawing greathappiness from very simple resources. 

One's belief in the goodness, the justice, the patience of the Fatherand Maker of men forbids one to believe that he can ever be wantonlycruel, unjust, or unloving. Yet it is impossible to see the mercy orjustice of his actions in this case. And the misery is that, if itcould be proved that in one single case, however small, God's goodnesshad, so to speak, broken down; if there were evidence of neglect orcarelessness or indifference, in the case of one single child of his, one single sentient thing that he has created, it would be impossibleto believe in his omnipotence any more. Either one would feel that hewas unjust and cruel, or that there was some evil power at work in theworld which he could not overcome. 

For there is nothing remedial in this suffering. The man's useful, gentle life is over, the sister is broken down, unhappy, a second timemade desolate; the children's education has suffered, their home ismade miserable. The only thing that one can see, that is in any degreea compensation, is the extraordinary kindness displayed by friends, relations, and employers in making things easy for the afflictedhousehold. And then, too, there is the heroic quality of souldisplayed by the sufferer himself and his sister--a heroism which isennobling to think of, and yet humiliating too, because it seems to beso far out of one's own reach. 

This is a very dark abyss of the world into which we are looking. Thecase is an extreme one perhaps, but similar things happen every day, inthis sad and wonderful and bewildering world. Of course, one may takerefuge in a gloomy acquiescence, saying that such things seem to bepart of the world as it is made, and we cannot explain them, while wedumbly hope that we may be spared such woes. But that is a dark anddespairing attitude, and, for one, I cannot live at all, unless I feelthat God is indeed more upon our side than that. I cannot live at all, I say. And yet I must live; I must endure the Will of God in whateverform it is laid upon me--in joy or in pain, in contentment or sickdespair. Why am I at one with the Will of God when it gives mestrength, and hope, and delight? Why am I so averse to it when itbrings me languor, and sorrow, and despair? That I cannot tell; andthat is the enigma which has confronted men from generation togeneration. 

But I still believe that there is a Will of God; and, more than that, Ican still believe that a day comes for all of us, however far off itmay be, when we shall understand; when these tragedies, that nowblacken and darken the very air of Heaven for us, will sink into theirplaces in a scheme so august, so magnificent, so joyful, that we shalllaugh for wonder and delight; when we shall think not more sorrowfullyover these sufferings, these agonies, than we think now of the sad daysin our childhood when we sat with a passion of tears over a broken toyor a dead bird, feeling that we could not be comforted. We smile as weremember such things--we smile at our blindness, our limitations. Wesmile to reflect at the great range and panorama of the world that hasopened upon us since, and of which, in our childish grief, we were soignorant. Under what conditions the glory will be revealed to us Icannot guess. But I do not doubt that it will be revealed; for weforget sorrow, but we do not forget joy. 

XXXIV

Music

I have just come back from hearing a great violinist, who played, withthree other professors, in two quartettes, Mozart and Beethoven. Iknow little of the technicalities of music, but I know that the Mozartwas full to me of air and sunlight, and a joy which was not thelight-hearted gaiety of earth, but the untainted and unwearying joy ofheaven; the Beethoven I do not think I understood, but there was agrave minor movement, with pizzicato passages for the violoncello, which seemed to consecrate and dignify the sorrow of the heart. 

But apart from the technical merits of the music--and the performance, indeed, seemed to me to lie as near the thought and the conception asthe translation of music into sound can go--the sight of these four bigmen, serious and grave, as though neither pursuing nor creatingpleasure, but as though interpreting and giving expression to someweighty secret, had an inspiring and solemnising effect. The sight ofthe great violinist himself was full of awe; his big head, the fullgrey beard which lay over the top of the violin, his calm, set brows, his weary eyes with their heavy lids, had a profound dignity andseriousness; and to see his wonderful hands, not delicate or slender, but full, strong, and muscular, moving neither lingeringly nor hastily, but with a firm and easy deliberation upon the strings, was deeplyimpressive. It all seemed so easy, so inevitable, so utterly withoutdisplay, so simple and great. It gave one a sense of mingled fire andquietude, which is the end of art, --one may almost say the end of life;it was no leaping and fitful flame, but a calm and steady glow; not aconsuming fire, but like the strength of a mighty furnace; and then thepeace of it! The great man did not stand before us as a performer; heseemed utterly indifferent to praise or applause, and he had rather agrave, pontifical air, as of a priest, divinely called to minister, celebrating a divine mystery, calling down the strength of heaven toearth. Neither was there the least sense of one conferring a favour;he rather appeared to recognise that we were there in the same spiritas himself, the worshippers in some high solemnity, and his own skillnot a thing to be shown or gloried in, but a mere ministering of asacred gift. He seemed, indeed, to be like one who distributed asacramental meat to an intent throng; not a giver of pleasure, but achannel of secret grace. 

From such art as this one comes away not only with a thrill of mortalrapture, but with a real and deep faith in art, having bowed the headbefore a shrine, and having tasted the food of the spirit. When, atthe end of a sweet and profound movement, the player raised his greathead and looked round tenderly and gently on the crowd, one felt asthough, like Moses, he had struck the rock, and the streams had gushedout, _ut bibat populus_. And there fell an even deeper awe, whichseemed to say, "God was in this place . .. And I knew it not. " Theworld of movement, of talk, of work, of conflicting interests, intowhich one must return, seemed all a fantastic noise, a shadowystriving; the only real thing seemed the presence-chamber from which wehad gone out, the chamber in which music had uttered its voice at thebidding of some sacred spell, the voice of an infinite Spirit, theSpirit that had brooded upon the deep, evoking order out of chaos andlight out of darkness; with no eager and dusty manoeuvrings, no clinkand clatter of human toil, but gliding resistlessly and largely uponthe world, as the sun by silent degrees detaches himself from the darkrim of the world, and climbs in stately progress into the uncloudedheaven. 

XXXV

The Faith of Christ

I read a terrible letter in the newspaper this morning, a letter from aclergyman of high position, finding fault with a manifesto put out bycertain other clergymen; the letter had a certain volubility about it, and the writer seemed to me to pull out rather adroitly one or twoloose sticks in his opponents' bundle, and to lay them vehemently abouttheir backs. But, alas! the acrimony, the positiveness, the arroganceof it!

I do not know that I admired the manifesto very much myself; it was atimid and half-hearted document, but it was at least sympathetic andtender. The purport of it was to say that, just as historicalcriticism has shown that some of the Old Testament must be regarded asfabulous, so we must be prepared for a possible loss of certitude insome of the details of the New Testament. It is conceivable, forinstance, that without sacrificing the least portion of the essentialteaching of Christ, men may come to feel justified in a certainsuspension of judgment with regard to some of the miraculousoccurrences there related; may even grow to believe that an element ofexaggeration is there, that element of exaggeration which is neverabsent from the writings of any age in which scientific historicalmethods had no existence. A suspension of judgment, say: because inthe absence of any converging historical testimony to the events of theNew Testament, it will never be possible either to affirm or to denyhistorically that the facts took place exactly as related; though, indeed, the probability of their having so occurred may seem to bediminished. 

The controversialist, whose letter I read with bewilderment and pain, involved his real belief in ingenious sentences, so that one wouldthink that he accepted the statements of the Old Testament, such as theaccount of the Creation and the Fall, the speaking of Balaam's Ass, theswallowing of Jonah by the whale, as historical facts. He went on tosay that the miraculous element of the New Testament is accredited bythe Revelation of God, as though some definite revelation of truth hadtaken place at some time or other, which all rational men recognised. But the only objective process which has ever taken place is, that atcertain Councils of the Church, certain books of Scripture wereselected as essential documents, and the previous selection of the OldTestament books was confirmed. But would the controversialist say thatthese Councils were infallible? It must surely be clear to allrational people that the members of these Councils were merely doingtheir best, under the conditions that then prevailed, to select thebooks that seemed to them to contain the truth. It is impossible tobelieve that if the majority at these Councils had supposed that suchan account as the account in Genesis of the Creation was mythological, they would thus have attested its literal truth. It never occurred tothem to doubt it, because they did not understand the principle that, while a normal event can be accepted, if it is fairly well confirmed, an abnormal event requires a far greater amount of converging testimonyto confirm it. 

If only the clergy could realise that what ordinary laymen like myselfwant is a greater elasticity instead of an irrational certainty! ifonly instead of feebly trying to save the outworks, which are alreadyin the hands of the enemy, they would man the walls of the centralfortress! If only they would say plainly that a man could remain aconvinced Christian, and yet not be bound to hold to the literalaccuracy of the account of miraculous incidents recorded in the Bible, it would be a great relief. 

I am myself in the position of thousands of other laymen. I am asincere Christian; and yet I regard the Old Testament and the NewTestament alike as the work of fallible men and of poetical minds. Iregard the Old Testament as a noble collection of ancient writings, containing myths, chronicles, fables, poems, and dramas, the value ofwhich consists in the intense faith in a personal God and Father withwhich it is penetrated. 

When I come to the New Testament, I feel myself, in the Gospels, confronted by the most wonderful personality which has ever drawnbreath upon the earth. I am not in a position to affirm or to deny theexact truth of the miraculous occurrences there related; but the moreconscious I am of the fallibility, the lack of subtlety, the absence oftrained historical method that the writers display, the more convincedI am of the essential truth of the Person and teaching of Christ, because he seems to me a figure so infinitely beyond the intellectualpower of those who described him to have invented or created. 

If the authors of the Gospels had been men of delicate literary skill, of acute philosophical or poetical insight, like Plato or Shakespeare, then I should be far less convinced of the integral truth of therecord. But the words and sayings of Christ, the ideas which hedisseminated, seem to me so infinitely above the highest achievementsof the human spirit, that I have no difficulty in confessing, humblyand reverently, that I am in the presence of one who seems to me to beabove humanity, and not only of it. If all the miraculous events ofthe Gospels could be proved never to have occurred, it would notdisturb my faith in Christ for an instant. But I am content, as it is, to believe in the possibility of so abnormal a personality beingsurrounded by abnormal events, though I am not in a position todisentangle the actual truth from the possibilities ofmisrepresentation and exaggeration. 

Dealing with the rest of the New Testament, I see in the Acts of theApostles a deeply interesting record of the first ripples of the faithin the world. In the Pauline and other epistles I see the words offervent primitive Christians, men of real and untutored genius, inwhich one has amazing instances of the effect produced, on contemporaryor nearly contemporary persons, of the same overwhelming personality, the personality of Christ. In the Apocalypse I see a vision of deeppoetical force and insight. 

But in none of these compositions, though they reveal a glow andfervour of conviction that places them high among the memorials of thehuman spirit, do I recognise anything which is beyond humanpossibilities. I observe, indeed, that St Paul's method of argument isnot always perfectly consistent, nor his conclusions absolutely cogent. Such inspiration as they contain they draw from their nearness to andtheir close apprehension of the dim and awe-inspiring presence ofChrist Himself. 

If, as I say, the Church would concentrate her forces in this innerfortress, the personality of Christ, and quit the debatable ground ofhistorical enquiry, it would be to me and to many an unfeigned relief;but meanwhile, neither scientific critics nor irrational pedants shallinvalidate my claim to be of the number of believing Christians. Iclaim a Christian liberty of thought, while I acknowledge, with bowedhead, my belief in God the Father of men, in a Divine Christ, theRedeemer and Saviour, and in the presence in the hearts of men of aDivine spirit, leading humanity tenderly forward. I can neither affirmnor deny the literal accuracy of Scripture records; I am not in aposition to deny the superstructure of definite dogma raised by thetradition of the Church about the central truths of its teaching, butneither can I deny the possibility of an admixture of human error inthe fabric. I claim my right to receive the Sacraments of my Church, believing as I do that they invigorate the soul, bring the presence ofits Redeemer near, and constitute a bond of Christian unity. But Ihave no reason to believe that any human pronouncement whatever, thepronouncements of men of science as well as the pronouncements oftheologians, are not liable to error. There is indeed no fact in theworld except the fact of my own existence of which I am absolutelycertain. And thus I can accept no system of religion which is basedupon deductions, however subtle, from isolated texts, because I cannotbe sure of the infallibility of any form of human expression. Yet, onthe other hand, I seem to discern with as much certainty as I candiscern anything in this world, where all is so dark, the presence uponearth at a certain date of a personality which commands my homage andallegiance. And upon this I build my trust. 

XXXVI

The Mystery of Evil

I was staying the other day in a large old country-house. One morning, my host came to me and said: "I should like to show you a curiousthing. We have just discovered a cellar here that seems never to havebeen visited or used since the house was built, and there is thestrangest fungoid growth in it I have ever seen. " He took a big bunchof keys, rang the bell, gave an order for lights to be brought, and wewent together to the place. There were ranges of brick-built, vaultedchambers, through which we passed, pleasant, cool places, with noplaster to conceal the native brick, with great wine-bins on eitherhand. It all gave one an inkling of the change in material conditionswhich must have taken place since they were built; the quantity of wineconsumed in eighteenth-century days must have been so enormous, and thedifficulty of conveyance so great, that every great householder musthave felt like the Rich Fool of the parable, with much goods laid upfor many years. In the corner of one of the great vaults was a lowarched door, and my friend explained that some panelling which had beentaken out of an older house, demolished to make room for the presentmansion, had been piled up here, and thus the entrance had been hidden. He unlocked the door, and a strange scent came out. An abundance oflights were lit, and we went into the vault. It was the strangestscene I have ever beheld; the end of the vault seemed like a great bed, hung with brown velvet curtains, through the gaps of which were visiblewhat seemed like white velvet pillows, strange humped conglomerations. My friend explained to me that there had been a bin at the end of thevault, out of the wood of which these singular fungi had sprouted. Thewhole place was uncanny and horrible. The great velvet curtains swayedin the current of air, and it seemed as though at any moment somemysterious sleeper might be awakened, might peer forth from his darkcurtains, with a fretful enquiry as to why he was disturbed. 

The scene dwelt in my mind for many days, and aroused in me a strangetrain of thought; these dim vegetable forms, with their richluxuriance, their sinister beauty, awoke a curious repugnance in themind. They seemed unholy and evil. And yet it is all part of the lifeof nature; it is just as natural, just as beautiful to find life atwork in this gloomy and unvisited place, wreathing the bare walls withthese dark, soft fabrics. It was impossible not to feel that there wasa certain joy of life in these growths, sprouting with such securityand luxuriance in a place so precisely adapted to their well-being; andyet there was the shadow of death and darkness about them, to us whosehome is the free air and the sun. It seemed to me to make a curiousparable of the baffling mystery of evil, the luxuriant growth of sin inthe dark soul. I have always felt that the reason why the mystery ofevil is so baffling is because we so resolutely think of evil as ofsomething inimical to the nature of God; and yet evil must derive itsvitality from him. The one thing that it is impossible to believe isthat, in a world ruled by an all-powerful God, anything should comeinto existence which is in opposition to his Will. It is impossible toarrive at any solution of the difficulty, unless we either adopt thebelief that God is not all-powerful, and that there is a real dualismin nature, two powers in eternal opposition; or else realise that evilis in some way a manifestation of God. If we adopt the first theory, we may conceive of the stationary tendency in nature, its inertness, the force that tends to bring motion to a standstill, as one power, thepower of Death; and we may conceive of all motion and force as theother power, the quickening spirit, the power of life. But even herewe are met with a difficulty, for when we try to transfer this dualismto the region of humanity, we see that in the phenomena of disease weare confronted, not with inertness fighting against motion, but withone kind of life, which is inimical to human life, fighting withanother kind of life which is favourable to health. I mean that when afever or a cancer lays hold of a human frame, it is nothing but thelodging inside the body of a bacterial and an infusorial life whichfights against the healthy native life of the human organism. Theremust be, I will not say a consciousness, but a sense of triumphantlife, in the cancer which feeds upon the limb, in spite of all effortsto dislodge it; and it is impossible to me to believe that the vitalityof those parasitical organisms, which prey upon the human frame, is notderived from the vital impulse of God. We, who live in the free airand the sun, have a way of thinking and speaking as if the plants andanimals which develop under the same conditions were of a healthy type, while the organisms which flourish in decay and darkness, such as thefungi of which I saw so strange an example, the larva; which prey ondecaying matter, the soft and pallid worm-like forms that tunnel invegetable ooze, were of an unhealthy type. But yet these creatures areas much the work of God as the flowers and trees, the brisk animalswhich we love to see about us. We are obliged in self-defence to dobattle with the creatures which menace our health; we do not questionour right to deprive them of life for our own comfort; but surely withthis analogy before us, we are equally compelled to think of the formsof moral evil, with all their dark vitality, as the work of God's hand. It is a sad conclusion to be obliged to draw, but I can have no doubtthat no comprehensive system of philosophy can ever be framed, whichdoes not trace the vitality of what we call evil to the same hand asthe vitality of what we call good. I have no doubt myself of thesupremacy of a single power; but the explanation that evil came intothe world by the institution of free-will, and that suffering is theresult of sin, seems to me to be wholly inadequate, because the mysteryof strife and pain and death is "far older than any history which iswritten in any book. " The mistake that we make is to count up all thequalities which seem to promote our health and happiness, and to inventan anthropomorphic figure of God, whom we array upon the side which wewish to prevail. The truth is far darker, far sterner, far moremysterious. The darkness is his not less than the light; selfishnessand sin are the work of his hand, as much as unselfishness andholiness. To call this attitude of mind pessimism, and to say that itcan only end in acquiescence or despair, is a sin against truth. Acreed that does not take this thought into account is nothing but adelusion, with which we try to beguile the seriousness of the truthwhich we dread; but such a stern belief does not forbid us to struggleand to strive; it rather bids us believe that effort is a law of ournatures, that we are bound to be enlisted for the fight, and that theonly natures that fail are those that refuse to take a side at all. 

There is no indecision in nature, though there is some illusion. Thevery star that rises, pale and serene, above the darkening thicket, isin reality a globe wreathed in fiery vapour, the centre of a throng ofwhirling planets. What we have to do is to see as deep as we can intothe truth of things, not to invent paradises of thought, shelteredgardens, from which grief and suffering shall tear us, naked andprotesting; but to gaze into the heart of God, and then to follow asfaithfully as we can the imperative voice that speaks within the soul. 

XXXVII

Renewal

There sometimes falls upon me a great hunger of heart, a sad desire tobuild up and renew something--a broken building it may be, a fadingflower, a failing institution, a ruinous character. I feel a great andvivid pity for a thing which sets out to be so bright and beautiful, and lapses into shapeless and uncomely neglect. Sometimes, indeed, itmust be a desolate grief, a fruitless sorrow: as when a flower that hasstood on one's table, and cheered the air with its freshness andfragrance, begins to droop, and to grow stained and sordid. Or I seesome dying creature, a wounded animal; or even some well-loved friendunder the shadow of death, with the hue of health fading, the dearfeatures sharpening for the last change; and then one can only bow, with such resignation as one can muster, before the dreadful law ofdeath, pray that the passage may not be long or dark, and try to dreamof the bright secrets that may be waiting on the other side. 

But sometimes it is a more fruitful sadness, when one feels that decaycan be arrested, that new life can be infused; that a fresh start maybe taken, and a life may be beautifully renewed, and be even thebrighter, one dares to hope, for a lapse into the dreary ways ofbitterness. 

This sadness is most apt to beset those who have anything to do withthe work of education. One feels sometimes, with a sudden shiver, aswhen the shadow of a cloud passes over a sunlit garden, that manyelements are at work in a small society; that an evil secret isspreading over lives that were peaceful and contented, that suspicionand disunion and misunderstanding are springing up, like poisonousweeds, in the quiet corner that God has given one to dress and keep. Then perhaps one tries to put one's hand on what is amiss; sometimesone does too much, and in the wrong way; one has not enough faith, onedares not leave enough to God. Or from timidity or diffidence, or fromthe base desire not to be troubled, from the poor hope that perhapsthings will straighten themselves out, one does too little; and that isthe worst shadow of all, the shadow of cowardice or sloth. 

Sometimes, too, one has the grief of seeing a slow and subtle changepassing over the manner and face of one for whom one cares--not thechange of languor or physical weakness; that can be pityingly borne;but one sees innocence withering, indifference to things wholesome andfair creeping on, even sometimes a ripe and evil sort of beautymaturing, such as comes of looking at evil unashamed, and seeing itsstrong seductiveness. One feels instinctively that the door which hadbeen open before between such a soul and one's own spirit is beingslowly and firmly closed, or even, if one attempts to open it, pulledto with a swift motion; and then one may hear sounds within, and evensee, in that moment, a rush of gliding forms, that makes one sure thata visitant is there, who has brought with him a wicked company; andthen one has to wait in sadness, with now and then a timid knocking, even happy, it may be, if the soul sometimes call fretfully within, tosay that it is occupied and cannot come forth. 

But sometimes, God be praised, it is the other way. A year ago a mancame at his own request to see me. I hardly knew him; but I could seeat once that he was in the grip of some hard conflict, which witheredhis natural bloom. I do not know how all came to be revealed; but in alittle while he was speaking with simple frankness and naturalness ofall his troubles, and they were many. What was the most touching thingof all was that he spoke as if he were quite alone in his experience, isolated and shut off from his kind, in a peculiar horror of darknessand doubt; as if the thoughts and difficulties at which he stumbled hadnever strewn a human path before. I said but little to him; and, indeed, there was but little to say. It was enough that he should"cleanse the stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs upon theheart. " I tried to make him feel that he was not alone in the matter, and that other feet had trodden the dark path before him. No advice ispossible in such cases; "therein the patient must minister to himself";the solution lies in the mind of the sufferer. He knows what he oughtto do; the difficulty is for him sufficiently to desire to do it; yeteven to speak frankly of cares and troubles is very often to melt anddisperse the morbid mist that gathers round them, which grows insolitude. To state them makes them plain and simple; and, indeed, itis more than that; for I have often noticed that the mere act offormulating one's difficulties in the hearing of one who sympathisesand feels, often brings the solution with it. One finds, likeChristian in Doubting Castle, the key which has lain in one's bosom allthe time--the key of Promise; and when one has finished the recital, one is lost in bewilderment that one ever was in any doubt at all. 

A year has passed since that date, and I have had the happiness ofseeing health and contentment stream back into the man's face. He hasnot overcome, he has not won an easy triumph; but he is in the way now, not wandering on trackless hills. 

So, in the mood of which I spoke at first--the mood in which onedesires to build up and renew--one must not yield oneself to luxuriousand pathetic reveries, or allow oneself to muse and wonder in thehalf-lit region in which one may beat one's wings in vain--the region, I mean, of sad stupefaction as to why the world is so full of brokendreams, shattered hopes, and unfulfilled possibilities. One mustrather look round for some little definite failure that is within thecircle of one's vision. And even so, there sometimes comes what is themost evil and subtle temptation of all, which creeps upon the mind inlowly guise, and preaches inaction. What concern have you, says thetempting voice, to meddle with the lives and characters of others--toguide, to direct, to help--when there is so much that is bitterly amisswith your own heart and life? How will you dare to preach what you donot practice? The answer of the brave heart is that, if one is awareof failure, if one has suffered, if one has gathered experience, onemust be ready to share it. If I falter and stumble under my own heavyload, which I have borne so querulously, so clumsily, shall not I say aword which can help a fellow-sufferer to bear his load more easily, help him to avoid the mistakes, the falls into which my own perversityhas betrayed me? To make another's burden lighter is to lighten one'sown burden; and, sinful as it may be to err, it is still more sinful tosee another err, and be silent, to withhold the word that might savehim. Perhaps no one can help so much as one that has suffered himself, who knows the turns of the sad road, and the trenches which beset theway. 

For thus comes most truly the joy of repentance; it is joy to feel thatone's own lesson is learnt, and that the feeble feet are a littlestronger; but if one may also feel that another has taken heed, hasbeen saved the fall that must have come if he had not been warned, onedoes not grudge one's own pain, that has brought a blessing with it, that is outside of one's own blessing; one hardly even grudges the sin. 

XXXVIII

The Secret

I have been away from my books lately, in a land of downs and valleys;I have walked much alone, or with a silent companion--that greatest ofall luxuries. And, as is always the case when I get out of the reachof books, I feel that I read a great deal too much, and do not meditateenough. It sounds indolent advice to say that one ought to meditate;but I cannot help feeling that reading is often a still more indolentaffair. When I am alone, or at leisure among my books, I take a volumedown; and the result is that another man does my thinking for me. Itis like putting oneself in a comfortable railway carriage; one runssmoothly along the iron track, one stops at specified stations, onesees a certain range of country, and an abundance of pretty things inflashes--too many, indeed, for the mind to digest; and that is thereason, I think, why a modern journey, even with all the luxuries thatsurround it, is so tiring a thing. But to meditate is to take one'sown path among the hills; one turns off the track to examine anythingthat attracts the attention; one makes the most of the few things thatone sees. 

Reading is often a mere saving of trouble, a soporific for a restlessbrain. This last week, as I say, I have had very few books with me. One of the few has been Milton's _Paradise Lost_, and I have read itfrom end to end. I want to say a few words about the book first, andthen to diverge, to a larger question. I have read the poem with acertain admiration; it is a large, strong, rugged, violent thing. Ihave, however, read it without emotion, except that a few of thesimiles in it, which lie like shells on a beach of sand, have pleasedme. Yet it is not true to say that I have read it without emotion, because I have read it with anger and indignation. I have come to theconclusion that the book has done a great deal of harm. It isresponsible, I think, for a great many of the harsh, business-like, dismal views of religion that prevail among us. Milton treated God, the Saviour, and the angels, from the point of view of a scholar whohad read the _Iliad_. I declare that I think that the passages whereGod the Father speaks, discusses the situation of affairs, and arrangesmatters with the Saviour, are some of the most profane and viciouspassages in English literature. I do not want to be profane myself, because it is a disgusting fault; but the passage where the scheme ofRedemption is arranged, where God enquires whether any of the angelswill undergo death in order to satisfy his sense of injured justice, isa passage of what I can only call stupid brutality, disguised, alas, inthe solemn and majestic robe of sonorous language. The angels timidlydecline, and the Saviour volunteers, which saves the shamefulsituation. The character of God, as displayed by Milton, is that of acommercial, complacent, irritable Puritan. There is no largeness orgraciousness about it, no wistful love. He keeps his purposes tohimself, and when his arrangements break down, as indeed they deserveto do, some one has got to be punished. If the guilty ones cannot, somuch the worse; an innocent victim will do, but a victim there must be. It is a wicked, an abominable passage, and I would no more allow anintelligent child to read it than I would allow him to read an obscenebook. 

Then, again, the passage where the rebel angels cast cannon, makegunpowder, and mow the good angels down in rows, is incredibly puerileand ridiculous. The hateful materialism of the whole thing is patent. I wish that the English Church could have an Index, and put _ParadiseLost_ upon it, and allow no one to read it until he had reached yearsof discretion, and then only with a certificate, and for purelyliterary purposes. 

It is a terrible instance how strong a thing Art is; the grim oldauthor, master of every form of ugly vituperation, had driftedmiserably away from his beautiful youth, when he wrote the sweet poemsand sonnets that make the pedestal for his fame; and on that delicatepedestal stands this hideous iron figure, with its angry gestures, itssickening strength. 

I could pile up indignant instances of the further harm the book hasdone. Who but Milton is responsible for the hard and shameful view ofthe position of women? He represents her as a clinging, soft, compliant creature, whose only ideal is to be to make thingscomfortable for her husband, and to submit to his embraces. Miltonspoilt the lives of all the women he had to do with, by making theminto slaves, with the same consciousness of rectitude with which hewhipped his nephews, the sound of whose cries made his poor girl-wifeso miserable. But I do not want to go further into the question ofMilton himself. I want to follow out a wider thought which came to meamong the downs to-day. 

There seems to me to be in art, to take the metaphor of the temple atJerusalem, three gradations or regions, which may be typified by theCourt, the Holy Place, and the Holy of Holies. Into the Court manyhave admittance, both writers and readers; it is just shut off from theworld, but admittance is easy and common. All who are moved andstirred by ideas and images can enter here. Then there is the HolyPlace, dark and glorious, where the candlestick glimmers and the altargleams. And to this place the priests of art have access. Here are tobe found all delicate and strenuous craftsmen, all who understand thatthere are secrets and mysteries in art. They can please and thrill themind and ear; they can offer up a fragrant incense; but the fullmystery is not revealed to them. Here are to be found many gracefuland soulless poets, many writers of moving tales, and discriminatingcritics, who are satisfied, but cannot satisfy. Those who frequentthis place are generally of opinion that they know all that is to beknown; they talk much of form and colour, of values and order. Theycan make the most of their materials; and indeed their skill outrunstheir emotion. 

But there is the inmost shrine of all within, where the darknessbroods, lit at intervals by the shining of a divine light, thatglimmers on the ark and touches the taper wings of the adoring angels. The contents indeed of the sacred chest are of the simplest; a witheredbranch, a pot of food, two slabs of grey stone, obscurely engraved. Nothing rich or rare. But those who have access to the inner shrineare face to face with the mystery. Some have the skill to hint it, none to describe it. And there are some, too, who have no skill toexpress themselves, but who have visited the place, and bring back sometouch of radiance gushing from their brows. 

Milton, in his youth, had looked within the shrine, but he forgot, inthe clamorous and sordid world, what he had seen. Only those who havevisited the Holiest place know those others who have set foot there, and they cannot err. I cannot define exactly what it is that makes thedifference. It cannot be seen in performance; for here I will humblyand sincerely make the avowal that I have been within the veil myself, though I know not when or how. I learnt there no perfection of skill, no methods of expression. But ever since, I have looked out for thesigns that tell me whether another has set foot there or no. Isometimes see the sign in a book, or a picture; sometimes it comes outin talk; and sometimes I discern it in the glance of an eye, for allthe silence of the lips. It is not knowledge, it is not pride that theaccess confers. Indeed it is often a sweet humility of soul. It isnothing definite; but it is a certain attitude of mind, a certainquality of thought. Some of those who have been within are very sinfulpersons, very unhappy, very unsatisfactory, as the world would say. But they are never perverse or wilful natures; they are never cold ormean. Those in whom coldness and meanness are found are of necessityexcluded from the Presence. But though the power to step behind theveil seldom brings serenity, or strength, or confidence, yet it is thebest thing that can happen to a man in the world. 

Some perhaps of those who read these words will think that it is all avain shadow, and that I am but wrapping up an empty thought in veils ofwords. But though I cannot explain, though I cannot say what thesecret is, I can claim to be able to say almost without hesitationwhether a human spirit has passed within; and more than that. As Iwrite these words, I know that if any who have set foot in the secretshrine reads them, they will understand, and recognise that I amspeaking a simple truth. 

Some, indeed, find their way thither through religion; but none whosereligion is like Milton's. Indeed, part of the wonder of the secret isthe infinite number of paths that lead there; they are all lonely; themoment is unexpected; indeed, as was the case with myself, it ispossible to set foot within, and yet not to know it at the time. 

It is this secret which constitutes the innermost brotherhood of theworld. The innermost, I say, because neither creed, nor nationality, nor occupation, nor age, nor sex affects the matter. It is difficult, or shall I say unusual, for the old to enter; and most find the waythere in youth, before habit and convention have become tyrannous, andhave fenced the path of life with hedges and walls. 

Again it is the most secret brotherhood of the world; no one can dareto make public proclamation of it, no one can gather the saintstogether, for the essence of the brotherhood is its isolation. One mayindeed recognise a brother or a sister, and that is a blessed moment;but one must not speak of it in words; and indeed there is no need ofwords, where all that matters is known. It may be asked what are thebenefits which this secret brings. It does not bring laughter, orprosperity, or success, or even cheerfulness; but it brings a high, though fitful, joy--a joy that can be captured, practised, retained. No one can, I think, of set purpose, capture the secret. No one canfind the way by desiring it. And yet the desire to do so is the seedof hope. And if it be asked, why I write and print these veiled wordsabout so deep and intimate a mystery, I would reply that it is becausenot all who have found the way, know that they have found it; and myhope is that these words of mine may show some restless hearts thatthey have found it. For one may find the shrine in youth, and for wantof knowing that one has found it, may forget it in middle age; and thatis what I sorrowfully think that not a few of my brothers do. And thesign of such a loss is that such persons speak contemptuously anddisdainfully of their visions, and try to laugh and deride the youngand gracious out of such hopes; which is a sin that is hateful to God, a kind of murder of souls. 

And now I have travelled a long way from where I began, but the pathwas none of my own making. It was Milton, that fierce and childishpoet, that held open the door, and within I saw the ladder, at thefiery head of which is God Himself. And like Jacob (who was indeed ofour company) I made a pillow for my head of the stones of the place, that I might dream more abundantly. 

And so, as I walked to-day among the green places of the down, I made aprayer in my heart to God, the matter of which I will now set down; andit was that all of us who have visited that most Holy Place may be trueto the vision; and that God may reveal us to each other, as we go onpilgrimage; and that as the world goes forward, he may lead more andmore souls to visit it, that bare and secret place, which yet holdsmore beauty than the richest palace of the world. For palaces but holdthe outer beauty, in types and glimpses and similitudes. While in thesecret shrine we visit the central fountainhead, from which the waterof life, clear as crystal, breaks in innumerable channels, and flowsout from beneath the temple door, as Ezekiel saw it flow, lingering anddelaying, but surely coming to gladden the earth. I could indeed gofurther, and speak many things out of a full heart about the matter. Icould quote the names of many poets and artists, great and small; and Icould say which of them belongs to the inner company, and which of themis outside. But I will not do this, because it would but setinquisitive people puzzling and wondering, and trying to guess thesecret; and that I have no desire to do; because these words are notwritten to make those who do not understand to be curious; but they arewritten to those who know, and, most of all, to those who know, buthave forgotten. No one may traffic in these things; and indeed thereis no opportunity to do so. I could learn in a moment, from a sentenceor a smile, if one had the secret; and I could spend a long summer daytrying to explain it to a learned and intelligent person, and yet giveno hint of what I meant. For the thing is not an intelligible process, a matter of reasoning and logic; it is an intuition. And therefore itis that those who cannot believe in anything that they do notunderstand, will think these words of mine to be folly and vanity. Theonly case where I have found a difficulty in deciding, is when I talkto one who has lived much with those who had the secret, and hascaught, by a kind of natural imitation, some of the accent and cadenceof the truth. An old friend of mine, a pious woman, used in her lastdays to have prayers and hymns read much in her room; there was aparrot that sat there in his cage, very silent and attentive; and notlong after, when the parrot was ill, he used to mutter prayers andhymns aloud, with a devotion that would have deceived the very elect. And it is even so with the people of whom I have spoken. Not long agoI had a long conversation with one, a clever woman, who had lived muchin the house of a man who had seen the truth; and I was for a littledeceived, and thought that she also knew the truth. But suddenly shemade a hard judgment of her own, and I knew in a moment that she hadnever seen the shrine. 

And now I have said enough, and must make an end. I remember that longago, when I was a boy, I painted a picture on a panel, and set it in myroom. It was the figure of a kneeling youth on a hillock, lookingupwards; and beyond the hillock came a burst of rays from a hidden sun. Underneath it, for no reason that I can well explain, I painted thewords _phôs etheasamen kai emphobos en_--_I beheld a light and wasafraid_. I was then very far indeed from the sight of the truth; but Iknow now that I was prophesying of what should be; for the secret signof the mystery is a fear, not a timid and shrinking fear, but a holyand transfiguring awe. I little guessed what would some day befall me;but now that I have seen, I can only say with all my heart that it isbetter to remember and be sad, than to forget and smile. 

XXXIX

The Message

I was awakened this morning, at the old house where I am staying, bylow and sweet singing. The soft murmur of an organ was audible, onwhich some clear trebles seemed to swim and float--one voice of greatrichness and force seeming to utter the words, and to draw into itselfthe other voices, appropriating their tone but lending thempersonality. These were the words I heard--

 "The High Priest once a year Went in the Holy Place With garments white and clear; It was the day of Grace. 

 Without the people stood While unseen and alone With incense and with blood He did for them atone. 

 "So we without abide A few short passing years, While Christ who for us died Before our God appears. 

 "Before His Father there His Sacrifice He pleads, And with unceasing prayer For us He intercedes. "

The sweet sounds ceased; the organ lingered for an instant in a lowchord of infinite sweetness, and then a voice was heard in prayer. That there was a chapel in the house I knew, and that a brief morningprayer was read there. But I could not help wondering at theremarkable distinctness with which I heard the words--they seemed closeto my ear in the air beside me. I got up, and drawing my curtainsfound that it was day; and then I saw that a tiny window in the cornerof my room, that gave on the gallery of the chapel, had been left open, by accident or design, and that thus I had been an auditor of theservice. 

I found myself pondering over the words of the hymn, which was familiarto me, though strangely enough is to be found in but few collections. It is a perfect lyric, both in its grave language and its beautifulbalance; and it is too, so far as such a composition can be, or oughtto be, intensely dramatic. The thought is just touched, and statedwith exquisite brevity and restraint; there is not a word too much ortoo little; the image is swiftly presented, the inner meaning flashedupon the mind. It seemed to me, too, a beautiful and desirable thingto begin the day thus, with a delicate hallowing of the hours; to putone gentle thought into the heart, perfumed by the sweet music. Butthen my reflections took a further drift; beautiful as the littleceremony was, noble and refined as the thought of the tender hymn was, I began to wonder whether we do well to confine our religious life toso restricted a range of ideas. It seemed almost ungrateful toentertain the thought, but I felt a certain bewilderment as to whetherthis remote image, drawn from the ancient sacrificial ceremony, was noteven too definite a thought to feed the heart upon. For strip the ideaof its fair accessories, its delicate art, and what have we but the sadbelief, drawn from the dark ages of the world, that the wrathfulCreator of men, full of gloomy indignation at their perverseness andwilfulness, needs the constant intercession of the Eternal Son, who istoo, in a sense, Himself, to appease the anger with which he regardsthe sheep of his hand. I cannot really in the depths of my heart echothat dark belief. I do not indeed know why God permits such blindnessand sinfulness among men, and why he allows suffering to cloud anddarken the world. But it would cause me to despair of God and manalike, if I felt that he had flung our pitiful race into the world, surrounded by temptation both within and without, and then abandonedhimself to anger at their miserable dalliance with evil. I ratherbelieve that we are rising and struggling to the light, and that hisheart is with us, not against us in the battle. It may of course besaid that all that kind of Calvinism has disappeared; that no rationalChristians believe it, but hold a larger and a wider faith. I thinkthat this is true of a few intelligent Christians, as far as thedropping of Calvinism goes, though it seems to me that they find itsomewhat difficult to define their faith; but as to Calvinism havingdied out in England, I do not think that there is any reason to supposethat it has done so; I believe that a large majority of EnglishChristians would believe the above-quoted hymn to be absolutelyjustified in its statements both by Scripture and reason, and that aconsiderable minority would hardly consider it definite enough. 

But then came a larger and a wider thought. We talk and think socarelessly of the divine revelation; we, who have had a religiousbringing up, who have been nurtured upon Israelite chronicles andprophecies, are inclined, or at least predisposed, to think that theknowledge of God is written larger and more directly in these records, the words of anxious and troubled persons, than in the world which wesee about us. Yet surely in field and wood, in sea and sky, we have afar nearer and more instant revelation of God. In these ancientrecords we have the thoughts of men, intent upon their own schemes andstruggles, and looking for the message of God, with a fixed belief thatthe history of one family of the human race was his special andparticular prepossession. Yet all the while his immediate Will wasround them, written in a thousand forms, in bird and beast, in flowerand tree. He permits and tolerates life. He deals out joy and sorrow, life and death. Science has at least revealed a far more vast andinscrutable force at work in the world, than the men of ancient daysever dreamed of. 

Do we do well to confine our religious life to these ancientconceptions? They have no doubt a certain shadow of truth in them; butwhile I know for certain that the huge Will of God is indeed at workaround me, in every field and wood, in every stream and pool, do I_really_ know, do I honestly believe that any such process as the hymnindicates, is going on in some distant region of heaven? The hymnpractically presupposes that our little planet is the only one in whichthe work of God is going forward. Science hints to me that probablyevery star that hangs in the sky has its own ring of planets, and thatin every one of these some strange drama of life and death isproceeding. It is a dizzy thought! But if it be true, is it notbetter to face it? The mind shudders, appalled at the immensity of theprospect. But do not such thoughts as these give us a truer picture ofourselves, and of our own humble place in the vast complexity ofthings, than the excessive dwelling upon the wistful dreams of ancientlaw-givers and prophets? Or is it better to delude ourselves?Deliberately to limit our view to the history of a single race, to afew centuries of records? Perhaps that may be a more practical, a moreeffective view; but when once the larger thought has flashed into themind, it is useless to try and drown it. 

Everything around me seems to cry aloud the warning, not to aim at aconceit of knowledge about these deep secrets, but to wait, to leavethe windows of the soul open for any glimpse of truth from without. 

To beguile the time I took up a volume near me, the work of a muchdecried poet, Walt Whitman. Apart from the exquisite power ofexpression that he possesses, he always seems to me to enter, more thanmost poets, into the largeness of the world, to keep his heart fixed onthe vast wonder and joy of life. I read that poem full of tenderpathos and suggestiveness, _A Word out of the Sea_, where the child, with the wind in his hair, listens to the lament of the bird that haslost his mate, and tries to guide her wandering wings back to thedeserted nest. While the bird sings, with ever fainter hope, itslittle heart aching with the pain of loss, the child hears the sea, with its "liquid rims and wet sands" breathing out the low anddelicious word _death_. 

The poet seems to think of death as the loving answer to the yearningof all hearts, the sleep that closes the weary eyes. But I cannot riseto this thought, tender and gentle as it is. 

If indeed there be another life beyond death, I can well believe thatdeath is in truth an easier and simpler thing than one fears; only acloud on the hill, a little darkness upon Nature. But God has put itinto my heart to dread it; and he hides from me the knowledge ofwhether indeed there be another side to it. And while I do not evenknow that, I can but love life, and be fain of the good days. All thereligion in the world depends upon the belief that, set free from thebonds of the flesh, the spirit will rest and recollect. But is thatmore than a hope? Is it more than the passionate instinct of the heartthat cannot bear the thought that it may cease to be?

I seem to have travelled far away from the hymn that sounded so sweetlyin my ears; but I return to the thought; is not, I will ask, the poet'sreverie--the child with his wet hair floating in the sea-breeze, thewailing of the deserted bird, the waves that murmur that death isbeautiful--is not this all more truly and deeply religious than thehymn which speaks of things, that not only I cannot affirm to be true, but which, if true, would plunge me into a deeper and darkerhopelessness even than that in which my ignorance condemns me to live?Ought we not, in fact, to try and make our religion a much wider, quieter thing? Are we not exchanging the melodies of the free birdsthat sing in the forest glade, for the melancholy chirping of the cagedlinnet? It seems to me often as though we had captured our religionfrom a multitude of fair hovering presences, that would speak to us ofthe things of God, caged it in a tiny prison, and closed our ears tothe larger and wider voices?

I walked to-day in sheltered wooded valleys; and at one point, in avery lonely and secluded lane, leant long upon a gate that led into alittle forest clearing, to watch the busy and intent life of the wood. There were the trees extending their fresh leaves to the rain; thebirds slipped from tree to tree; a mouse frisked about the grassy road;a hundred flowers raised their bright heads. None of these littlelives have, I suppose, any conception of the extent of life that liesabout them; each of them knows the secrets and instincts of its owntiny brain, and guesses perhaps at the thoughts of the little livesakin to it. Yet every tiniest, shortest, most insignificant life hasits place in the mind of God. It seemed to me then such an amazing, such an arrogant thing to define, to describe, to limit the awfulmystery of the Creator and his purpose. Even to think of him, as he isspoken of in the Old Testament, with fierce and vindictive schemes, with flagrant partialities, seemed to me nothing but a dreadfulprofanation. And yet these old writings do, in a degree, from oldassociation, colour my thoughts about him. 

And then all these anxious visions left me; and I felt for awhile likea tiny spray of sea-weed floating on an infinite sea, with thebrightness of the morning overhead. I felt that I was indeed set whereI found myself to be, and that if now my little heart and brain are toosmall to hold the truth, yet I thanked God for making even theconception of the mystery, the width, the depth, possible to me; and Iprayed to him that he would give me as much of the truth as I couldbear. And I do not doubt that he gave me that; for I felt for aninstant that whatever befell me, I was indeed a part of Himself; not athing outside and separate; not even his son and his child: but Himself. 

XL

After Death

I had so strange a dream or vision the other night, that I cannotrefrain from setting it down; because the strangeness and the wonder ofit seem to make it impossible for me to have conceived of it myself; itwas suggested by nothing, originated by nothing that I can trace; itmerely came to me out of the void. 

After confused and troubled dreams of terror and bewilderment, enactedin blind passages and stifling glooms, with crowds of unknown figurespassing rapidly to and fro, I seemed to grow suddenly light-hearted andjoyful. I next appeared to myself to be sitting or reclining on thegrassy top of a cliff, in bright sunlight. The ground fellprecipitously in front of me, and I saw to left and right the sharpcrags and horns of the rock-face below me; behind me was a wide spaceof grassy down, with a fresh wind racing over it. The sky wascloudless. Far below I could see yellow sands, on which a blue seabroke in crisp waves. To the left a river flowed through a littlehamlet, clustered round a church; I looked down on the roofs of thesmall houses, and saw people passing to and fro, like ants. The riverspread itself out in shallow shining channels over the sand, to jointhe sea. Further to the left rose shadowy headland after headland, andto the right lay a broad well-watered plain, full of trees andvillages, bounded by a range of blue hills. On the sea moved ships, the wind filling their sails, and the sun shining on them with apeculiar brightness. The only sound in my ears was that of the whisperof the wind in the grass and stone crags. 

But I soon became aware with a shock of pleasant surprise that myperception of the whole scene was of a different quality to anyperception I had before experienced. I have spoken of seeing andhearing: but I became aware that I was doing neither; the perceptions, so to speak, both of seeing and hearing were not distinct, but thesame. I was aware, for instance, at the same moment, of the _whole_scene, both of what was behind me and what was in front of me. I havedescribed what I saw successively, because there is no other way ofdescribing it; but it was all present at once in my mind, and I had noneed to turn my attention to one point or another, but everything wasthere before me, in a unity at which I cannot even hint in words. Ithen became aware too, that, though I have spoken of myself as seatedor reclined, I had no body, but was merely, as it were, a sentientpoint. In a moment I became aware that to transfer that sentience toanother point was merely an act of will. I was able to test this; inan instant I was close above the village, which a moment before was farbelow me, and I perceived the houses, the very faces of the peopleclose at hand; at another moment I was buried deep in the cliff, andfelt the rock with its fissures all about me; at another moment, following my wish, I was beneath the sea, and saw the untrodden sandsabout me, with the blue sunlit water over my head. I saw the fish dartand poise above me, the ribbons of sea-weed floating up, just swayed bythe currents, shells crawling like great snails on the ooze, crabshurrying about among piles of boulders. But something drew me back tomy first station, I know not why; and there I poised, as a bird mighthave poised, and lost myself in a blissful dream. Then it darted intomy mind that I was what I had been accustomed to call dead. So thiswas what lay on the other side of the dark passage, this lightness, this perfect freedom, this undreamed-of peace! I had not a single careor anxiety. It seemed as if nothing could trouble my repose andhappiness. I could only think with a deep compassion of those who werestill pent in uneasy bodies, under strait and sad conditions, anxious, sad, troubled, and blind, not knowing that the shadow of death whichencompassed them was but the cloud which veiled the gate of perfect andunutterable happiness. 

I felt rising in my mind a sense of all that lay before me, of all themysteries that I would penetrate, all the unvisited places that I wouldsee. But at present I was too full of peace and quiet happiness to doanything but stay in an infinite content where I was. All sense of_ennui_ or restlessness had left me. I was utterly free, utterlyblest. I did, indeed, once send my thought to the home which I loved, and saw a darkened house, and my dear ones moving about with griefwritten legibly on their faces. I saw my mother sitting looking atsome letters which I perceived to be my own, and was aware that shewept. But I could not even bring myself to grieve at that, because Iknew that the same peace and joy that filled me was also surelyawaiting them, and the darkest passage, the sharpest human suffering, seemed so utterly little and trifling in the light of my new knowledge;and I was soon back on my cliff-top again, content to wait, to rest, toluxuriate in a happiness which seemed to have nothing selfish about it, because the satisfaction was so perfectly pure and natural. 

While I thus waited I became aware, with the same sort of suddenperception, of a presence beside me. It had no outward form; but Iknew that it was a spirit full of love and kindness: it seemed to me tobe old; it was not divine, for it brought no awe with it; and yet itwas not quite human; it was a spirit that seemed to me to have beenhuman, but to have risen into a higher sphere of perception. I simplyfelt a sense of deep and pure companionship. And presently I becameaware that some communication was passing between my consciousness andthe consciousness of the newly-arrived spirit. It did not take placein words, but in thought; though only by words can I now represent it. 

"Yes, " said the other, "you do well to rest and to be happy: is it nota wonderful experience? and yet you have been through it many timesalready, and will pass through it many times again. "

I suppose that I did not wholly understand this, for I said: "I do notgrasp that thought, though I am certain it is true: have I then diedbefore?"

"Yes, " said the other, "many times. It is a long progress; you willremember soon, when you have had time to reflect, and when the sweetnovelty of the change has become more customary. You have but returnedto us again for a little; one needs that, you know, at first; one needssome refreshment and repose after each one of our lives, to be renewed, to be strengthened for what comes after. "

All at once I understood. I knew that my last life had been one ofmany lives lived at all sorts of times and dates, and under variousconditions; that at the end of each I had returned to this joyfulfreedom. 

It was the first cloud that passed over my thought. "Must I returnagain to life?" I said. 

"Oh yes, " said the other; "you see that; you will soon returnagain--but never mind that now; you are here to drink your fill of thebeautiful things which you will only remember by glimpses and visionswhen you are back in the little life again. "

And then I had a sudden intuition. I seemed to be suddenly in a smalland ugly street of a dark town. I saw slatternly women run in and outof the houses; I saw smoke-stained grimy children playing in thegutter. Above the poor, ill-kept houses a factory poured its blacksmoke into the air, and hummed behind its shuttered windows. I knew ina sad flash of thought that I was to be born there, to be brought up asa wailing child, under sad and sordid conditions, to struggle into alife of hard and hopeless labour, in the midst of vice, and poverty, and drunkenness, and hard usage. It filled me for a moment with a sortof nauseous dread, remembering the free and liberal conditions of mylast life, the wealth and comfort I had enjoyed. 

"No, " said the other; for in a moment I was back again, "that is anunworthy thought--it is but for a moment; and you will return to thispeace again. "

But the sad thought came down upon me like a cloud. "Is there noescape?" I said; and at that, in a moment, the other spirit seemed tochide me, not angrily, but patiently and compassionately. "Onesuffers, " he said, "but one gains experience; one rises, " adding moregently: "We do not know why it must be, of course--but it is the Will;and however much one may doubt and suffer in the dark world there, onedoes not doubt of the wisdom or the love of it here. " And I knew in amoment that I did not doubt, but that I would go willingly wherever Ishould be sent. 

And then my thought became concerned with the spirit that spoke withme, and I said, "And what is your place and work? for I think you arelike me and yet unlike. " And he said: "Yes, it is true; I have toreturn thither no more; that is finished for me, and I grudge no singlestep of the dark road: I cannot explain to you what my work or placeis; but I am old, and have seen many things; each of us has to returnand return, not indeed till we are made perfect, but till we havefinished that part of our course; but the blessedness of this peacegrows and grows, while it becomes easier to bear what happens in thatother place, for we grow strong and simple and sincere, and then theworld can hurt us but little. We learn that we must not judge men; butwe know that when we see them cruel and vicious and selfish, they arethen but children learning their first lessons; and on each of ourvisits to this place we see that the evil matters less and less, andthe hope becomes brighter and brighter; till at last we see. " And Ithen seemed to turn to him in thought, for he said with a grave joy:"Yes, I have seen. " And presently I was left alone to my happiness. 

How long it lasted I cannot tell; but presently I seemed less free, less light of heart; and soon I knew that I was bound; and after aspace I woke into the world again, and took up my burden of cares. 

But for all that I have a sense of hopefulness left which I think willnot quite desert me. From what dim cell of the brain my vision rose, Iknow not, but though it came to me in so precise and clear a form, yetI cannot help feeling that something deep and true has been revealed tome, some glimpse of pure heaven and bright air, that lies outside ourlittle fretted lives. 

XLI

The Eternal Will

I have spoken above, I know well, of things in which I have no skill tospeak; I know no philosophy or metaphysics; to look into aphilosophical book is to me like looking into a room piled up withbricks, the pure materials of thought; they have no meaning for me, until the beautiful mind of some literary architect has built them intoa house of life; but just as a shallow pool can reflect the dark andinfinite spaces of night, pierced with stars, so in my own shallow mindthese perennial difficulties, which lie behind all that we do and say, can be for a moment mirrored. 

The only value that such thoughts can have in life is that they shouldteach us to live in a frank and sincere mood, waiting patiently for theLord, as the old Psalmist said. My own philosophy is a very simpleone, and, if I could only be truer to it, it would bring me thestrength which I lack. It is this; that being what we are, such frail, mysterious, inexplicable beings, we should wait humbly and hopefullyupon God, not attempting, nor even wishing, to make up our minds uponthese deep secrets, only determined that we will be true to the innerlight, and that we will not accept any solution which depends for itssuccess upon neglecting or overlooking any of the phenomena with whichwe are confronted. We find ourselves placed in the world, in definiterelations with certain people, endowed with certain qualities, withfaults and fears, with hopes and joys, with likes and dislikes. Evilhaunts us like a shadow, and though it menaces our happiness, we fallagain and again under its dominion; in the depths of our spirit a voicespeaks, which assures us again and again that truth and purity and loveare the best and dearest things that we can desire; and that voice, however imperfectly, I try to obey, because it seems the strongest andclearest of all the voices that call to me. I try to regard allexperience, whether sweet or bitter, fair or foul, as sent me by thegreat and awful power that put me where I am. The strongest and bestthings in the world seem to me to be peace and tranquillity, and thesame hidden power seems to be leading me thither; and to lead me allthe faster whenever I try not to fret, not to grieve, not to despair. "_Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you, _" says theDivine Word; and the more that I follow intuition rather than reason, the nearer I seem to come to the truth. I have lately wasted muchfruitless thought over an anxious decision, weighing motives, forecasting possibilities. I knew at the time how useless it all was, and that my course would be made clear at the right moment; and I willtell the story of how it was made clear, as testimony to the perfectguidance of the divine hand. I was taking a journey, and the wearyprocess was going on in my mind; every possible argument for andagainst the step was being reviewed and tested; I could not read, Icould not even look abroad upon the world. The train drew up at a dullsuburban station, where our tickets were collected. The signal wasgiven, and we started. It was at this moment that the conviction came, and I saw how I must act, with a certainty which I could not gainsay orresist. My reason had anticipated the opposite decision, but I had nolonger any doubt or hesitation. The only question was how and when toannounce the result; but when I returned home the same evening therewas the letter waiting for me which gave the very opportunity Idesired; and I have since learnt without surprise that the letter wasbeing penned at the very moment when the conviction came to me. 

I have told this experience in detail, because it seems to me to be avery perfect example of the suddenness with which conviction comes. But neither do I grudge the anxious reveries which for many days hadpreceded that conviction, because through them I learnt something ofthe inner weakness of my nature. But the true secret of it all is thatwe ought to live as far as we can in the day, the hour, the minute; towaste no time in anxious forecasting and miserable regrets, but just dowhat lies before us as faithfully as possible. Gradually, too, onelearns that the restricting of what is called religion to certain timesof prayer and definite solemnities is the most pitiful of all mistakes;life lived with the intuition that I have indicated is all religion. The most trivial incident has to be interpreted; every word and deedand thought becomes full of a deep significance. One has no longer anyanxious sense of duty; one desires no longer either to impress orinfluence; one aims only at guarding the quality of all one does orsays--or rather the very word "aims" is a wrong one; there is no longerany aim or effort, except the effort to feel which way the gentleguiding hand would have us to go; the only sorrow that is possible iswhen we rather perversely follow our own will and pleasure. 

The reason why I desire this book to say its few words to my brothersand sisters of this life, without any intrusion of personality, is thatI am so sure of the truth of what I say, that I would not have any onedistracted from the principles I have tried to put into words, by beingable to compare it with my own weak practice. I am so far from havingattained; I have, I know, so many weary leagues to traverse yet, that Iwould not have my faithless and perverse wanderings known. But thesecret waits for all who can throw aside convention and insincerity, who can make the sacrifice with a humble heart, and throw themselvesutterly and fearlessly into the hands of God. Societies, organisations, ceremonies, forms, authority, dogma--they are alloutside; silently and secretly, in the solitude of one's heart, mustthe lonely path be found; but the slender track once beneath our feet, all the complicated relations of the world become clear and simple. Wehave no need to change our path in life, to seek for any human guide, to desire new conditions, because we have the one Guide close to us, closer than friend or brother or lover, and we know that we are setwhere he would have us to be. Such a belief destroys in a flash allour embarrassment in dealing with others, all our anxieties in dealingwith ourselves. In dealing with ourselves we shall only desire to befaithful, fearless and sincere; in dealing with others we shall try tobe patient, tender, appreciative, and hopeful. If we have to blame, weshall blame without bitterness, without the outraged sense of personalvanity that brings anger with it. If we can praise, we shall praisewith generous prodigality; we shall not think of ourselves as a centreof influence, as radiating example and precept; but we shall know ourown failures and difficulties, and shall realise as strongly thatothers are led likewise, and that each is the Father's peculiar care, as we realise it about ourselves. There will be no thrusting ofourselves to the front, nor an uneasy lingering upon the outskirts ofthe crowd, because we shall know that our place and our course aredefined. We may crave for happiness, but we shall not resent sorrow. The dreariest and saddest day becomes the inevitable, the true settingfor our soul; we must drink the draught, and not fear to taste itsbitterest savour; it is the Father's cup. That a Christian, in such amood, can concern himself with what is called the historical basis ofthe Gospels, is a thought which can only be met by a smile; for therestands the record of perhaps the only life ever lived upon earth thatconformed itself, at every moment, in the darkest experiences that lifecould bring, entirely and utterly to the Divine Will. One who walks inthe light that I have spoken of is as inevitably a Christian as he is ahuman being, and is as true to the spirit of Christ as he isindifferent to the human accretions that have gathered round the augustmessage. 

The possession of such a secret involves no retirement from the world, no breaking of ties, no ecclesiastical exercises, no endeavour topenetrate obscure ideas. It is as simple as the sunlight and the air. It involves no protest, no phrase, no renunciation. Its protest willbe an unconcerned example, its phrase will be a perfect sincerity ofspeech, its renunciation will be what it does, not what it abstainsfrom doing. It will go or stay as the inner voice bids it. It willnot attempt the impossible nor the novel. Very clearly, from hour tohour, the path will be made plain, the weakness fortified, the sinpurged away. It will judge no other life, it will seek no goal; itwill sometimes strive and cry, it will sometimes rest; it will move asgently and simply in unison with the one supreme will, as the tidemoves beneath the moon, piled in the central deep with all its noises, flooding the mud-stained waterway, where the ships ride together, orcreeping softly upon the pale sands of some sequestered bay. 

XLII

Until the Evening

I stop sometimes on a landing in an old house, where I often stay, tolook at a dusky, faded water-colour that hangs upon the wall. I do notthink its technical merit is great, but it somehow has the poeticalquality. It represents, or seems to represent, a piece of high openground, down-land or heath, with a few low bushes growing there, sprawling and wind-brushed; a road crosses the fore-ground, and dipsover to the plain beyond, a forest tract full of dark woodland, dappledby open spaces. There is a long faint distant line of hills on thehorizon. The time appears to be just after sunset, when the sky isstill full of a pale liquid light, before objects have lost theircolour, but are just beginning to be tinged with dusk. In the roadstands the figure of a man, with his back turned, his hand shading hiseyes as he gazes out across the plain. He appears to be a wayfarer, and to be weary but not dispirited. There is a look of serene andsober content about him, how communicated I know not. He would seem tohave far to go, but yet to be certainly drawing nearer to his home, which indeed he seems to discern afar off. The picture bears thesimple legend, _Until the evening_. 

This design seems always to be charged for me with a beautiful andgrave meaning. Just so would I draw near to the end of my pilgrimage, wearied but tranquil, assured of rest and welcome. The freshness andblithe eagerness of the morning are over, the solid hours of sturdyprogress are gone, the heat of the day is past, and only the gentledescent among the shadows remains, with cool airs blowing from darklingthickets, laden with woodland scents, and the rich fragrance of rushydingles. Ere the night falls the wayfarer will push the familiar gateopen, and see the lamplit windows of home, with the dark chimneys andgables outlined against the green sky. Those that love him areawaiting him, listening for the footfall to draw near. 

Is it not possible to attain this? And yet how often does it seem tobe the fate of a human soul to stumble, like one chased and hunted, with dazed and terrified air, and hurried piteous phrase, down thedarkening track. Yet one should rather approach God, bearing incareful hands the priceless and precious gift of life, ready to restoreit if it be his will. God grant us so to live, in courage and trust, that, when he calls us, we may pass willingly and with a quietconfidence to the gate that opens into tracts unknown!

CONCLUSION

_And now I will try if I can in a few words to sum up what the purposeof this little volume has been, these pages torn from my book of life, though I hope that some of my readers may, before now, have discernedit for themselves. _The Thread of Gold_ has two chief qualities. Itis bright, and it is strong; it gleams with a still and precious lightin the darkness, glowing with the reflected radiance of the little lampthat we carry to guide our feet, and adding to the ray some rich tingefrom its own goodly heart; and it is strong too; it cannot easily bebroken; it leads a man faithfully through the dim passages of the cavein which he wanders, with the dark earth piled above his head. _

_The two qualities that we should keep with us in our journey through aworld where it seems that so much must be dark, are a certain richfiery essence, a glowing ardour of spirit, a mind of lofty temper, athirst for all that is noble and beautiful. That first; and to thatwe must add a certain soberness and sedateness of mood, a smilingtranquillity, a true directness of aim, that should lead us not to formour ideas and opinions too swiftly and too firmly; for then we sufferfrom an anxious vexation when experience contradicts hope, when thingsturn out different from what we had desired and supposed. We shoulddeal with life in a generous and high-hearted mood, giving men creditfor lofty aims and noble imaginings, and not be cast down if we do notsee these purposes blazing and glowing on the surface of things; weshould believe that such great motives are there even if we cannot seethem; and then we should sustain our lively expectations with a deepand faithful confidence, assured that we are being tenderly and wiselyled, and that the things which the Father shows us by the way, if theybewilder, and disappoint, and even terrify us, have yet some great andwonderful meaning, if we can but interpret them rightly. Nay, that thevery delaying of these secrets to draw near to our souls, holds withinit a strong and temperate virtue for our spirits. _

_Neither of these great qualities, ardour and tranquillity, can standalone; if we aim merely at enthusiasm, the fire grows cold, the worldgrows dreary, and we lapse into a cynical mood of bitterness, as themortal flame turns low. _

_Nor must we aim at mere tranquillity; for so we may fall into a mereplacid acquiescence, a selfish inaction; our peace must be heartened byeagerness, our zest calmed by serenity. If we follow the fire alone, we become restless and dissatisfied; if we seek only for peace, webecome like the patient beasts of the field. _

_I would wish, though I grow old and grey-haired, a hundred times a dayto ask why things are as they are, and to desire that they wereotherwise; and again a hundred times a day I would thank God that theyare as they are, and praise him for showing me his will rather than myown. For the secret lies in this; that we must not follow our ownimpulses, and thus grow pettish and self-willed: neither must we floatfeebly upon the will of God, like a branch that spins in an eddy;rather we must try to put our utmost energy in line with the will ofGod, hasten with all our might where he calls us, and turn our back asresolutely as we can when he bids us go no further; as an eager dogwill intently await his master's choice, as to which of two paths hemay desire to take; but the way once indicated, he springs forward, elate and glad, rejoicing with all his might. _

_He leads me. He leads me; but He has also given me this wild andrestless heart, these untamed desires: not that I may follow them andobey them, but that I may patiently discern His will, and do it to theuttermost. _

_Father, be patient with me, for I yield myself to Thee; Thou hastgiven me a desirous heart, and I have a thousand times gone astrayafter vain shadows, and found no abiding joy. I have been weary manytimes, and sad often; and I have been light of heart and very glad; butmy sadness and my weariness, my lightness and my joy have only blessedme, whenever I have shared them with Thee. I have shut myself up in aperverse loneliness, I have closed the door of my heart, miserable thatI am, even upon Thee. And Thou hast waited smiling, till I knew that Ihad no joy apart from Thee. Only uphold me, only enfold me in Thyarms, and I shall be safe; for I know that nothing can divide us, except my own wilful heart; we forget and are forgotten, but Thou alonerememberest; and if I forget Thee, at least I know that Thou forgettestnot me. _