The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Pocket R.L.S., by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Title: The Pocket R.L.S.
Being Favourite Passages from the Works of Stevenson
Author: Robert Louis Stevenson
Release Date: December 29, 2008 [EBook #2537]
Last Updated: September 14, 2016
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POCKET R.L.S. ***
Produced by Sean Hackett, and David Widger
THE POCKET R. L. S.
Being favourite passages from the works of Stevenson.
By Robert Louis Stevenson
SELECTED PASSAGES
When you have read, you carry away with you a memory of the man himself;
it is as though you had touched a loyal hand, looked into brave eyes, and
made a noble friend; there is another bond on you thenceforward, binding
you to life and to the love of virtue.
It is to some more specific memory that youth looks forward in its vigils.
Old kings are sometimes disinterred in all the emphasis of life, the hands
untainted by decay, the beard that had so often wagged in camp or senate
still spread upon the royal bosom; and in busts and pictures, some
similitude of the great and beautiful of former days is handed down. In
this way, public curiosity may be gratified, but hardly any private
aspiration after fame. It is not likely that posterity will fall in love
with us, but not impossible that it may respect or sympathise; and so a
man would rather leave behind him the portrait of his spirit than a
portrait of his face, FIGURA ANIMI MAGIS QUAM CORPORIS.
The pleasure that we take in beautiful nature is essentially capricious.
It comes sometimes when we least look for it; and sometimes, when we
expect it most certainly, it leaves us to gape joylessly for days
together, in the very homeland of the beautiful. We may have passed a
place a thousand times and one; and on the thousand and second it will be
transfigured, and stand forth in a certain splendour of reality from the
dull circle of surroundings; so that we see it ‘with a child’s first
pleasure,’ as Wordsworth saw the daffodils by the lake-side.
But every one sees the world in his own way. To some the glad moment may
have arrived on other provocations; and their recollection may be most
vivid of the stately gait of women carrying burthens on their heads; of
tropical effect, with caves and naked rock and sunlight; of the relief of
cypresses; of the troubled, busy-looking groups of sea-pines, that seem
always as if they were being wielded and swept together by a whirlwind; of
the air coming, laden with virginal perfumes, over the myrtles and the
scented underwoods; of the empurpled hills standing up, solemn and sharp,
out of the green-gold air of the east at evening. There go many elements,
without doubt, to the making of one such moment of intense perception; and
it is on the happy agreement of these many elements, on the harmonious
vibration of many nerves, that the whole delight of the moment must
depend.
You should have heard him speak of what he loved; of the tent pitched
beside the talking water; of the stars overhead at night; of the blest
return of morning, the peep of day over the moors, the awaking birds among
the birches; how he abhorred the long winter shut in cities; and with what
delight, at the return of the spring, he once more pitched his camp in the
living out-of-doors.
It was one of the best things I got from my education as an engineer: of
which, however, as a way of life, I wish to speak with sympathy. It takes
a man into the open air; it keeps him hanging about harbour-sides, which
is the richest form of idling; it carries him to wild islands; it gives
him a taste of the genial dangers of the sea; it supplies him with
dexterities to exercise; it makes demands upon his ingenuity; it will go
far to cure him of any taste (if ever he had one) for the miserable life
of cities. And when it has done so, it carries him back and shuts him in
an office! From the roaring skerry and the wet thwart of the tossing boat,
he passes to the stool and desk; and with a memory full of ships, and
seas, and perilous headlands, and the shining Pharos, he must apply his
long-sighted eyes to the pretty niceties of drawing, or measure his
inaccurate mind with several pages of consecutive figures. He is a wise
youth, to be sure, who can balance one part of genuine life against two
parts of drudgery between four walls, and for the sake of the one,
manfully accept the other.
No one knows the stars who has not slept, as the French happily put it, A
LA BELLE ETOILE. He may know all their names and distances and magnitudes,
and yet be ignorant of what alone concerns mankind,—their serene and
gladsome influence on the mind. The greater part of poetry is about the
stars; and very justly, for they are themselves the most classical of
poets.
He surprised himself by a sudden impulse to write poetry—he did so
sometimes, loose, galloping octosyllabics in the vein of Scott—and
when he had taken his place on a boulder, near some fairy falls, and
shaded by a whip of a tree that was already radiant with new leaves, it
still more surprised him that he should find nothing to write. His heart
perhaps beat in time to some vast indwelling rhythm of the universe.
No man can find out the world, says Solomon, from beginning to end,
because the world is in his heart; and so it is impossible for any of us
to understand, from beginning to end, that agreement of harmonious
circumstances that creates in us the highest pleasure of admiration,
precisely because some of these circumstances are hidden from us for ever
in the constitution of our own bodies. After we have reckoned up all that
we can see or hear or feel, there still remains to be taken into account
some sensibility more delicate than usual in the nerves affected, or some
exquisite refinement in the architecture of the brain, which is indeed to
the sense of the beautiful as the eye or the ear to the sense of hearing
or sight. We admire splendid views and great pictures; and yet what is
truly admirable is rather the mind within us, that gathers together these
scattered details for its delight, and snakes out of certain colours,
certain distributions of graduated light and darkness, that intelligible
whole which alone we call a picture or a view. Hazlitt, relating in one of
his essays how he went on foot from one great man’s house to another’s in
search of works of art, begins suddenly to triumph over these noble and
wealthy owners, because he was more capable of enjoying their costly
possessions than they were; because they had paid the money and he had
received the pleasure. And the occasion is a fair one for
self-complacency. While the one man was working to be able to buy the
picture, the other was working to be able to enjoy the picture. An
inherited aptitude will have been diligently improved in either case; only
the one man has made for himself a fortune, and the other has made for
himself a living spirit. It is a fair occasion for self-complacency, I
repeat, when the event shows a man to have chosen the better part, and
laid out his life more wisely, in the long-run, than those who have credit
for most wisdom. And yet even this is not a good unmixed; and like all
other possessions, although in a less degree, the possession of a brain
that has been thus improved and cultivated, and made into the prime organ
of a man’s enjoyment, brings with it certain inevitable cares and
disappointments. The happiness of such an one comes to depend greatly upon
those fine shades of sensation that heighten and harmonise the coarser
elements of beauty. And thus a degree of nervous prostration, that to
other men would be hardly disagreeable, is enough to overthrow for him the
whole fabric of his life, to take, except at rare moments, the edge off
his pleasures, and to meet him wherever he goes with failure, and the
sense of want, and disenchantment of the world and life.
THE VAGABOND (TO AN AIR OF SCHUBERT)
Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river—
There’s the life for a man like me,
There’s the life for ever.
Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o’er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask, the heaven above
And the road below me.
Every one who has been upon a walking or a boating tour, living in the
open air, with the body in constant exercise and the mind in fallow, knows
true ease and quiet. The irritating action of the brain is set at rest; we
think in a plain, unfeverish temper; little things seem big enough, and
great things no longer portentous; and the world is smilingly accepted as
it is.
For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s
sake. The great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our
life more nearly; to come down off this feather-bed of civilisation, and
find the globe granite under foot and strewn with cutting flints. Alas, as
we get up in life, and are more preoccupied with our affairs, even a
holiday is a thing that must be worked for. To hold a pack upon a
pack-saddle against a gale out of the freezing north is no high industry,
but it is one that serves to occupy and compose the mind. And when the
present is so exacting who can annoy himself about the future?
A SONG OF THE ROAD
The gauger walked with willing foot,
And aye the gauger played the flute:
And what should Master Gauger play
But OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY?
Whene’er I buckle on my pack
And foot it gaily in the track,
O pleasant gauger, long since dead,
I hear you fluting on ahead.
You go with me the selfsame way—
The selfsame air for me you play;
For I do think and so do you
It is the tune to travel to.
For who would gravely set his face
To go to this or t’other place?
There’s nothing under Heav’n so blue
That’s fairly worth the travelling to.
On every hand the roads begin,
And people walk with zeal therein;
But wheresoe’er the highways tend,
Be sure there’s nothing at the end.
Then follow you, wherever hie
The travelling mountains of the sky.
Or let the streams in civil mode
Direct your choice upon a road;
For one and all, or high or low,
Will lead you where you wish to go;
And one and all go night and day
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY!
A walking tour should be gone upon alone, because freedom is of the
essence; because you should be able to stop and go on, and follow this way
or that, as the freak takes you; and because you must have your own pace,
and neither trot alongside a champion walker, nor mince in time with a
girl. And then you must be open to all impressions and let your thoughts
take colour from what you see. You should be as a pipe for any wind to
play upon.
It must not be imagined that a walking tour, as some would have us fancy,
is merely a better or worse way of seeing the country. There are many ways
of seeing landscape quite as good; and none more vivid, in spite of
canting dilettantes, than from a railway train. But landscape on a walking
tour is quite accessory. He who is indeed of the brotherhood does not
voyage in quest of the picturesque, but of certain jolly humours—of
the hope and spirit with which the march begins at morning, and the peace
and spiritual repletion of the evening’s rest. He cannot tell whether he
puts his knapsack on, or takes it off, with more delight. The excitement
of the departure puts him in key for that of the arrival. Whatever he does
is not only a reward in itself, but will be further rewarded in the
sequel; and so pleasure leads on to pleasure in an endless chain.
Nor does the scenery any more affect the thoughts than the thoughts affect
the scenery. We see places through our humours as through
differently-coloured glasses. We are ourselves a term in the equation, a
note of the chord, and make discord or harmony almost at will. There is no
fear for the result, if we can but surrender ourselves sufficiently to the
country that surrounds and follows us, so that we are ever thinking
suitable thoughts or telling ourselves some suitable sort of story as we
go. We become thus, in some sense, a centre of beauty; we are provocative
of beauty, much as a gentle and sincere character is provocative of
sincerity and gentleness in others.
There is nobody under thirty so dead but his heart will stir a little at
sight of a gypsies’ camp. ‘We are not cotton-spinners all;’ or, at least,
not all through. There is some life in humanity yet; and youth will now
and again find a brave word to say in dispraise of riches, and throw up a
situation to go strolling with a knapsack.
I began my little pilgrimage in the most enviable of all humours: that in
which a person, with a sufficiency of money and a knapsack, turns his back
on a town and walks forward into a country of which he knows only by the
vague report of others. Such an one has not surrendered his will and
contracted for the next hundred miles, like a man on a railway. He may
change his mind at every finger-post, and, where ways meet, follow vague
preferences freely and go the low road or the high, choose the shadow or
the sunshine, suffer himself to be tempted by the lane that turns
immediately into the woods, or the broad road that lies open before him
into the distance, and shows him the far-off spires of some city, or a
range of mountain-tops, or a run of sea, perhaps, along a low horizon. In
short, he may gratify his every whim and fancy, without a pang of reposing
conscience, or the least jostle of his self-respect. It is true, however,
that most men do not possess the faculty of free action, the priceless
gift of being able to live for the moment only; and as they begin to go
forward on their journey, they will find that they have made for
themselves new fetters. Slight projects they may have entertained for a
moment, half in jest, become iron laws to them, they know not why. They
will be led by the nose by these vague reports of which I spoke above; and
the mere fact that their informant mentioned one village and not another
will compel their footsteps with inexplicable power. And yet a little
while, yet a few days of this fictitious liberty, and they will begin to
hear imperious voices calling on them to return; and some passion, some
duty, some worthy or unworthy expectation, will set its hand upon their
shoulder and lead them back into the old paths. Once and again we have all
made the experiment. We know the end of it right well. And yet if we make
it for the hundredth time to-morrow, it will have the same charm as ever;
our hearts will beat and our eyes will be bright, as we leave the town
behind us, and we shall feel once again (as we have felt so often before)
that we are cutting ourselves loose for ever from our whole past life,
with all its sins and follies and circumscriptions, and go forward as a
new creature into a new world.
Herein, I think, lies the chief attraction of railway travel. The speed is
so easy, and the train disturbs so little the scenes through which it
takes us, that our heart becomes full of the placidity and stillness of
the country; and while the body is borne forward in the flying chain of
carriages, the thoughts alight, as the humour moves them, at unfrequented
stations; they make haste up the poplar alley that leads towards town;
they are left behind with the signalman as, shading his eyes with his
hand, he watches the long train sweep away into the golden distance.
Now, there is no time when business habits are more mitigated than on a
walking tour. And so during these halts, as I say, you will feel almost
free. ... If the evening be fine and warm, there is nothing better in life
than to lounge before the inn door in the sunset, or lean over the parapet
of the bridge, to watch the weeds and the quick fishes. It is then, if
ever, that you taste joviality to the full significance of that audacious
word. Your muscles are so agreeably slack, you feel so clean and so strong
and so idle, that whether you move or sit still, whatever you do is done
with pride and a kingly sort of pleasure. You fall in talk with any one,
wise or foolish, drunk or sober. And it seems as if a hot walk purged you,
more than of anything else, of all narrowness and pride, and left
curiosity to play its part freely, as in a child or a man of science. You
lay aside all your own hobbies to watch provincial humours develop
themselves before you, now as a laughable farce, and now grave and
beautiful like an old tale.
It is almost as if the millennium were arrived, when we shall throw our
clocks and watches over the housetops, and remember time and seasons no
more. Not to keep hours for a lifetime is, I was going to say, to live for
ever. You have no idea, unless you have tried it, how endlessly long is a
summer’s day that you measure out only by hunger, and bring to an end only
when you are drowsy.
I know a village where there are hardly any clocks, where no one knows
more of the days of the week than by a sort of instinct for the fete on
Sundays, and where only one person can tell you the day of the month, and
she is generally wrong; and if people were aware how slow Time journeyed
in that village, and what armfuls of spare hours he gives, over and above
the bargain, to its wise inhabitants, I believe there would be a stampede
out of London, Liverpool, Paris, and a variety of large towns, where the
clocks lose their heads, and shake the hours out each one faster than the
other, as though they were all in a wager. And all these foolish pilgrims
would each bring his own misery along with him, in a watch-pocket!
The bed was made, the room was fit,
By punctual eve the stars were lit;
The air was still, the water ran;
No need there was for maid or man,
When we put us, my ass and I,
At God’s green caravanserai.
To wash in one of God’s rivers in the open air seems to me a sort of
cheerful solemnity or semi-pagan act of worship. To dabble among dishes in
a bedroom may perhaps make clean the body; but the imagination takes no
share in such a cleansing.
I own I like definite form in what my eyes are to rest upon; and if
landscapes were sold, like the sheets of characters of my boyhood, one
penny plain and twopence coloured, I should go the length of twopence
every day of my life.
There should be some myth (but if there is, I know it not) founded on the
shivering of the reeds. There are not many things in nature more striking
to man’s eye. It is such an eloquent pantomime of terror; and to see such
a number of terrified creatures taking sanctuary in every nook along the
shore is enough to infect a silly human with alarm. Perhaps they are only
a-cold, and no wonder, standing waist deep in the stream. Or, perhaps,
they have never got accustomed to the speed and fury of the river’s flux,
or the miracle of its continuous body. Pan once played upon their
forefathers; and so, by the hands of his river, he still plays upon these
later generations down all the valley of the Oise; and plays the same air,
both sweet and shrill, to tell us of the beauty and the terror of the
world.
The reeds might nod their heads in warning, and with tremulous gestures
tell how the river was as cruel as it was strong and cold, and how death
lurked in the eddy underneath the willows. But the reeds had to stand
where they were; and those who stand still are always timid advisers.
The wholeday was showery, with occasional drenching plumps. We were soaked
to the skin, then partially dried in the sun, then soaked once more. But
there were some calm intervals, and one notably, when we were skirting the
forest of Mormal, a sinister name to the ear, but a place most gratifying
to sight and smell. It looked solemn along the riverside, drooping its
boughs into the water, and piling them up aloft into a wall of leaves.
What is a forest but a city of nature’s own, full of hardy and innocuous
living things, where there is nothing dead and nothing made with the
hands, but the citizens themselves are the houses and public monuments?
There is nothing so much alive and yet so quiet as a woodland; and a pair
of people, swinging past in canoes, feel very small and bustling by
comparison.
I wish our way had always lain among woods. Trees are the most civil
society. An old oak that has been growing where he stands since before the
Reformation, taller than many spires, more stately than the greater part
of mountains, and yet a living thing, liable to sicknesses and death, like
you and me: is not that in itself a speaking lesson in history? But acres
on acres full of such patriarchs contiguously rooted, their green tops
billowing in the wind, their stalwart younglings pushing up about their
knees; a whole forest, healthy and beautiful, giving colour to the light,
giving perfume to the air; what is this but the most imposing piece in
nature’s repertory?
But indeed it is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim
upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of the air,
that emanation from the old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews
a weary spirit.
With all this in mind, I have often been tempted to put forth the paradox
that any place is good enough to live a life in, while it is only in a
few, and those highly favoured, that we can pass a few hours agreeably.
For, if we only stay long enough, we become at home in the neighbourhood.
Reminiscences spring up, like flowers, about uninteresting corners. We
forget to some degree the superior loveliness of other places, and fall
into a tolerant and sympathetic spirit which is its own reward and
justification.
For when we are put down in some unsightly neighbourhood, and especially
if we have come to be more or less dependent on what we see, we must set
ourselves to hunt out beautiful things with all the ardour and patience of
a botanist after a rare plant. Day by day we perfect ourselves in the art
of seeing nature more favourably. We learn to live with her, as people
learn to live with fretful or violent spouses: we dwell lovingly on what
is good, and shut our eyes against all that is bleak or inharmonious. We
learn, also, to come to each place in the right spirit. The traveller, as
Brantome quaintly tells us, ‘fait des discours en soi pour se soutenir en
chemin.’
There is no end, indeed, to making books or experiments, or to travel, or
to gathering wealth. Problem gives rise to problem. We may study for ever,
and we are never as learned as we would. We have never made a statue
worthy of our dreams. And when we have discovered a continent, or crossed
a chain of mountains, it is only to find another ocean or another plain
upon the farther side. In the infinite universe there is room for our
swiftest diligence and to spare. It is not like the works of Carlyle,
which can be read to an end. Even in a corner of it, in a private park, or
in the neighbourhood of a single hamlet, the weather and the seasons keep
so deftly changing that although we walk there for a lifetime there will
be always something to startle and delight us.
It is in virtue of his own desires and curiosities that any man continues
to exist with even patience, that he is charmed by the look of things and
people, and that he wakens every morning with a renewed appetite for work
and pleasure. Desire and curiosity are the two eyes through which he sees
the world in the most enchanted colours: it is they that make women
beautiful or fossils interesting: and the man may squander his estate and
come to beggary, but if he keeps these two amulets he is still rich in the
possibilities of pleasure.
To look on the happy side of nature is common, in their hours, to all
created things. Some are vocal under a good influence, are pleasing
whenever they are pleased, and hand on their happiness to others, as a
child who, looking upon lovely things, looks lovely. Some leap to the
strains with unapt foot, and make a halting figure in the universal dance.
And some, like sour spectators at the play, receive the music into their
hearts with an unmoved countenance, and walk like strangers through the
general rejoicing. But let him feign never so carefully, there is not a
man but has his pulses shaken when Pan trolls out a stave of ecstasy and
sets the world a-singing.
Science writes of the world as if with the cold finger of a starfish; it
is all true; but what is it when compared to the reality of which it
discourses? where hearts beat high in April, and death strikes, and hills
totter in the earthquake, and there is a glamour over all the objects of
sight, and a thrill in all noises for the ear, and Romance herself has
made her dwelling among men? So we come back to the old myth, and hear the
goat-footed piper making the music which is itself the charm and terror of
things; and when a glen invites our visiting footsteps, fancy that Pan
leads us thither with a gracious tremolo; or when our hearts quail at the
thunder of the cataract, tell ourselves that he has stamped his hoof in
the nigh thicket.
The Greeks figured Pan, the god of Nature, now terribly stamping his foot,
so that armies were dispersed; now by the woodside on a summer noon
trolling on his pipe until he charmed the hearts of upland ploughmen. And
the Greeks, in so figuring, uttered the last word of human experience. To
certain smoke-dried spirits matter and motion and elastic ethers, and the
hypothesis of this or that other spectacled professor, tell a speaking
story; but for youth and all ductile and congenial minds, Pan is not dead,
but of all the classic hierarchy alone survives in triumph; goat-footed,
with a gleeful and an angry look, the type of the shaggy world: and in
every wood, if you go with a spirit properly prepared, you shall hear the
note of his pipe.
To leave home in early life is to be stunned and quickened with novelties;
but when years have come, it only casts a more endearing light upon the
past. As in those composite photographs of Mr. Galton’s, the image of each
new sitter brings out but the more clearly the central features of the
race; when once youth has flown, each new impression only deepens the
sense of nationality and the desire of native places. So may some cadet of
Royal Ecossais or the Albany Regiment, as he mounted guard about French
citadels, so may some officer marching his company of the Scots-Dutch
among the polders, have felt the soft rains of the Hebrides upon his brow,
or started in the ranks at the remembered aroma of peat-smoke. And the
rivers of home are dear in particular to all men. This is as old as
Naaman, who was jealous for Abana and Pharpar; it is confined to no race
nor country, for I know one of Scottish blood but a child of Suffolk,
whose fancy still lingers about the hued lowland waters of that shire.
THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS
We travelled in the print of olden wars;
Yet all the land was green;
And love we found, and peace,
Where fire and war had been.
They pass and smile, the children of the sword—
No more the sword they wield;
And O, how deep the corn
Along the battlefield!
To reckon dangers too curiously, to hearken too intently for the threat
that runs through all the winning music of the world, to hold back the
hand from the rose because of the thorn, and from life because of death:
this it is to be afraid of Pan. Highly respectable citizens who flee
life’s pleasures and responsibilities and keep, with upright hat, upon the
midway of custom, avoiding the right hand and the left, the ecstasies and
the agonies, how surprised they would be if they could hear their attitude
mythologically expressed, and knew themselves as tooth-chattering ones,
who flee from Nature because they fear the hand of Nature’s God!
The spice of life is battle; the friendliest relations are still a kind of
contest; and if we would not forego all that is valuable in our lot, we
must continually face some other person, eye to eye, and wrestle a fall
whether in love or enmity. It is still by force of body, or power of
character or intellect, that we attain to worthy pleasures.
Extreme BUSYNESS, whether at school or college, kirk or market, is a
symptom of deficient vitality; and a faculty for idleness implies a
catholic appetite and a strong sense of personal identity. There is a sort
of dead-alive, hackneyed people about, who are scarcely conscious of
living except in the exercise of some conventional occupation. Bring these
fellows into the country, or set them aboard ship, and you will see how
they pine for their desk or their study. They have no curiosity; they
cannot give themselves over to random provocations; they do not take
pleasure in the exercise of their faculties for its own sake; and unless
Necessity lays about them with a stick, they will even stand still. It is
no good speaking to such folk: they CANNOT be idle, their nature is not
generous enough; and they pass those hours in a sort of coma, which are
not dedicated to furious moiling in the gold-mill.
If a person cannot be happy without remaining idle, idle he should remain.
It is a revolutionary precept; but thanks to hunger and the workhouse, one
not easily to be abused; and within practical limits, it is one of the
most incontestable truths in the whole Body of Morality. Look at one of
your industrious fellows for a moment, I beseech you. He sows hurry and
reaps indigestion; he puts a vast deal of activity out to interest, and
receives a large measure of nervous derangement in return. Either he
absents himself entirely from all fellowship, and lives a recluse in a
garret, with carpet slippers and a leaden inkpot; or he comes among people
swiftly and bitterly, in a contraction of his whole nervous system, to
discharge some temper before he returns to work. I do not care how much or
how well he works, this fellow is an evil feature in other people’s lives.
They would be happier if he were dead.
‘We are all employed in commerce during the day; but in the evening,
VOYEZ-VOUS, NOUS SOMMES SERIEUX.’ These were the words. They were all
employed over the frivolous mercantile concerns of Belgium during the day;
but in the evening they found some hours for the serious concerns of life.
I may have a wrong idea of wisdom, but I think that was a very wise
remark. People connected with literature and philosophy are busy all their
days in getting rid of second-hand notions and false standards. It is
their profession, in the sweat of their brows, by dogged thinking, to
recover their old fresh view of life, and distinguish what they really and
originally like from what they have only learned to tolerate perforce. And
these Royal Nautical Sportsmen had the distinction still quite legible in
their hearts. They had still those clean perceptions of what is nice and
nasty, what is interesting and what is dull, which envious old gentlemen
refer to as illusions. The nightmare illusion of middle age, the bear’s
hug of custom gradually squeezing the life out of a man’s soul, had not
yet begun for these happy-starr’d young Belgians. They still knew that the
interest they took in their business was a trifling affair compared to
their spontaneous, long-suffering affection for nautical sports. To know
what you prefer, instead of humbly saying Amen to what the world tells you
you ought to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive. Such a man may be
generous; he may be honest in something more than the commercial sense; he
may love his friends with an elective, personal sympathy, and not accept
them as an adjunct of the station to which he has been called. He may be a
man, in short, acting on his own instincts, keeping in his own shape that
God made him in; and not a mere crank in the social engine-house, welded
on principles that he does not understand, and for purposes that he does
not care for.
I suppose none of us recognise the great part that is played in life by
eating and drinking. The appetite is so imperious that we can stomach the
least interesting viands, and pass off a dinner hour thankfully enough on
bread and water; just as there are men who must read something, if it were
only ‘Bradshaw’s Guide.’ But there is a romance about the matter, after
all. Probably the table has more devotees than love; and I am sure that
food is much more generally entertaining than scenery. Do you give in, as
Walt Whitman would say, that you are any the less immortal for that? The
true materialism is to be ashamed of what we are. To detect the flavour of
an olive is no less a piece of human perfection than to find beauty in the
colours of the sunset.
For the country people to see Edinburgh on her hill-tops, is one thing; it
is another for the citizen, from the thick of his affairs, to overlook the
country. It should be a genial and ameliorating influence in life; it
should prompt good thoughts and remind him of Nature’s unconcern: that he
can watch from day to day, as he trots officeward, how the spring green
brightens in the wood, or the field grows black under a moving
ploughshare. I have been tempted, in this connection, to deplore the
slender faculties of the human race, with its penny-whistle of a voice,
its dull ears, and its narrow range of sight. If you could see as people
are to see in heaven, if you had eyes such as you can fancy for a superior
race, if you could take clear note of the objects of vision, not only a
few yards, but a few miles from where you stand:—think how agreeably
your sight would be entertained, how pleasantly your thoughts would be
diversified, as you walk the Edinburgh streets! For you might pause, in
some business perplexity, in the midst of the city traffic, and perhaps
catch the eye of a shepherd as he sat down to breathe upon a heathery
shoulder of the Pentlands; or perhaps some urchin, clambering in a country
elm, would put aside the leaves and show you his flushed and rustic
visage; or as a fisher racing seaward, with the tiller under his elbow,
and the sail sounding in the wind, would fling you a salutation from
between Anst’er and the May.
So you sit, like Jupiter on Olympus, and look down from afar upon men’s
life. The city is as silent as a city of the dead: from all its humming
thoroughfares, not a voice, not a footfall, reaches you upon the hill. The
sea-surf, the cries of plough-men, the streams and the mill-wheels, the
birds and the wind, keep up an animated concert through the plain; from
farm to farm, dogs and crowing cocks contend together in defiance; and yet
from this Olympian station, except for the whispering rumour of a train,
the world has fallen into a dead silence, and the business of town and
country grown voiceless in your ears. A crying hill-bird, the bleat of a
sheep, a wind singing in the dry grass, seem not so much to interrupt, as
to accompany, the stillness; but to the spiritual ear, the whole scene
makes a music at once human and rural, and discourses pleasant reflections
on the destiny of man. The spiry habitable city, ships, the divided
fields, and browsing herds, and the straight highways, tell visibly of
man’s active and comfortable ways; and you may be never so laggard and
never so unimpressionable, but there is something in the view that spirits
up your blood and puts you in the vein for cheerful labour.
The night, though we were so little past midsummer, was as dark as
January. Intervals of a groping twilight alternated with spells of utter
blackness; and it was impossible to trace the reason of these changes in
the flying horror of the sky. The wind blew the breath out of a man’s
nostrils; all heaven seemed to thunder overhead like one huge sail; and
when there fell a momentary lull on Aros, we could hear the gusts dismally
sweeping in the distance. Over all the lowlands of the Ross the wind must
have blown as fierce as on the open sea; and God only knows the uproar
that was raging around the head of Ben Kyaw. Sheets of mingled spray and
rain were driven in our faces. All round the isle of Aros, the surf, with
an incessant, hammering thunder, beat upon the reefs and beaches. Now
louder in one place, now lower in another, like the combinations of
orchestral music, the constant mass of sound was hardly varied for a
moment. And loud above all this hurly-burly I could hear the changeful
voices of the Roost and the intermittent roaring of the Merry Men. At that
hour there flashed into my mind the reason of the name that they were
called. For the noise of them seemed almost mirthful, as it out-topped the
other noises of the night; or if not mirthful, yet instinct with a
portentous joviality. Nay, and it seemed even human. As when savage men
have drunk away their reason, and, discarding speech bawl together in
their madness by the hour; so, to my ears, these deadly breakers shouted
by Aros in the night.
I was walking one night in the verandah of a small house in which I lived,
outside the hamlet of Saranac. It was winter; the night was very dark; the
air extraordinary clear and cold, and sweet with the purity of forests.
From a good way below, the river was to be heard contending with ice and
boulders; a few lights, scattered unevenly among the darkness, but so far
away as not to lessen the sense of isolation. For the making of a story
here were fine conditions.
On all this part of the coast, and especially near Aros, these great
granite rocks that I have spoken of go down together in troops into the
sea, like cattle on a summer’s day. There they stand, for all the world
like their neighbours ashore; only the salt water sobbing between them
instead of the quiet earth, and clots of sea-pink blooming on their sides
instead of heather; and the great sea-conger to wreathe about the base of
them instead of the poisonous viper of the land. On calm days you can go
wandering between them in a boat for hours, echoes following you about the
labyrinth; but when the sea is up, Heaven help the man that hears that
caldron boiling.
It had snowed overnight. The fields were all sheeted up; they were tucked
in among the snow, and their shape was modelled through the pliant
counterpane, like children tucked in by a fond mother. The wind had made
ripples and folds upon the surface, like what the sea, in quiet weather,
leaves upon the sand. There was a frosty stifle in the air. An effusion of
coppery light on the summit of Brown Carrick showed where the sun was
trying to look through; but along the horizon clouds of cold fog had
settled down, so that there was no distinction of sky and sea. Over the
white shoulders of the headlands, or in the opening of bays, there was
nothing but a great vacancy and blackness; and the road as it drew near
the edge of the cliff, seemed to skirt the shores of creation and void
space.
When we are looking at a landscape we think ourselves pleased; but it is
only when it comes back upon us by the fire o’ nights that we can
disentangle the main charm from the thick of particulars. It is just so
with what is lately past. It is too much loaded with detail to be
distinct; and the canvas is too large for the eye to encompass. But this
is no more the case when our recollections have been strained long enough
through the hour-glass of time; when they have been the burthen of so much
thought, the charm and comfort of so many a vigil. All that is worthless
has been sieved and sifted out of them. Nothing remains but the brightest
lights and the darkest shadows.
Burns, too proud and honest not to work, continued through all reverses to
sing of poverty with a light, defiant note. Beranger waited till he was
himself beyond the reach of want before writing the OLD VAGABOND or
JACQUES. Samuel Johnson, although he was very sorry to be poor, ‘was a
great arguer for the advantages of poverty’ in his ill days. Thus it is
that brave men carry their crosses, and smile with the fox burrowing in
their vitals.
Now, what I like so much in France is the clear, unflinching recognition
by everybody of his own luck. They all know on which side their bread is
buttered, and take a pleasure in showing it to others, which is surely the
better part of religion. And they scorn to make a poor mouth over their
poverty, which I take to be the better part of manliness.
If people knew what an inspiriting thing it is to hear a man boasting, so
long as he boasts of what he really has, I believe they would do it more
freely and with a better grace.
A girl at school in France began to describe one of our regiments on
parade to her French school-mates, and as she went on she told me the
recollection grew so vivid, she became so proud to be the countrywoman of
such soldiers, and so sorry to be in another country, that her voice
failed her and she burst into tears. I have never forgotten that girl, and
I think she very nearly deserves a statue. To call her a young lady, with
all its many associations, would be to offer her an insult. She may rest
assured of one thing, although she never should marry a heroic general,
never see any great or immediate result of her life, she will not have
lived in vain for her native land.
As I went, I was thinking of Smethurst with admiration; a look into that
man’s mind was like a retrospect over the smiling champaign of his past
life, and very different from the Sinai-gorges up which one looks for a
terrified moment into the dark souls of many good, many wise, and many
prudent men. I cannot be very grateful to such men for their excellence,
and wisdom, and prudence. I find myself facing as stoutly as I can a hard,
combative existence, full of doubt, difficulties, defeats,
disappointments, and dangers, quite a hard enough life without their dark
countenances at my elbow, so that what I want is a happy-minded Smethurst
placed here and there at ugly corners of my life’s wayside, preaching his
gospel of quiet and contentment.
There is a certain critic, not indeed of execution but of matter, whom I
dare be known to set before the best: a certain low-browed, hairy
gentleman, at first a percher in the fork of trees, next (as they relate)
a dweller in caves, and whom I think I see squatting in cave-mouths, of a
pleasant afternoon, to munch his berries—his wife, that accomplished
lady, squatting by his side: his name I never heard, but he is often
described as Probably Arboreal, which may serve for recognition. Each has
his own tree of ancestors, but at the top of all sits Probably Arboreal;
in all our veins there run some minims of his old, wild, tree-top blood;
our civilised nerves still tingle with his rude terrors and pleasures; and
to that which would have moved our common ancestors, all must obediently
thrill.
This is an age when genealogy has taken a new lease of life, and become
for the first time a human science; so that we no longer study it in quest
of the Guaith Voeths, but to trace out some of the secrets of descent and
destiny; and as we study, we think less of Sir Bernard Burke and more of
Mr. Galton. Not only do our character and talents lie upon the anvil and
receive their temper during generations; but the very plot of our life’s
story unfolds itself on a scale of centuries, and the biography of the man
is only an episode in the epic of the family.
But our ancestral adventures are beyond even the arithmetic of fancy; and
it is the chief recommendation of long pedigrees, that we can follow
backward the careers of our HOMUNCULUS and be reminded of our antenatal
lives. Our conscious years are but a moment in the history of the elements
that build us.
What is mine, then, and what am I? If not a curve in this poor body of
mine (which you love, and for the sake of which you dotingly dream that
you love me), not a gesture that I can frame, not a tone of my voice, not
a look from my eyes, no, not even now when I speak to him I love, but has
belonged to others? Others, ages dead, have wooed other men with my eyes;
other men have heard the pleadings of the same voice that now sounds in
your ears. The hands of the dead are in my bosom; they move me, they pluck
me, they guide me; I am a puppet at their command; and I but re-inform
features and attributes that have long been laid aside from evil in the
quiet of the grave. Is it me you love, friend? or the race that made me?
The girl who does not know and cannot answer for the least portion of
herself? or the stream of which she is a transitory eddy, the tree of
which she is the passing fruit? The race exists; it is old, it is ever
young, it carries its eternal destiny in its bosom; upon it, like waves
upon the sea, individual succeeds individual, mocked with a semblance of
self-control, but they are nothing. We speak of the soul, but the soul is
in the race.
The future is nothing; but the past is myself, my own history, the seed of
my present thoughts, the mould of my present disposition. It is not in
vain that I return to the nothings of my childhood; for every one of them
has left some stamp upon me or put some fetter on my boasted free-will. In
the past is my present fate; and in the past also is my real life.
For as the race of man, after centuries of civilisation, still keeps some
traits of their barbarian fathers, so man the individual is not altogether
quit of youth, when he is already old and honoured, and Lord Chancellor of
England. We advance in years somewhat in the manner of an invading army in
a barren land; the age that we have reached, as the phrase goes, we but
hold with an outpost, and still keep open our communications with the
extreme rear and first beginnings of the march. There is our true base;
that is not only the beginning, but the perennial spring of our faculties;
and grandfather William can retire upon occasion into the green enchanted
forest of his boyhood.
The regret we have for our childhood is not wholly justifiable: so much a
man may lay down without fear of public ribaldry; for although we shake
our heads over the change, we are not unconscious of the manifold
advantages of our new state. What we lose in generous impulse we more than
gain in the habit of generously watching others; and the capacity to enjoy
Shakespeare may balance a lost appetite for playing at soldiers.
If a man lives to any considerable age, it cannot be denied that he
laments his imprudences, but I notice he often laments his youth a deal
more bitterly and with a more genuine intonation.
There is something irreverent in the speculation, but perhaps the want of
power has more to do with wise resolutions of age than we are always
willing to admit.
People may lay down their lives with cheerfulness in the sure expectation
of a blessed immortality; but that is a different affair from giving up
youth, with all its admirable pleasures, in the hope of a better quality
of gruel in a more than problematical, nay, more than improbable, old age.
Childhood must pass away, and then youth, as surely as, age approaches.
The true wisdom is to be always seasonable, and to change with a good
grace in changing circumstances. To love playthings well as a child, to
lead an adventurous and honourable youth, and to settle when the time
arrives, into a green and smiling age, is to be a good artist in life and
deserve well of yourself and your neighbour.
Age asks with timidity to be spared intolerable pain; youth, taking
fortune by the beard, demands joy like a right.
It is not possible to keep the mind in a state of accurate balance and
blank; and even if you could do so, instead of coming ultimately to the
right conclusion, you would be very apt to remain in a state of balance
and blank to perpetuity. Even in quite intermediate stages, a dash of
enthusiasm is not a thing to be ashamed of in the retrospect: if St. Paul
had not been a very zealous Pharisee, he would have been a colder
Christian. For my part, I look back to the time when I was a Socialist
with something like regret. I have convinced myself (for the moment) that
we had better leave these great changes to what we call blind forces;
their blindness being so much more perspicacious than the little, peering,
partial eyesight of men. I seem to see that my own scheme would not
answer; and all the other schemes I ever heard propounded would depress
some elements of goodness just as much as they encouraged others. Now I
know that in thus turning Conservative with years, I am going through the
normal cycle of change and travelling in the common orbit of men’s
opinions.
Those who go the devil in youth, with anything like a fair chance, were
probably little worth saving from the first; they must have been feeble
fellows—creatures made of putty and pack-thread, without steel or
fire, anger or true joyfulness, in their composition; we may sympathise
with their parents, but there is not much cause to go into mourning for
themselves; for to be quite honest, the weak brother is the worst of
mankind.
The follies of youth have a basis in sound reason, just as much as the
embarrassing questions put by babes and sucklings. Their most anti-social
acts indicate the defects of our society. When the torrent sweeps the man
against a boulder, you must expect him to scream, and you need not be
surprised if the scream is sometimes a theory. ... But it is better to be
a fool than to be dead. It is better to emit a scream in the shape of a
theory than to be entirely insensible to the jars and incongruities of
life and take everything as it comes in a forlorn stupidity. Some people
swallow the universe like a pill; they travel on through the world, like
smiling images pushed from behind. For God’s sake give me the young man
who has brains enough to make a fool of himself! As for the others, the
irony of facts shall take it out of their hands, and make fools of them in
downright earnest, ere the farce be over. There shall be such a mopping
and a mowing at the last day, and such blushing and confusion of
countenance for all those who have been wise in their own esteem, and have
not learnt the rough lessons that youth hands on to age. If we are indeed
here to perfect and complete our own natures, and grow larger, stronger,
and more sympathetic against some nobler career in the future, we had all
best bestir ourselves to the utmost while we have the time. To equip a
dull, respectable person with wings would be but to make a parody of an
angel.
Had he but talked—talked freely—let himself gush out in words
(the way youth loves to do, and should) there might have been no tale to
write upon the Weirs of Hermiston.
A young man feels himself one too many in the world; his is a painful
situation; he has no calling; no obvious utility; no ties but to his
parents, and these he is sure to disregard. I do not think that a proper
allowance has been made for this true cause of suffering in youth; but by
the mere fact of a prolonged existence, we outgrow either the fact or else
the feeling. Either we become so callously accustomed to our own useless
figure in the world, or else—and this, thank God, in the majority of
cases—we so collect about us the interest or the love of our
fellows, so multiply our effective part in the affairs of life, that we
need to entertain no longer the question of our right to be.
It had been long his practice to prophesy for his second son a career of
ruin and disgrace. There is an advantage in this artless parental habit.
Doubtless the father is interested in his son; but doubtless also the
prophet grows to be interested in his prophecies. If the one goes wrong
the others come true.
When the old man waggles his head and says, ‘Ah, so I thought when I was
your age,’ he has proved the youth’s case. Doubtless, whether from growth
of experience or decline of animal heat, he thinks so no longer; but he
thought so while he was young; and all men have thought so while they were
young, since there was dew in the morning or hawthorn in May; and here is
another young man adding his vote to those of previous generations and
riveting another link to the chain of testimony. It is as natural and as
right for a young man to be imprudent and exaggerated, to live in swoops
and circles, and beat about his cage like any other wild thing newly
captured, as it is for old men to turn grey, or mothers to love their
offspring, or heroes to die for something worthier than their lives.
Youth is the time to go flashing from one end of the world to the other
both in mind and body; to try the manners of different nations; to hear
the chimes at midnight; to see sunrise in town and country; to be
converted at a revival; to circumnavigate the metaphysics, write halting
verses, run a mile to see a fire, and wait all day long in the theatre to
applaud HERNANI. There is some meaning in the old theory about wild oats;
and a man who has not had his green-sickness and got done with it for good
is as little to be depended on as an unvaccinated infant.
When we grow elderly, how the room brightens and begins to look as it
ought to look, on the entrance of youth, grace, health and comeliness! You
do not want them for yourself, perhaps not even for your son, but you look
on smiling; and when you recall their images—again it is with a
smile. I defy you to see or think of them and not smile with an infinite
and intimate but quite impersonal pleasure.
To speak truth there must be moral equality or else no respect; and hence
between parent and child intercourse is apt to degenerate into a verbal
fencing-bout, and misapprehensions to become engrained. And there is
another side to this, for the parent begins with an imperfect notion of
the child’s character, formed in early years or during the equinoctial
gales of youth; to this he adheres, noting only the facts which suit with
his pre-conception; and wherever a person fancies himself unjustly judged,
he at once and finally gives up the effort to speak truth.
So, as we grow old, a sort of equable jog-trot of feeling is substituted
for the violent ups and downs of passion and disgust; the same influence
that restrains our hopes quiets our apprehensions; if the pleasures are
less intense, the troubles are milder and more tolerable; and in a word,
this period for which we are asked to hoard up everything as for a time of
famine, is, in its own right, the richest, easiest, and happiest of life.
Nay, by managing its own work and following its own happy inspiration,
youth is doing the best it can to endow the leisure of age. A full, busy
youth is your only prelude to a self-contained and independent age; and
the muff inevitably develops into a bore.
To know what you like is the beginning of wisdom and of old age. Youth is
wholly experimental. The essence and charm of that unquiet and delightful
epoch is ignorance of self as well as ignorance of life.
The schoolboy has a keen sense of humour. Heroes he learns to understand
and to admire in books; but he is not forward to recognise the heroic
under the traits of any contemporary.
Discredited as they are in practice, the cowardly proverbs hold their own
in theory; and it is another instance of the same spirit, that the
opinions of old men about life have been accepted as final. All sorts of
allowances are made for the illusions of youth; and none, or almost none,
for the disenchantments of age. It is held to be a good taunt, and somehow
or other to clinch the question logically, when an old gentleman waggles
his head and says: ‘Ah, so I thought when I was your age.’ It is not
thought an answer at all, if the young man retorts: My venerable sir, so I
shall most probably think when I am yours.’ And yet the one is as good as
the other: pass for pass, tit for tat, a Roland for an Oliver.
What shall we be when we grow really old? Of yore, a man was thought to
lay on restrictions and acquire new deadweight of mournful experience with
every year, till he looked back on his youth as the very summer of impulse
and freedom.
And it may be worth while to add that these clouds rolled away in their
season, and that all clouds roll away at last, and the troubles of youth
in particular are things but of a moment.
Through what little channels, by what hints and premonitions, the
consciousness of the man’s art dawns first upon the child, it should be
not only interesting but instructive to inquire. A matter of curiosity
to-day, it will become the ground of science to-morrow. From the mind of
childhood there is more history and more philosophy to be fished up than
from all the printed volumes in a library.
I could not finish THE PIRATE when I was a child, I have never finished it
yet; PEVERIL OF THE PEAK dropped half way through from my schoolboy hands,
and though I have since waded to an end in a kind of wager with myself,
the exercise was quite without enjoyment. There is something disquieting
in the considerations. I still think the visit to Ponto’s the best part of
the BOOK OF SNOBS: does that mean that I was right when I was a child, or
does it mean that I have never grown since then, that the child is not the
man’s father, but the man? and that I came into the world with all my
faculties complete, and have only learned sinsyne to be more tolerant of
boredom?
The child thinks much in images, words are very live to him, phrases that
imply a picture eloquent beyond their value.
Somehow my playmate had vanished, or is out of the story, as the sagas
say, but I was sent into the village on an errand; and, taking a book of
fairy tales, went down alone through a fir-wood, reading as I walked. How
often since then has it befallen me to be happy even so; but that was the
first time: the shock of that pleasure I have never since forgot, and if
my mind serves me to the last, I never shall; for it was then I knew I
loved reading.
The remainder of my childish recollections are all of the matter that was
read to me, and not of any manner in the words. If these pleased me, it
was unconsciously; I listened for news of the great vacant world upon
whose edge I stood; I listened for delightful plots that I might re-enact
in play, and romantic scenes and circumstances that I might call up before
me, with closed eyes, when I was tired of Scotland, and home, and that
weary prison of the sick-chamber in which I lay so long in durance.
I rose and lifted a corner of the blind. Over the black belt of the garden
I saw the long line of Queen Street, with here and there a lighted window.
How often before had my nurse lifted me out of bed and pointed them out to
me, while we wondered together if, there also, there were children that
could not sleep, and if these lighted oblongs were signs of those that
waited like us for the morning.
There never was a child but has hunted gold, and been a pirate, and a
military commander, and a bandit of the mountains; but has fought, and
suffered shipwreck and prison, and imbrued its little hands in gore, and
gallantly retrieved the lost battle, and triumphantly protected innocence
and beauty.
None more than children are concerned for beauty, and, above all, for
beauty in the old.
So in youth, like Moses from the mountain, we have sights of that House
Beautiful of art which we shall never enter. They are dreams and
unsubstantial; visions of style that repose upon no base of human meaning;
the last heart-throb of that excited amateur who has to die in all of us
before the artist can be born. But they come in such a rainbow of glory
that all subsequent achievement appears dull and earthly in comparison. We
are all artists; almost all in the age of illusion, cultivating an
imaginary genius, and walking to the strains of some deceiving Ariel;
small wonder, indeed, if we were happy! But art, of whatever nature, is a
kind of mistress; and though these dreams of youth fall by their own
baselessness, others succeed, grave and more substantial; the symptoms
change, the amiable malady endures; and still at an equal distance, the
House Beautiful shines upon its hill-top.
Children, for instance, are able enough to see, but they have no great
faculty for looking; they do not use their eyes for the pleasure of using
them, but for by-ends of their own; and the things I call to mind seeing
most vividly were not beautiful in themselves, but merely interesting or
enviable to me, as I thought they might be turned to practical account in
play.
The true parallel for play is not to be found, of course, in conscious
art, which, though it be derived from play, is itself an abstract,
impersonal thing, and depends largely upon philosophical interests beyond
the scope of childhood. It is when we make castles in the air and
personate the leading character in our own romances, that we return to the
spirit of our first years. Only, there are several reasons why the spirit
is no longer so agreeable to indulge. Nowadays, when we admit this
personal element into our divagations, we are apt to stir up uncomfortable
and sorrowful memories, and remind ourselves sharply of old wounds..Alas!
when we betake ourselves to our intellectual form of play, sitting quietly
by the fire or lying prone in bed, we rouse many hot feelings for which we
can find no outlet. Substitutes are not acceptable to the mature mind,
which desires the thing itself; and even to rehearse a triumphant dialogue
with one’s enemy, although it is perhaps the most satisfactory piece of
play still left within our reach, is not entirely satisfying, and is even
apt to lead to a visit and an interview which may be the reverse of
triumphant after all.
Whatever we are to expect at the hands of children, it should not be any
peddling exactitude about matters of fact. They walk in a vain show, and
among mists and rainbows; they are passionate after dreams and unconcerned
about realities; speech is a difficult art not wholly learned; and there
is nothing in their own tastes or purposes to teach them what we mean by
abstract truthfulness. When a bad writer is inexact, even if he can look
back on half a century of years, we charge him with incompetence and not,
with dishonesty. And why not extend the same allowance to imperfect
speakers? Let a stockbroker be dead stupid about poetry, or a poet inexact
in the details of business, and we excuse them heartily from blame. But
show us a miserable, unbreeched, human entity, whose whole profession it
is to take a tub for a fortified town and a shaving-brush for the deadly
stiletto, and who passes three-fourths of his time in a dream and the rest
in open self-deception, and we expect him to be as nice upon a matter of
fact as a scientific expert bearing evidence. Upon my heart, I think it
less than decent: you do not consider how little the child sees, or how
swift he is to weave what he has seen into bewildering fiction; and that
he cares no more for what you call truth, than you for a gingerbread
dragoon. It would be easy to leave them in their native cloudland, where
they figure so prettily—pretty like flowers and innocent like dogs.
They will come out of their gardens soon enough, and have to go into
offices and the witness-box. Spare them yet a while, O conscientious
parent! Let them doze among their playthings yet a little! for who knows
what a rough, warfaring existence lies before them in the future?
‘You are a friend of Archie Weir’s?’ said one to Frank Innes; and Innes
replied, with his usual flippancy and more than his usual insight: ‘I know
Weir, but I never met Archie.’ No one had met Archie, a malady most
incident to only sons. He flew his private signal, and none heeded it; It
seemed he was abroad in a world from which the very hope of intimacy was
banished; and he looked round about him on the concourse of his
fellow-students, and forward to the trivial days and acquaintances that
were to come, without hope or interest.
‘My poor, dear boy!’ observed Glenalmond. ‘My poor, dear and, if you will
allow me to say so, very foolish boy! You are only discovering where you
are; to one of your temperament, or of mine, a painful discovery. The
world was not made for us; it was made for ten hundred millions of me, all
different from each other and from us; there’s no royal road, we just have
to sclamber and tumble.’
Alas and alas! you may take it how you will, but the services of no single
individual are indispensable. Atlas was just a gentleman with a protracted
nightmare! And yet you see merchants who go and labour themselves into a
great fortune and thence into the bankruptcy court; scribblers who keep
scribbling at little articles until their temper is a cross to all who
come about them, as though Pharaoh should set the Israelites to make a pin
instead of a pyramid; and fine young men who work themselves into a
decline, and are driven off in a hearse with white plumes upon it. Would
you not suppose these persons had been whispered, by the Master of the
Ceremonies the promise of some momentous destiny? and that this Lukewarm
bullet on which they play their farces was the bull’s-eye and centrepoint
of all the universe? And yet it is not so. The ends for which they give
away their priceless youth, for all they know, may be chimerical, or
hurtful; the glory and riches they expect may never come, or may find them
indifferent; and they and the world they inhabit are so inconsiderable
that the mind freezes at the thought.
As we go catching and catching at this or that corner of knowledge, now
getting a foresight of generous possibilities, now chilled with a glimpse
of prudence, we may compare the headlong course of our years to a swift
torrent in which a man is carried away; now he is dashed against a
boulder, now he grapples for a moment to a trailing spray; at the end, he
is hurled out and overwhelmed in a dark and bottomless ocean. We have no
more than glimpses and touches; we are torn away from our theories; we are
spun round and round and shown this or the other view of life, until only
fools or knaves can hold to their opinions.... All our attributes are
modified or changed; and it will be a poor account of us if our views do
not modify and change in a proportion. To hold the same views at forty as
we held at twenty is to have been stupefied for a score of years, and take
rank, not as a prophet, but as an unteachable brat, well birched and none
the wiser. It is as if a ship captain should sail to India from the Port
of London; and having brought a chart of the Thames on deck at his first
setting out, should obstinately use no other for the whole voyage.
It is good to have been young in youth and, as years go on, to grow older.
Many are already old before they are through their teens; but to travel
deliberately through one’s ages is to get the heart out of a liberal
education. Times change, opinions vary to their opposite, and still this
world appears a brave gymnasium, full of sea-bathing, and horse exercise,
and bracing, manly virtues; and what can be more encouraging than to find
the friend who was welcome at one age, still welcome at another? Our
affections and beliefs are wiser than we; the best that is in us is better
than we can understand; for it is grounded beyond experience, and guides
us, blindfold but safe, from one age on to another.
But faces have a trick of growing more and more spiritualised and abstract
in the memory, until nothing remains of them but a look, a haunting
expression; just that secret quality in a face that is apt to slip out
somehow under the cunningest painter’s touch, and leave the portrait dead
for the lack of it.
Pitiful is the case of the blind, who cannot read the face; pitiful that
of the deaf who cannot follow the changes of the voice. And there are
others also to be pitied; for there are some of an inert, uneloquent
nature, who have been denied all the symbols of communication, who have
neither a lively play of facial expression, nor speaking gestures, nor a
responsive voice, nor yet the gift of frank, explanatory speech: people
truly made of clay, people tied for life into a bag which no one can undo.
They are poorer than the gipsy, for their heart can speak no language
under heaven.
For my part, I can see few things more desirable, after the possession of
such radical qualities as honour and humour and pathos, than to have a
lively and not a stolid countenance; to have looks to correspond with
every feeling; to be elegant arid delightful in person, so that we shall
please even in the intervals of active pleasing, and may never discredit
speech with uncouth manners or become unconsciously our own burlesques.
But of all unfortunates there is one creature (for I will not call him
man) conspicuous in misfortune. This is he who has forfeited his
birthright of expression, who has cultivated artful intonations, who has
taught his face tricks, like a pet monkey, and on every side perverted or
cut off his means of communication with his fellow-men. The body is a
house of many windows: there we all sit, showing ourselves and crying on
the passersby to come and love us. But this fellow has filled his windows
with opaque glass, elegantly coloured. His house may be admired for its
design, the crowd may pause before the stained windows, but meanwhile the
poor proprietor must lie languishing within, uncomforted, unchangeably
alone.
The lads go forth pricked with the spirit of adventure and the desire to
rise in Life, and leave their homespun elders grumbling and wondering over
the event. Once, at a village called Lausanne, I met one of these
disappointed parents: a drake who had fathered a wild swan and seen it
take wing and disappear. The wild swan in question was now an apothecary
in Brazil. He had flown by way of Bordeaux, and first landed in America,
bare-headed and bare-footed, and with a single halfpenny in his pocket.
And now he was an apothecary! Such a wonderful thing is an adventurous
life! I thought he might as well have stayed at home; but you never can
tell wherein a man’s life consists, nor in what he sets his pleasure: one
to drink, another to marry, a third to write scurrilous articles and be
repeatedly caned in public, and now this fourth, perhaps, to be an
apothecary in Brazil. As for his old father, he could conceive no reason
for the lad’s behaviour. ‘I had always bread for him,’ he said; ‘he ran
away to annoy me. He loved to annoy me. He had no gratitude.’ But at heart
he was swelling with pride over his travelled offspring, and he produced a
letter out of his pocket, where, as he said, it was rotting, a mere lump
of paper rags, and waved it gloriously in the air. ‘This comes from
America,’ he cried, ‘six thousand leagues away!’ And the wine-shop
audience looked upon it with a certain thrill.
The fame of other lands had reached them; the name of the eternal city
rang in their ears; they were not colonists, but pilgrims; they travelled
towards wine and gold and sunshine, but their hearts were set on something
higher. That divine unrest, that old stinging trouble of humanity that
makes all high achievements and all miserable failures, the same that
spread wings with Icarus, the same that sent Columbus into the desolate
Atlantic, inspired and supported these barbarians on their perilous march.
There is more adventure in the life of the working man who descends as a
common soldier into the battle of life, than in that of the millionaire
who sits apart in an office, like Von Moltke, and only directs the
manoeuvres by telegraph. Give me to hear about the career of him who is in
the thick of the business; to whom one change of market means an empty
belly, and another a copious and savoury meal. This is not the
philosophical, but the human side of economics; it interests like a story;
and the life of all who are thus situated partakes in a small way of the
charm of Robinson Crusoe; for every step is critical, and human life is
presented to you naked and verging to its lowest terms.
An aspiration is a joy for ever, a possession as solid as a landed estate,
a fortune which we can never exhaust and which gives us year by year a
revenue of pleasurable activity. To have many of these is to be
spiritually rich.
To be wholly devoted to some intellectual exercise is to have succeeded in
life; and perhaps only in law and the higher mathematics may this devotion
be maintained, suffice to itself without reaction, and find continual
rewards without excitement.
Study and experiment, to some rare natures, is the unbroken pastime of a
life. These are enviable natures; people shut in the house by sickness
often bitterly envy them; but the commoner man cannot continue to exist
upon such altitudes: his feet itch for physical adventure; his blood boils
for physical dangers, pleasures, and triumphs; his fancy, the looker after
new things, cannot continue to look for them in books and crucibles, but
must seek them on the breathing stage of life.
Life goes before us, infinite in complication; attended by the most
various and surprising meteors; appealing at once to the eye, to the ear,
to the mind—the seat of wonder, to the touch—so thrillingly
delicate, and to the belly—so imperious when starved. It combines
and employs in its manifestation the method and material, not of one art
only, but of all the arts. Music is but an arbitrary trifling with a few
of life’s majestic chords; painting is but a shadow of its pageantry of
light and colour; literature does but drily indicate that wealth of
incident, of moral obligation, of virtue, vice, action, rapture and agony,
with which it teems. To ‘compete with life,’ whose sun we cannot look
upon, whose passions and diseases waste and slay us—to compete with
the flavour of wine, the beauty of the dawn, the scorching of fire, the
bitterness of death and separation here is, indeed, a projected escalade
of heaven; here are, indeed, labours for a Hercules in a dress coat, armed
with a pen and a dictionary to depict the passions, armed with a tube of
superior flake-white to paint the portrait of the insufferable sun. No art
is true in this sense: none can ‘compete with life’: not even history,
built indeed of indisputable facts, but these facts robbed of their
vivacity and sting; so that even when we read of the sack of a city or the
fall of an empire, we are surprised, and justly commend the author’s
talent, if our pulse be quickened. And mark, for a last differentia, that
this quickening of the pulse is, in almost every case, purely agreeable;
that these phantom reproductions of experience, even at their most acute,
convey decided pleasure; while experience itself, in the cockpit of life,
can torture and slay.
Into how many houses would not the note of the monastery bell, dividing
the day into manageable portions, bring peace of mind and healthful
activity of body! We speak of hardships, but the true hardship is to be a
dull fool, and permitted to mismanage life in our own dull and foolish
manner.
But struggle as you please, a man has to work in this world. He must be an
honest man or a thief, Loudon.
Industry is, in itself and when properly chosen, delightful and profitable
to the worker; and when your toil has been a pleasure, you have not earned
money merely, but money, health, delight, and moral profit, all in one.
‘The cost of a thing,’ says he, ‘is the amount OF WHAT I WILL CALL LIFE
which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long-run.’
I have been accustomed to put it to myself, perhaps more clearly, that the
price we have to pay for money is paid in liberty. Between these two ways
of it, at least, the reader will probably not fail to find a third
definition of his own; and it follows, on one or other, that a man may pay
too dearly for his livelihood, by giving, in Thoreau’s terms, his whole
life for it, or, in mine, bartering for it the whole of his available
liberty, and becoming a slave till death. There are two questions to be
considered—the quality of what we buy, and the price we have to pay
for it. Do you want a thousand a year, a two thousand a year, or a ten
thousand a year livelihood? and can you afford the one you want? It is a
matter of taste; it is not in the least degree a question of duty, though
commonly supposed so. But there is no authority for that view anywhere. It
is nowhere in the Bible. It is true that we might do a vast amount of good
if we were wealthy, but it is also highly improbable; not many do; and the
art of growing rich is not only quite distinct from that of doing good,
but the practice of the one does not at all train a man for practising the
other.
We may escape uncongenial toil, only to devote ourselves to that which is
congenial. It is only to transact some higher business that even Apollo
dare play the truant from Admetus. We must all work for the sake of work;
we must all work, as Thoreau says again, in any ‘absorbing pursuit—it
does not much matter what, so it be honest’; but the most profitable work
is that which combines into one continued effort the largest proportion of
the powers and desires of a man’s nature; that into which he will plunge
with ardour, and from which he will desist with reluctance; in which he
will know the weariness of fatigue, but not that of satiety; and which
will be ever fresh, pleasing and stimulating to his taste. Such work holds
a man together, braced at all points; it does not suffer him to doze or
wander; it keeps him actively conscious of himself, yet raised among
superior interests; it gives him the profit of industry with the pleasures
of a pastime. This is what his art should be to the true artist, and that
to a degree unknown in other and less intimate pursuits. For other
professions stand apart from the human business of life; but an art has
the seat at the centre of the artist’s doings and sufferings, deals
directly with his experiences, teaches him the lessons of his own fortunes
and mishaps, and becomes a part of his biography.
Farewell fair day and fading light!
The clay-born here, with westward sight,
Marks the huge sun now downward soar.
Farewell. We twain shall meet no more.
Farewell. I watch with bursting sigh
My late contemned occasion die.
I linger useless in my tent:
Farewell, fair day, so foully spent!
Farewell, fair day. If any God
At all consider this poor clod,
He who the fair occasion sent
Prepared and placed the impediment.
Let him diviner vengeance take—
Give me to sleep, give me to wake
Girded and shod, and bid me play
The hero in the coming day!
Perpetual devotion to what a man calls his business, is only to be
sustained by perpetual neglect of many other things. And it is not by any
means certain that a man’s business is the most important thing he has to
do. To an impartial estimate it will seem clear that many of the wisest,
most virtuous, and most beneficent parts that are to be played upon the
Theatre of Life are filled by gratuitous performers, and pass, among the
world at large, as phases of idleness. For in that Theatre, not only the
walking gentlemen, singing chambermaids, and diligent fiddlers in the
orchestra, but those who look on and clap their hands from the benches, do
really play a part and fulfil important offices towards the general
result.
The fact is, fame may be a forethought and an afterthought, but it is too
abstract an idea to move people greatly in moments of swift and momentous
decision. It is from something more immediate, some determination of blood
to the head, some trick of the fancy, that the breach is stormed or the
bold word spoken. I am sure a fellow shooting an ugly weir in a canoe has
exactly as much thought about fame as most commanders going into battle;
and yet the action, fall out how it will, is not one of those the muse
delights to celebrate. Indeed, it is difficult to see why the fellow does
a thing so nameless and yet so formidable to look at, unless on the theory
that he likes it.
It is but a lying cant that would represent the merchant and the banker as
people disinterestedly toiling for mankind, and then most useful when
absorbed in their transactions; for the man is more important than his
services.
It was my custom, as the hours dragged on, to repeat the question, ‘When
will the carts come in?’ and repeat it again and again until at last those
sounds arose in the street that I have heard once more this morning. The
road before our house is a great thoroughfare for early carts. I know not,
and I never have known, what they carry, whence they come, or whither they
go. But I know that, long ere dawn, and for hours together, they stream
continuously past, with the same rolling and jerking of wheels, and the
same clink of horses’ feet. It was not for nothing that they made the
burthen of my wishes all night through. They are really the first
throbbings of life, the harbingers of day; and it pleases you as much to
hear them as it must please a shipwrecked seaman once again to grasp a
hand of flesh and blood after years of miserable solitude. They have the
freshness of the daylight life about them. You can hear the carters
cracking their whips and crying hoarsely to their horses or to one
another; and sometimes even a peal of healthy, harsh horse-laughter comes
up to you through the darkness. There is now an end to mystery and fear.
Like the knocking at the door in MACBETH, or the cry of the watchman in
the TOUR DE NESLE, they show that the horrible caesura is over, and the
nightmares have fled away, because the day is breaking and the ordinary
life of men is beginning to bestir itself among the streets.
She was as dead an old woman as ever I saw; no more than bone and
parchment, curiously put together. Her eyes, with which she interrogated
mine, were vacant of sense. It depends on what you call seeing, whether
you might not call her blind. Perhaps she had known love; perhaps borne
children, suckled them, and given them pet names. But now that was all
gone by, and had left her neither happier nor wiser; and the best she
could do with her mornings was to come up here into the cold church and
juggle for a slice of heaven. It was not without a gulp that I escaped
into the streets and the keen morning air. Morning? why, how tired of it
she would be before night! and if she did not sleep, how then? It is
fortunate that not many of us are brought up publicly to justify our lives
at the bar of threescore years and ten; fortunate that such a number are
knocked opportunely on the head in what they call the flower of their
years, and go away to suffer for their follies in private somewhere else.
Otherwise, between sick children and discontented old folk, we might be
put out of all conceit of life.
When I was going, up got my old stroller, and off with his hat. ‘I am
afraid,’ said he, ‘that monsieur will think me altogether a beggar; but I
have another demand to make upon him.’ I began to hate him on the spot.
‘We play again to-night,’ he went on. ‘Of course I shall refuse to accept
any more money from monsieur and his friends, who have been already so
liberal. But our programme of to-night is something truly creditable; and
I cling to the idea that monsieur will honour us with his presence. And
then, with a shrug and a smile: ‘Monsieur understands—the vanity of
an artist!’ Save the mark! The vanity of an artist! That is the kind of
thing that reconciles me to life: a ragged, tippling, incompetent old
rogue, with the manners of a gentleman and the vanity of an artist, to
keep up his self-respect!
Time went on, and the boy’s health still slowly declined. The Doctor
blamed the weather, which was cold and boisterous. He called in his
CONFRERE from Burron, took a fancy for him, magnified his capacity, and
was pretty soon under treatment himself—it scarcely appeared for
what complaint. He and Jean-Marie had each medicine to take at different
periods of the day. The Doctor used to lie in wait for the exact moment,
watch in hand. ‘There is nothing like regularity,’ he would say, fill out
the doses, and dilate on the virtues of the draught; and if the boy seemed
none the better, the Doctor was not at all the worse.
‘I lead you,’ he would say, ‘by the green pastures. My system, my beliefs,
my medicines, are resumed in one phrase—to avoid excess. Blessed
nature, healthy, temperate nature, abhors and exterminates excess. Human
law in this matter imitates at a great distance her provisions; and we
must strive to supplement the efforts of the law. Yes, boy, we must be a
law to ourselves and for our neighbours—LEX ARMATA—armed,
emphatic, tyrannous law. If you see a crapulous human ruin snuffing, dash
from him his box! The judge, though in a way an admission of disease, is
less offensive to me than either the doctor or the priest. Above all, the
doctor—the doctor and the purulent trash and garbage of his
pharmacopoeia! Pure air—from the neighbourhood of a pinetum for the
sake of the turpentine—unadulterated wine, and the reflections of an
unsophisticated spirit in the presence of the works of nature—these,
my boy, are the best medical appliances and the best religious comforts.
Devote yourself to these. Hark! there are the bells of Bourron (the wind
is in the North, it will be fair). How clear and airy is the sound! The
nerves are harmonised and quieted; the mind attuned to silence; and
observe how easily and regularly beats the heart! Your unenlightened
doctor would see nothing in these sensations; and yet you yourself
perceive they are a part of health. Did you remember your cinchona this
morning? Good. Cinchona also is a work of nature; it is, after all, only
the bark of a tree which we might gather for, ourselves if we lived in the
locality.’
The accepted novelist may take his novel up and put it down, spend days
upon it in vain, and write not any more than he makes haste to blot. Not
so the Beginner. Human nature has certain rights; instinct—the
instinct of self-preservation—forbids that any man (cheered and
supported by the consciousness of no previous victory) should endure the
miseries of unsuccessful literary toil beyond a period to be measured in
weeks. There must be something for hope to feed upon. The beginner must
have a slant of wind, a lucky vein must be running, he must be in one of
those hours when the words come and the phrases balance themselves—EVEN
TO BEGIN. And having begun, what a dread looking forward is that until the
book shall be accomplished! For so long a time the slant is to continue
unchanged, the vein to keep running, for so long a time you must keep at
command the same quality of style: for so long a time your puppets are to
be always vital, always consistent, always vigorous!
What is this fortunate circumstance, my friend? inquired Anastasie, not
heeding his protest, which was of daily recurrence.
‘That we have no children, my beautiful,’ replied the Doctor. ‘I think of
it more and more as the years go on, and with more and more gratitude
towards the Power that dispenses such afflictions. Your health, my
darling, my studious quiet, our little kitchen delicacies, how they would
all have suffered, how they would all have been sacrificed! And for what?
Children are the last word of human imperfection. Health flees before
their face. They cry, my dear; they put vexatious questions; they demand
to be fed, to be washed, to be educated, to have their noses blowed; and
then, when the time comes, they break our hearts, as I break this piece of
sugar. A pair of professed egoists, like you and me, should avoid
offspring, like an infidelity.’
‘Indeed!’ said she; and she laughed. ‘Now, that is like you—to take
credit for the thing you could not help.’
I have been made to learn that the doom and burthen of our life is bound
for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the attempt is made to cast it off,
it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar and more awful pressure.
Forth from the casement, on the plain
Where honour has the world to gain,
Pour forth and bravely do your part,
O knights of the unshielded heart!
‘Forth and for ever forward!—out
From prudent turret and redoubt,
And in the mellay charge amain,
To fall, but yet to rise again!
Captive? Ah, still, to honour bright,
A captive soldier of the right!
Or free and fighting, good with ill?
Unconquering but unconquered still!
O to be up and doing, O
Unfearing and unshamed to go
In all the uproar and the press
About my human business!
My undissuaded heart I hear
Whisper courage in my ear.
With voiceless calls, the ancient earth
Summons me to a daily birth.
Yet it is to this very responsibility that the rich are born. They can
shuffle off the duty on no other; they are their own paymasters on parole;
and must pay themselves fair wages and no more. For I suppose that in the
course of ages, and through reform and civil war and invasion, mankind was
pursuing some other and more general design than to set one or two
Englishmen of the nineteenth century beyond the reach of needs and duties.
Society was scarce put together, and defended with so much eloquence and
blood, for the convenience of two or three millionaires and a few hundred
other persons of wealth and position. It is plain that if mankind thus
acted and suffered during all these generations, they hoped some benefit,
some ease, some wellbeing, for themselves and their descendants; that if
they supported law and order, it was to secure fair-play for all; that if
they denied themselves in the present, they must have had some designs on
the future. Now a great hereditary fortune is a miracle of man’s wisdom
and mankind’s forbearance; it has not only been amassed and handed down,
it has been suffered to be amassed and handed down; and surely in such
consideration as this, its possessor should find only a new spur to
activity and honour, that with all this power of service he should not
prove unserviceable, and that this mass of treasure should return in
benefits upon the race. If he had twenty, or thirty, or a hundred thousand
at his banker’s, or if all Yorkshire or all California were his to manage
or to sell, he would still be morally penniless, and have the world to
begin like Whittington, until he had found some way of serving mankind.
His wage is physically in his own hand; but, in honour, that wage must
still be earned. He is only steward on parole of what is called his
fortune. He must honourably perform his stewardship. He must estimate his
own services and allow himself a salary in proportion, for that will be
one among his functions. And while he will then be free to spend that
salary, great or little, on his own private pleasures, the rest of his
fortune he but holds and disposes under trust for mankind; it is not his,
because he has not earned it; it cannot be his, because his services have
already been paid; but year by year it is his to distribute, whether to
help individuals whose birthright and outfit has been swallowed up in his,
or to further public works and institutions.
‘Tis a fine thing to smart for one’s duty; even in the pangs of it there
is contentment.
We all suffer ourselves to be too much concerned about a little poverty;
but such considerations should not move us in the choice of that which is
to be the business and justification of so great a portion of our lives
and like the missionary, the patriot, or the philosopher, we should all
choose that poor and brave career in which we can do the most and best for
mankind.
The salary in any business under heaven is not the only, nor indeed the
first, question. That you should continue to exist is a matter for your
own consideration; but that your business should be first honest, and
second useful, are points in which honour and morality are concerned.
There is only one wish realisable on the earth; only one thing that can be
perfectly attained: Death. And from a variety of circumstances we have no
one to tell us whether it be worth attaining.
A strange picture we make on our way to our chimaeras, ceaselessly
marching, grudging ourselves the time for rest; indefatigable, adventurous
pioneers. It is true that we shall never reach the goal; it is even more
than probable that there is no such place; and if we lived for centuries
and were endowed with the powers of a god, we should find ourselves not
much nearer what we wanted at the end. O toiling hands of mortals! O
unwearied feet, travelling ye know not whither! Soon, soon, it seems to
you,’ you must come forth on some conspicuous hilltop, and but a little
way further, against the setting sun, descry the spires of El Dorado.
Little do ye know your own blessedness; for to travel hopefully is a
better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour.
A man who must separate himself from his neighbours’ habits in order to be
happy, is in much the same case with one who requires to take opium for
the same purpose. What we want to see is one who can breast into the
world, do a man’s work, and still preserve his first and pure enjoyment of
existence.
There is apt to be something unmanly, something almost dastardly, in a
life that does not move with dash and freedom, and that fears the bracing
contact of the world.
You cannot run away from a weakness; you must some time fight it out or
perish; and if that be so, why not now, and where you stand?
Life as a matter of fact, partakes largely of the nature of tragedy. The
gospel according to Whitman, even if it be not so logical, has this
advantage over the gospel according to Pangloss, that it does not utterly
disregard the existence of temporal evil. Whitman accepts the fact of
disease and wretchedness like an honest man; and instead of trying to
qualify it in the interest of his optimism, sets himself to spur people up
to be helpful.
Indeed, I believe this is the lesson; if it is for fame that men do brave
actions, they are only silly fellows after all.
To avoid an occasion for our virtues is a worse degree of failure than to
push forward pluckily and make a fall. It is lawful to pray God that we be
not led into temptation; but not lawful to skulk from those that come to
us.
To be honest, to be kind—to earn a little and to spend a little
less, to make upon the whole a family happier for his presence, to
renounce when that shall be necessary and not to be embittered, to keep a
few friends, but these without capitulation—above all, on the same
grim conditions, to keep friends with himself—here is a task for all
that a man has of fortitude and delicacy.
As we dwell, we living things, in our isle of terror and under the
imminent hand of death, God forbid it should be man the erected, the
reasoner, the wise in his own eyes’—God forbid it should be man that
wearies in welldoing, that despairs of unrewarded effort, or utters the
language of complaint. Let it be enough for faith, that the whole creation
groans in mortal frailty, strives with unconquerable constancy: surely not
all in vain.
I find I never weary of great churches. It is my favourite kind of
mountain scenery. Mankind was never so happily inspired as when it made a
cathedral: a thing as single and specious as a statue to the first glance,
and yet, on examination, as lively and interesting as a forest in detail.
The height of spires cannot be taken by trigonometry; they measure
absurdly short, but how tall they are to the admiring eye! And where we
have so many elegant proportions, growing one out of the other, and all
together into one, it seems as if proportion transcended itself and became
something different and more imposing. I could never fathom how a man
dares to lift up his voice to preach in a cathedral. What is he to say
that will not be an anti-climax? For though I have heard a considerable
variety of sermons, I never yet heard one that was so expressive as a
cathedral. ‘Tis the best preacher itself, and preaches day and night; not
only telling you of man’s art and aspirations in the past, but convicting
your own soul of ardent sympathies; or rather, like all good preachers, it
sets you preaching to yourself—and every man is his own doctor of
divinity in the last resort.
As the business man comes to love the toil, which he only looked upon at
first as a ladder towards other desires and less unnatural gratifications,
so the dumb man has felt the charm of his trade and fallen captivated
before the eyes of sin. It is a mistake when preachers tell us that vice
is hideous and loathsome; for even vice has her Horsel and her devotees,
who love her’ for her own sake.
Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had memory
in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared between
them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive
apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the
pleasures and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or
but remembered him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he
conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father’s interest;
Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot with Jekyll was
to die to those appetites which I had long secretly indulged, and had of
late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde was to die to a thousand
interests and aspirations, and to become, at a blow and for ever, despised
and friendless. The bargain might appear unequal; but there was still
another consideration in the scale; for while Jekyll would suffer
smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde would be not even conscious of
all that he had lost. Strange as my circumstances were, the terms of this
debate are as old and commonplace as man; much the same inducements and
alarms cast the die for any tempted and trembling sinner; and it fell out
with me, as it falls with so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose
the better part, and was found wanting in the strength to keep to it.
Many a man would have even blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty
of; but from the high views that I had set before me, I regarded and hid
them with an almost morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting
nature of my aspirations than any particular degradation in my faults that
made me what I was, and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of
men, severed in me those provinces of good and ill which divide and
compound man’s dual nature. In this case I was driven to reflect deeply
and inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at the root of
religion and is one of the most plentiful springs of distress. Though so
profound a double dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides of me
were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and
plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of day, at the
furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and suffering. And it
chanced that the direction of my scientific studies, which led wholly
towards the mystic and the transcendental, reacted and shed a strong light
on this consciousness of the perennial war among my members. With every
day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the
intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial
discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not
truly one, but truly two.
It may be argued again that dissatisfaction with our life’s endeavour
springs in some degree from dulness. We require higher tasks because we do
not recognise the height of those we have. Trying to be kind and honest
seems an affair too simple and too inconsequential for gentlemen of our
heroic mould; we had rather set ourselves something bold, arduous, and
conclusive; we had rather found a schism or suppress a heresy, cut off a
hand or mortify an appetite. But the task before us, which is to co-endure
with our existence, is rather one of microscopic fineness, and the heroism
required is that of patience. There is no cutting of the Gordian knots of
life; each must be smilingly unravelled.
It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting
shells than to be born a millionaire. Although neither is to be despised,
it is always better policy to learn an interest than to make a thousand
pounds; for the money will soon be spent, or perhaps you may feel no joy
in spending it; but the interest remains imperishable and ever new. To
become a botanist, a geologist, a social philosopher, an antiquary, or an
artist, is to enlarge one’s possessions in the universe by an incalculably
higher degree, and by a far surer sort of property, than to purchase a
farm of many acres.
He who has learned to love an art or science has wisely laid up riches
against the day of riches; if prosperity come, he will not enter poor into
his inheritance; he will not slumber and forget himself in the lap of
money, or spend his hours in counting idle treasures, but be up and
briskly doing; he will have the true alchemic touch, which is not that of
Midas, but which transmutes dead money into living delight and
satisfaction. ETRE ET PAS AVOIR—to be, not to possess—that is
the problem of life. To be wealthy, a rich nature is the first requisite
and money but the second. To be of a quick and healthy blood, to share in
all honourable curiosities, to be rich in admiration and free from envy,
to rejoice greatly in the good of others, to love with such generosity of
heart that your love is still a dear possession in absence or unkindness—these
are the gifts of fortune which money cannot buy, and without which money
can buy nothing.
An aim in life is the only fortune worth the finding; and it is not to be
found in foreign lands, but in the heart itself.
‘Mr. Archer was telling me in some strange land they used to run races
each with a lighted candle, and the art was to keep the candle burning.
Well, now, I thought that was like life; a man’s good conscience is the
flame he gets to carry, and if he comes to the winning-post with that
still burning, why, take it how you will, the man is a hero—even if
he was low-born like you and me.’
Hope, they say, deserts us at no period of our existence. From first to
last, and in the face of smarting disillusions, we continue to expect good
fortune, better health, and better conduct; and that so confidently, that
we judge it needless to deserve them.
‘Do I, indeed, lack courage?’ inquired Mr. Archer of himself. ‘Courage,
the footstool of the virtues, upon which they stand? Courage, that a poor
private carrying a musket has to spare of; that does not fail a weasel or
a rat; that is a brutish faculty? I to fail there, I wonder? But what is
courage? The constancy to endure oneself or to see others suffer? The itch
of ill-advised activity: mere shuttle-wittedness, or to be still and
patient? To inquire of the significance of words is to rob ourselves of
what we seem to know, and yet, of all things, certainly to stand still is
the least heroic.’
To be what we are, and to become what we are capable of becoming, is the
only end of life.
But let the man learn to love a woman as far as he is capable of love; and
for this random affection of the body there is substituted a steady
determination, a consent of all his powers and faculties, which
supersedes, adopts, and commands the others. The desire survives,
strengthened, perhaps, but taught obedience, and changed in scope and
character. Life is no longer a tale of betrayals and regrets; for the man
now lives as a whole; his consciousness now moves on uninterrupted like a
river; through all the extremes and ups and downs of passion, he remains
approvingly conscious of himself.
Now to me, this seems a type of that righteousness which the soul demands.
It demands that we shall not live alternately with our opposing tendencies
in continual see-saw of passion and disgust, but seek some path on which
the tendencies shall no longer oppose, but serve each other to a common
end. It demands that we shall not pursue broken ends, but great and
comprehensive purposes, in which soul and body may unite, like notes in a
harmonious chord. That were indeed a way of peace and pleasure, that were
indeed a heaven upon earth. It does not demand, however, or, to speak in
measure, it does not demand of me, that I should starve my appetites for
no purpose under heaven but as a purpose in itself; or, if in a weak
despair, pluck out the eye that I have not learned to guide and enjoy with
wisdom. The soul demands unity of purpose, not the dismemberment of man;
it seeks to roll up all his strength and sweetness, all his passion and
wisdom, into one, and make of him a perfect man exulting in perfection. To
conclude ascetically is to give up, and not to solve, the problem.
The best teachers are the aged. To the old our mouths are always partly
closed; we must swallow our obvious retorts and listen. They sit above our
heads, on life’s raised dais, and appeal at once to our respect and pity.
A flavour of the old school, a touch of something different in their
manner—which is freer and rounder, if they come of what is called a
good family, and often more timid and precise if they are of the middle
class—serves, in these days, to accentuate the difference of age
and, add a distinction to grey hairs. But their superiority is founded
more deeply than by outward marks or gestures. They are before us in the
march of man; they have more or less solved the irking problem; they have
battled through the equinox of life; in good and evil they have held their
course; and now, without open shame, they near the crown and harbour. It
may be we have been struck with one of fortune’s darts; we can scarce be
civil, so cruelly is our spirit tossed. Yet long before we were so much as
thought upon, the like calamity befel the old man or woman that now, with
pleasant humour, rallies us upon our inattention, sitting composed in the
holy evening of man’s life, in the clear shining after rain. We grow
ashamed of our distresses, new and hot and coarse, like villainous
roadside brandy; we see life in aerial perspective, under the heavens of
faith; and out of the worst, in the mere presence of contented elders,
look forward and take patience. Fear shrinks before them ‘like a thing
reproved,’ not the flitting and ineffectual fear of death, but the
instant, dwelling terror of the responsibilities and revenges of life.
Their speech, indeed, is timid; they report lions in the path; they
counsel a meticulous footing; but their serene, marred faces are more
eloquent and tell another story. ‘Where they have gone, we will go also,
not very greatly fearing; what they have endured unbroken, we also, God
helping us, will make a shift to bear.
If you teach a man to keep his eyes upon what others think of him,
unthinkingly to lead the life and hold the principles of the majority of
his contemporaries, you must discredit in his eyes the authoritative voice
of his own soul. He may be a docile citizen; he will never be a man. It is
ours, on the other hand, to disregard this babble and chattering of other
men better and worse than we are, and to walk straight before us by what
light we have. They may be right; but so, before heaven, are we. They may
know; but we know also, and by that knowledge we must stand or fall. There
is such a thing as loyalty to a man’s own better self; and from those who
have not that, God help me, how am I to look for loyalty to others? The
most dull, the most imbecile, at a certain moment turn round, at a certain
point will hear no further argument, but stand unflinching by their own
dumb, irrational sense of right. It is not only by steel or fire, but
through contempt and blame, that the martyr fulfils the calling of his
dear soul. Be glad if you are not tried by such extremities. But although
all the world ranged themselves in one line to tell ‘This is wrong,’ be
you your own faithful vassal and the ambassador of God—throw down
the glove and answer, ‘This is right.’ Do you think you are only declaring
yourself? Perhaps in some dim way, like a child who delivers a message not
fully understood, you are opening wider the straits of prejudice and
preparing mankind for some truer and more spiritual grasp of truth;
perhaps, as you stand forth for your own judgment, you are covering a
thousand weak ones with your body; perhaps, by this declaration alone, you
have avoided the guilt of false witness against humanity and the little
ones unborn. It is good, I believe, to be respectable, but much nobler to
respect oneself and utter the voice of God.
I think it worth noting how this optimist was acquainted with pain. It
will seem strange only to the superficial. The disease of pessimism
springs never from real troubles, which it braces men to bear, which it
delights men to bear well. Nor does it readily spring at all, in minds
that have conceived of life as a field of ordered duties, not as a chase
in which to hunt for gratifications.
But the race of man, like that indomitable nature whence it sprang, has
medicating virtues of its own; the years and seasons bring various
harvests; the sun returns after the rain; and mankind outlives secular
animosities, as a single man awakens from the passions of a day. We judge
our ancestors from a more divine position; and the dust being a little
laid with several centuries, we can see both sides adorned with human
virtues and fighting with a show of right.
It is a commonplace that we cannot answer for ourselves before we have
been tried. But it is not so common a reflection, and surely more
consoling, that we usually find ourselves a great deal braver and better
than we thought. I believe this is every one’s experience; but an
apprehension that they may belie themselves in the future prevents mankind
from trumpeting this cheerful sentiment abroad. I wish sincerely, for it
would have saved me much trouble, there had been some one to put me in a
good heart about life when I was younger; to tell sue how dangers are most
portentous on a distant sight; and how the good in a man’s spirit will not
suffer itself to be overlaid, and rarely or never deserts him in the hour
of need. But we are all for tootling on the sentimental flute in
literature; and not a man among us will go to the head of the march to
sound the heady drums.
It is a poor heart, and a poorer age, that cannot accept the conditions of
life with some heroic readiness.
I told him I was not much afraid of such accidents; and at any rate judged
it unwise to dwell upon alarms or consider small perils in the arrangement
of life. Life itself I submitted, was a far too risky business as a whole
to make each additional particular of danger worth regard.
There is nothing but tit for tat in this world, though sometimes it be a
little difficult to trace; for the scores are older than we ourselves, and
there has never yet been a settling day since things were. You get
entertainment pretty much in proportion as you give. As long as we were a
sort of odd wanderers, to be stared at and followed like a quack doctor or
a caravan, we had no want of amusement in return; but as soon as we sunk
into commonplace ourselves, all whom we met were similarly disenchanted.
And here is one reason of a dozen why the world is dull to dull persons.
All literature, from Job and Omar Khayam to Thomas Carlyle or Walt
Whitman, is but an attempt to look upon the human state with such
largeness of view as shall enable us to rise from the consideration of
living to the Definition of Life. And our sages give us about the best
satisfaction in their power when they say that it is a vapour, or a show,
or made out of the same stuff with dreams. Philosophy, in its more rigid
sense, has been at the same work for ages; and after a myriad bald heads
have wagged over the problem, and piles of words have been heaped one upon
another into dry and cloudy volumes without end, philosophy has the honour
of laying before us, with modest pride, her contribution towards the
subject: that life is a Permanent Possibility of Sensation. Truly a fine
result! A man may very well love beef, or hunting, or a woman; but surely,
surely, not a Permanent Possibility of Sensation! He may be afraid of a
precipice, or a dentist, or a large enemy with a club, or even an
undertaker’s man; but not certainly of abstract death. We may trick with
the word life in its dozen senses until we are weary of tricking; we may
argue in terms of all the philosophies on earth, but one fact remains true
throughout—that we do not love life in the sense that we are greatly
preoccupied about its conservation; that we do not, properly speaking,
love life at all, but living.
Whether we regard life as a lane leading to a dead wall—a mere bag’s
end, as the French say—or whether we think of it as a vestibule or
gymnasium, where we wait our turn and prepare our faculties for some more
noble destiny; whether we thunder in a pulpit, or pule in little atheistic
poetry-books, about its vanity and brevity; whether we look justly for
years of health and vigour, or are about to mount into a bath-chair, as a
step towards the hearse; in each and all of these views and situations
there is but one conclusion possible: that a man should stop his ears
against paralysing terror, and run the race that is set before him with a
single mind.
As courage and intelligence are the two qualities best worth a good man’s
cultivation, so it is the first part of intelligence to recognise our
precarious estate in life, and the first part of courage to be not at all
abashed before the fact. A frank and somewhat headlong carriage, not
looking too anxiously before, not dallying in maudlin regret over the
past, stamps the man who is well armoured for this world.
It is not over the virtues of a curate-and-tea-party novel that people are
abashed into high resolutions. It may be because their hearts are crass,
but to stir them properly they must have men entering into glory with
sonic pomp and circumstance. And that is why these stories of our
sea-captains, printed, so to speak, in capitals, and full of bracing moral
influence, are more valuable to England than any material benefit in all
the books of political economy between Westminster and Birmingham.
Greenville chewing wine-glasses at table makes no very pleasant figure,
any more than a thousand other artists when they are viewed in the body,
or met in private life; but his work of art, his finished tragedy, is an
elegant performance; and I contend it ought not only to enliven men of the
sword as they go into battle, but send back merchant-clerks with more
heart and spirit to their book-keeping by double entry.
It is said that a poet has died young in the breast of the most stolid.
‘It may be contended, rather, that this (somewhat minor) bard in almost
every case survives, and is the spice of life to his possessor. Justice is
not done to the versatility and the unplumbed childishness of man’s
imagination. His life from without may seem but a rude mound of mud; there
will be some golden chamber at the heart of it, in which he dwells
delighted; and for as dark as his pathway seems to the observer, he will
have some kind of a bull’s-eye at his belt.
For, to repeat, the ground of a man’s joy is often hard to hit. It may
hinge at times upon a mere accessory, like the lantern; it may reside,
like Dancer’s in the mysterious inwards of psychology. It may consist with
perpetual failure, and find exercise in the continued chase. It has so
little bond with externals (such as the observer scribbles in his
notebook) that it may even touch them not; and the man’s true life, for
which he consents to live, lie altogether in the field of fancy. The
clergyman in his spare hours may be winning battles, the farmer sailing
ships, the banker reaping triumph in the arts: all leading another life,
plying another trade from that they chose; like the poet’s house-builder,
who, after all, is cased in stone,
‘By his fireside, as impotent fancy prompts,
Rebuilds it to his liking.’
In such a case the poetry runs underground. The observer (poor soul, with
his documents!) is all abroad. For to look at the man is but to court
deception. We shall see the trunk from which he draws his nourishment; but
he himself is above and abroad in the green dome of foliage, hummed
through by winds and nested in by nightingales. And the true realism were
that of the poets, to climb up after him like a squirrel, and catch some
glimpse of the heaven for which he lives. And the true realism, always and
everywhere, is that of the poets: to find out where joy resides, and give
it voice beyond singing.
He who shall pass judgment on the records of our life is the same that
formed us in frailty.
We are all so busy, and have so many far-off projects to realise, and
castles in the fire to turn into solid habitable mansions on a gravel
soil, that we can find no time for pleasure trips into the Land of Thought
and among the Hills of Vanity. Changed times, indeed, when we must sit all
night, beside the fire, with folded hands; and a changed world for most of
us, when we find we can pass the hours without discontent, and be happy
thinking. We are in such haste to be doing, to be writing, to be gathering
gear, to make our voice audible a moment in the derisive silence of
eternity, that we forget that one thing, of which these are but the parts—namely,
to live. We fall in love, we drink hard, we run to and fro upon the earth
like frightened sheep. And now you are to ask yourself if, when all is
done, you would not have been better to sit by the fire at home, and be
happy thinking. To sit still and contemplate—to remember the faces
of women without desire, to be pleased by the great deeds of men without
envy, to be everything and everywhere in sympathy, and yet content to
remain where and what you are—is not this to know both wisdom and
virtue, and to dwell with happiness?
Of those who fail, I do not speak—despair should be sacred; but to
those who even modestly succeed, the changes of their life bring interest:
a job found, a shilling saved, a dainty earned, all these are wells of
pleasure springing afresh for the successful poor; and it is not from
these, but from the villa-dweller, that we hear complaints of the
unworthiness of life.
I shall be reminded what a tragedy of misconception and misconduct man at
large presents: of organised injustice, cowardly violence and treacherous
crime; and of the damning imperfections of the best. They cannot be too
darkly drawn. Man is indeed marked for failure in his efforts to do right.
But where the best consistently miscarry, how tenfold more remarkable that
all should continue to strive; and surely we should find it both touching
and inspiriting, that in a field from which success is banished, our race
should not cease to labour.
Poor soul, here for so little, cast among so many hardships, filled with
desires so incommensurate and so inconsistent, savagely surrounded,
savagely descended, irremediably condemned to prey upon his fellow lives:
who should have blamed him had he been of a piece with his destiny and a
being merely barbarous? And we look and behold him instead filled with
imperfect virtues: infinitely childish, often admirably valiant, often
touchingly kind; sitting down amidst his momentary life, to debate of
right and wrong and the attributes of the deity; rising up to do battle
for an egg or die for an idea; singling out his friends and his mate with
cordial affection; bringing forth in pain, rearing, with long-suffering
solicitude, his young. To touch the heart of his mystery, we find in him
one thought, strange to the point of lunacy: the thought of duty, the
thought of something owing to himself, to his neighbour, to his God: an
ideal of decency, to which he would rise if it were possible; a limit of
shame, below which, if it be possible, he will not stoop.
There are two just reasons for the choice any way of life: the first is
inbred taste in the chooser; the second some high utility in the industry
selected.
There is an idea abroad among moral people that they should make their
neighbours good. One person I have to make good: myself. But my duty to my
neighbour is much more nearly expressed by saying that I have to make him
happy—if I may.
In his own life, then, a man is not to expect happiness, only to profit by
it gladly when it shall arise; he is on duty here; he knows not how or
why, and does not need to know; he knows not for what hire, and must not
ask. Somehow or other, though he does not know what goodness is, he must
try to be good; somehow or other, though he cannot tell what will do it,
he must try to give happiness to others.
Of this one thing I am sure: that every one thawed and became more
humanised and conversible as soon as these innocent people appeared upon
the scene. I would not readily trust the travelling merchant with any
extravagant sum of money, but I am sure his heart was in the right place.
In this mixed world, if you can find one or two sensible places in a man;
above all, if you should find a whole family living together on such
pleasant terms, you may surely be satisfied, and take the rest for
granted; or, what is a great deal better, boldly make up your mind that
you can do perfectly well without the rest, and that ten thousand bad
traits cannot make a single good one any the less good.
His was, indeed, a good influence in life while he was still among us; he
had a fresh laugh; it did you good to see him; and, however sad he may
have been at heart, he always bore a bold and cheerful countenance and
took fortune’s worst as it were the showers of spring.
Pleasures are more beneficial than duties because, like the quality of
mercy, they are not strained, and they are twice blest. There must always
be two in a kiss, and there may be a score in a jest; but wherever there
is an element of sacrifice, the favour is conferred with pain, and, among
generous people, received with confusion.
There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy. By being
happy, we sow anonymous benefits upon the world, which remain unknown even
to ourselves, or when they are disclosed, surprise nobody so much as the
benefactor.
A happy man or woman is a better thing to find than a five-pound note. He
or she is a radiating focus of goodwill; and their entrance into a room is
as though another candle had been lighted. We need not care whether they
could prove the forty-seventh proposition; they do a better thing than
that, they practically demonstrate the great Theorem of the Liveableness
of Life.
Mme. Bazin came out after a while; she was tired with her day’s work, I
suppose; and she nestled up to her husband and laid her head upon his
breast. He had his arm about her and kept gently patting her on the
shoulder. I think Bazin was right, and he was really married. Of how few
people can the same be said!
Little did the Bazins know how much they served us. We were charged for
candles, for food and drink, and for the beds we slept in. But there was
nothing in the bill for the husband’s pleasant talk; nor for the pretty
spectacle of their married life. And there was yet another item uncharged.
For these people’s, politeness really set us up again in our own esteem.
We had a thirst for consideration; the sense of insult was still hot in
our spirits; and civil usage seemed to restore us to our position in the
world.
How little we pay our way in life! Although we have our purses continually
in our hand, the better part of service goes still unrewarded. But I like
to fancy that a grateful spirit gives as good as it gets. Perhaps the
Bazins knew how much I liked them? perhaps they, also, were healed of some
slights by the thanks that I gave them in my manner?
No art, it may be said, was ever perfect, and not many noble, that has not
been mirthfully conceived. And no man, it may be added, was ever anything
but a wet blanket and a cross to his companions who boasted not a copious
spirit of enjoyment.
There is yet another class who do not depend on corporal advantages, but
support the winter in virtue of a brave and merry heart. One shivering
evening, cold enough for frost, but with too high a wind, and a little
past sundown, when the Lamps were beginning to enlarge their circles in
the growing dusk, a brace of barefooted lassies were seen coming eastward
in the teeth of the wind. If the one was as much as nine, the other was
certainly not more than seven. They were miserably clad; and the pavement
was so cold, you would have thought no one could lay a naked foot on it
unflinching. Yet they came along waltzing, if you please, while the elder
sang a tune to give them music. The person who saw this, and whose heart
was full of bitterness at the moment, pocketed a reproof which has been of
use to him ever since, and which he now hands on, with his good wishes, to
the reader.
Happiness, at least, is not solitary; it joys to communicate; it loves
others, for it depends on them for its existence; it sanctions and
encourages to all delights that are not unkind in themselves; if it lived
to a thousand, it would not make excision of a single humorous passage;
and while the self-improver dwindles toward the prig, and, if he be not of
an excellent constitution, may even grow deformed into an Obermann, the
very name and appearance of a happy man breathe of good-nature, and help
the rest of us to live.
It is never a thankful office to offer advice; and advice is the more
unpalatable, not only from the difficulty of the service recommended, but
often from its very obviousness. We are fired with anger against those who
make themselves the spokesmen of plain obligations; for they seem to
insult us as they advise.
We are not all patient Grizzels, by good fortune, but the most of us human
beings with feelings and tempers of our own.
Men, whether lay or clerical, suffer better the flame of the stake than a
daily inconvenience or a pointed sneer, and will not readily be martyred
without some external circumstance and a concourse looking on.
An imperturbable demeanour comes from perfect patience. Quiet minds cannot
be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their
own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.
The ways of men seem always very trivial to us when we find ourselves
alone on a church top, with the blue sky and a few tall pinnacles, and see
far below us the steep roofs and foreshortened buttresses, and the silent
activity of the city streets.
Nevertheless, there is a certain frame of mind to which a cemetery is, if
not an antidote, at least an alleviation. If you are in a fit of the
blues, go nowhere else.
Honour can survive a wound; it can live and thrive without member. The man
rebounds from his disgrace; he begins fresh foundations on the ruins of
the old; and when his sword is broken, he will do valiantly with his
dagger.
It is easy to be virtuous when one’s own convenience is not affected; and
it is no shame to any man to follow the advice of an outsider who owns
that, while he sees which is the better part, he might not have the
courage to profit himself by this opinion.
As soon as prudence has begun to grow up in the brain, like a dismal
fungus, it finds its expression in a paralysis of generous acts.
The man who cannot forgive any mortal thing is a green hand in life.
It is a useful accomplishment to be able to say NO, but surely it is the
essence of amiability to prefer to say YES where it is possible. There is
something wanting in the man who does not hate himself whenever he is
constrained to say no. And there was a great deal wanting in this born
dissenter. He was almost shockingly devoid of weaknesses; he had not
enough of them to be truly polar with humanity; whether you call him
demi-god or demi-man, he was at least not altogether one of us, for he was
not touched with a feeling of our infirmities. The world’s heroes have
room for all positive qualities, even those which are disreputable, in the
capacious theatre of their dispositions. Such can live many lives; while a
Thoreau can live but one, and that only with perpetual foresight.
We can all be angry with our neighbour; what we want is to be shown, not
his defects, of which we are too conscious, but his merits, to which we
are too blind.
And methought that beauty and terror are only one, not two;
And the world has room for love, and death, and thunder, and dew;
And all the sinews of hell slumber in summer air;
And the face of God is a rock, but the face of the rock is fair.
Beneficent streams of tears flow at the finger of pain;
And out of the cloud that smites, beneficent rivers of rain.
‘The longest and most abstruse flight of a philosopher becomes clear and
shallow, in the flash of a moment, when we suddenly perceive the aspect
and drift of his intention. The longest argument is but a finger pointed;
once we get our own finger rightly parallel, and we see what the man
meant, whether it be a new Star or an old street-lamp. And briefly, if a
saying is hard to understand, it is because we are thinking of something
else.
I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of both; and I believe they
both get paid in the end, but the fools first.
Whether people’s gratitude for the good gifts that come to them be wisely
conceived or dutifully expressed is a secondary matter, after all, so long
as they feel gratitude. The true ignorance is when a man does not know
that he has received a good gift, or begins to imagine that he has got it
for himself. The self-made man is the funniest windbag after all! There is
a marked difference between decreeing light in chaos, and lighting the gas
in a metropolitan back parlour with a box of patent matches; and, do what
we will, there is always something made to our hand, if it were only our
fingers.
Benjamin Franklin went through life an altered man, because he once paid
too dearly for a penny whistle. My concern springs usually from a deeper
source, to wit, from having bought a whistle when I did not want one.
I believe in a better state of things, that there will be no more nurses,
and that every mother will nurse her own offspring; for what can be more
hardening and demoralising than to call forth the tenderest feelings of a
woman’s heart and cherish them yourself as long as you need them, as long
as your children require a nurse to love them, and then to blight and
thwart and destroy them, whenever your own use for them is at an end.
We had needs invent heaven if it had not been revealed to us; there are
some things that fall so bitterly ill on this side time!
To write with authority about another man, we must have fellow-feeling and
some common ground of experience with our subject. We may praise or blame
according as we find him related to us by the best or worst in ourselves;
but it is only in virtue of some relationship that we can be his judges,
even to condemn. Feelings which we share and understand enter for us into
the tissue of the man’s character; those to which we are strangers in our
own experience we are inclined to regard as blots, exceptions,
inconsistencies, and excursions of the diabolic; we conceive them with
repugnance, explain them with difficulty, and raise our hands to heaven in
wonder when we find them in conjunction with talents that we respect or
virtues that we admire.
To the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first who fairly pointed out
the incalculable influence of nomenclature upon the whole life—who
seems first to have recognised the one child, happy in an heroic
appellation, soaring upwards on the wings of fortune, and the other, like
the dead sailor in his shotted hammock, haled down by sheer weight of name
into the abysses of social failure.
It would be well if nations and races could communicate their qualities;
but in practice when they look upon each other, they have an eye to
nothing but defects.
Many a man’s destiny has been settled by nothing apparently more grave
than a pretty face on the opposite side of the street and a couple of bad
companions round the corner.
So kindly is the world arranged, such great profit may arise from a small
degree of human reliance on oneself, and such, in particular, is the happy
star of this trade of writing, that it should combine pleasure and profit
to both parties, and be at once agreeable, like fiddling, and useful, like
good preaching.
In all garrison towns, guard-calls, and reveilles, and such like, make a
fine, romantic interlude in civic business. Bugles, and drums, and fifes
are of themselves most excellent things in nature, and when they carry the
mind to marching armies and the picturesque vicissitudes of war they stir
up something proud in the heart.
To pass from hearing literature to reading it is to take a great and
dangerous step. With not a few, I think a large proportion of their
pleasure then comes to an end; ‘the malady of not marking’ overtakes them;
they read thenceforward by the eye alone and hear never again the chime of
fair words or the march of the stately period. NON RAGIONIAM of these. But
to all the step is dangerous; it involves coming of age; it is even a kind
of second weaning. In the past all was at the choice of others; they
chose, they digested, they read aloud for us and sang to their own tune
the books of childhood. In the future we are to approach the silent,
inexpressive type alone, like pioneers; and the choice of what we are to
read is in our own hands thenceforward.
It remains to be seen whether you can prove yourselves as generous as you
have been wise and patient.
‘If folk dinna ken what ye’re doing, Davie, they’re terrible taken up with
it; but if they think they ken, they care nae mair for it than what I do
for pease porridge.’
And perhaps if you could read in my soul, or I could read in yours, our
own composure might seem little less surprising.
For charity begins blindfold; and only through a series of
misapprehensions rises at length into a settled principle of love and
patience, and a firm belief in all our fellow-men.
There is no doubt that the poorer classes in our country are much more
charitably disposed than their superiors in wealth. And I fancy it must
arise a great deal from the comparative indistinction of the easy and the
not so easy in these ranks. A workman or a pedlar cannot shutter himself
off from his less comfortable neighbours. If he treats himself to a
luxury, he must do it in the face of a dozen who cannot. And what should
more directly lead to charitable thoughts? Thus the poor man, camping out
in life, sees it as it is, and knows that every mouthful he puts in his
belly has been wrenched out of the fingers of the hungry.
But at a certain stage of prosperity, as in a balloon ascent, the
fortunate person passes through a zone of clouds, and sublunary matters
are thenceforward hidden from his view. He sees nothing but the heavenly
bodies, all in admirable order, and positively as good as new. He finds
himself surrounded in the most touching manner by the attentions of
Providence, and compares himself involuntarily with the lilies and the
skylarks. He does not precisely sing, of course; but then he looks so
unassuming in his open laudau! If all the world dined at one table, this
philosophy would meet with some rude knocks.
Forgive me, if I seem to teach, who am as ignorant as the trees of the
mountain; but those who learn much do but skim the face of knowledge; they
seize the laws, they conceive the dignity of the design—the horror
of the living fact fades from the memory. It is we who sit at home with
evil who remember, I think, and are warned and pity.
Look back now, for a moment, on your own brief experience of life; and
although you lived it feelingly in your own person, and had every step of
conduct burned in by pains and joys upon your memory, tell me what
definite lesson does experience hand on from youth to manhood, or from
both to age? The settled tenor which first strikes the eye is but the
shadow of a delusion. This is gone; that never truly was; and you yourself
are altered beyond recognition. Times and men and circumstances change
about your changing character, with a speed of which no earthly hurricane
affords an image. What was the best yesterday, is it still the best in
this changed theatre of a to-morrow? Will your own Past truly guide you in
your own violent and unexpected Future? And if this be questionable, with
what humble, with what hopeless eyes, should we not watch other men
driving beside us on their unknown careers, seeing with unlike eyes,
impelled by different gales, doing and suffering in another sphere of
things?
The problem of education is twofold: first to know, and then to utter.
Every one who lives any semblance of an inner life thinks more nobly and
profoundly than he speaks; and the best teachers can impart only broken
images of the truth which they perceive. Speech which goes from one to
another between two natures, and, what is worse, between two experiences,
is doubly relative. The speaker buries his meaning; it is for the hearer
to dig it up again; and all speech, written or spoken, is in a dead
language until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.
Culture is not measured by the greatness of the field which is covered by
our knowledge, but by the nicety with which we can perceive relations in
that field, whether great or small.
We are accustomed nowadays to a great deal of puling over the
circumstances in which we are placed. The great refinement of many
poetical gentlemen has rendered them practically unfit for the jostling
and ugliness of life, and they record their unfitness at considerable
length. The bold and awful poetry of Job’s complaint produces too many
flimsy imitators; for there is always something consolatory in grandeur,
but the symphony transposed for the piano becomes hysterically sad. This
literature of woe, as Whitman calls it, this MALADIE DE RENE, as we like
to call it in Europe, is in many ways a most humiliating and sickly
phenomenon. Young gentlemen with three or four hundred a year of private
means look down from a pinnacle of doleful experience on all the grown and
hearty men who have dared to say a good word for life since the beginning
of the world. There is no prophet but the melancholy Jacques, and the blue
devils dance on all our literary wires.
It would be a poor service to spread culture, if this be its result, among
the comparatively innocent and cheerful ranks of men. When our little
poets have to be sent to look at the ploughman and learn wisdom, we must
be careful how we tamper with our ploughmen. Where a man in not the best
of circumstances preserves composure of mind, and relishes ale and
tobacco, and his wife and children, in the intervals of dull and
unremunerative labour; where a man in this predicament can afford a lesson
by the way to what are called his intellectual superiors, there is plainly
something to be lost, as well as something to be gained, by teaching him
to think differently. It is better to leave him as he is than to teach him
whining. It is better that he should go without the cheerful lights of
culture, if cheerless doubt and paralysing sentimentalism are to be the
consequence. Let us, by all means, fight against that hide-bound stolidity
of sensation and sluggishness of mind which blurs and decolorises for poor
natures the wonderful pageant of consciousness; let us teach people, as
much as we can, to enjoy, and they will learn for themselves to
sympathise; but let us see to it, above all, that we give these lessons in
a brave, vivacious note, and build the man up in courage while we demolish
its substitute, indifference.
All opinions, properly so called, are stages on the road to truth. It does
not follow that a man will travel any further; but if he has really
considered the world and drawn a conclusion, he has travelled so far. This
does not apply to formulae got by rote, which are stages on the road to
nowhere but second childhood and the grave. To have a catchword in your
mouth is not the same thing as to hold an opinion; still less is it the
same thing as to have made one for yourself.
It is surely beyond a doubt that people should be a good deal idle in
youth. For though here and there a Lord Macaulay may escape from school
honours with all his wits about him, most boys pay so dear for their
medals that they never afterwards have a shot in their locker, and begin
the world bankrupt. And the same holds true during all the time a lad is
educating himself, or suffering others to educate him.... Books are good
enough in their own way, but they are a mighty bloodless substitute for
life. It seems a pity to sit, like the Lady of Shalott, peering into a
mirror, with your back turned on all the bustle and glamour of reality.
And if a man reads very hard, as the old anecdote reminds us, he will have
little time for thought.
It is supposed that all knowledge is at the bottom of a well, or the far
end of a telescope. As a matter of fact, an intelligent person, looking
out of his eyes and hearkening in his ears, with a smile on his face all
the time, will get more true education than many another in a life of
heroic vigils. There is certainly some chill and arid knowledge to be
found upon the summits of formal and laborious science; but it is all
round about you, and for the trouble of looking, that you will acquire the
warm and palpitating facts of life. While others are filling their memory
with a lumber of words, one-half of which they will forget before the week
is out, your truant may learn some really useful art: to play the fiddle,
or to speak with ease and opportunity to all varieties of men. Many who
have ‘plied their book diligently,’ and know all about some one branch or
another of accepted lore, come out of the study with an ancient and
owl-like demeanour, and prove dry, stockish, and dyspeptic in all the
better and brighter parts of life. Many make a large fortune who remain
underbred and pathetically stupid to the last. And meantime there goes the
idler, who began life along with them—by your leave, a different
picture. He has had time to take care of his health and his spirits; he
has been a great deal in the open air, which is the most salutary of all
things for both body and mind; and if he has never read the great Book in
very recondite places, he has dipped into it and skimmed it over to
excellent purpose. Might not the student afford some Hebrew roots, and the
business man some of his half-crowns, for a share of the idler’s knowledge
of life at large, and Art of Living?
Nay, and the idler has another and more important quality than these. I
mean his wisdom. He who has much looked on at the childish satisfaction of
other people in their hobbies, will regard his own with only a very
ironical indulgence. He will not be heard among the dogmatists. He will
have a great and cool allowance for all sorts of people and opinions. If
he finds no out-of-the-way truths, he will identify himself with no very
burning falsehood. His way takes him along a by-road, not much frequented,
but very even and pleasant, which is called Commonplace Lane, and leads to
the Belvedere of Commonsense. Thence he shall command an agreeable, if no
very noble prospect; and while others behold the East and West, the Devil
and the sunrise, he will be contentedly aware of a sort of morning hour
upon all sublunary things, with an army of shadows running speedily and in
many different directions into the great daylight of Eternity.
I begin to perceive that it is necessary to know some one thing to the
bottom—were it only literature. And yet, sir, the man of the world
is a great feature of this age; he is possessed of an extraordinary mass
and variety of knowledge; he is everywhere at home; he has seen life in
all its phases; and it is impossible but that this great habit of
existence should bear fruit.
I am sorry indeed that I have no Greek, but I should be sorrier still if I
were dead; nor do I know the name of that branch of knowledge which is
worth acquiring at the price of a brain fever. There are many sordid
tragedies in the life of the student, above all if he be poor, or drunken,
or both; but nothing more moves a wise man s pity than the case of the lad
who is in too much hurry to be learned.
‘My friend,’ said I, ‘it is not easy to say who know the Lord; and it is
none of our business. Protestants and Catholics, and even those who
worship stones, may know Him and be known by Him; for He has made all.’
Cheylard scrapes together halfpence or the darkened souls in Edinburgh;
while Balquhidder and Dunrossness bemoans the ignorance of Rome. Thus, to
the high entertainment of the angels, do we pelt each other with
evangelists, like schoolboys bickering in the snow.
For courage respects courage; but where a faith has been trodden out, we
may look for a mean and narrow population.
Its not only a great flight of confidence for a man to change his creed
and go out of his family for heaven’s sake; but the odds are—nay,
and the hope is—that, with all this great transition in the eyes of
man, he has not changed himself a hairbreadth to the eyes of God. Honour
to those who do so, for the wrench is sore. But it argues something
narrow, whether of strength or weakness, whether of the prophet or the
fool, in those who can take a sufficient interest in such infinitesimal
and human operations, or who can quit a friendship for a doubtful
operation of the mind. And I think I should not leave my old creed for
another, changing only words for words; but by some brave reading, embrace
it in spirit and truth, and find wrong as wrong for me as for the best of
other communions.
It is not a basketful of law-papers, nor the hoofs and pistol-butts of a
regiment of horse, that can change one tittle of a ploughman’s thoughts.
Outdoor rustic people have not many ideas, but such as they have are hardy
plants, and thrive flourishingly in persecution. One who has grown a long
while in the sweat of laborious noons, and under the stars at night, a
frequenter of hills and forests, an old honest countryman, has, in the
end, a sense of communion with the powers of the universe, and amicable
relations towards his God. Like my mountain Plymouth Brother, he knows the
Lord. His religion does not repose upon a choice of logic; it is the
poetry of the man’s existence, the philosophy of the history of his life.
God, like a great power, like a great shining sun, has appeared to this
simple fellow in the course of years, and become the ground and essence of
his least reflections; and you may change creeds and dogmas by authority,
or proclaim, a new religion with the sound of trumpets, if you will; but
here is a man who has his own thoughts, and will stubbornly adhere to them
in good and evil. He is a Catholic, a Protestant, or a Plymouth Brother,
in the same indefeasible sense that a man is not a woman, or a woman is
not a man. For he could not vary from his faith, unless he could eradicate
all memory of the past, and, in a strict and not conventional meaning,
change his mind.
For still the Lord is Lord of might;
In deeds, in deeds, he takes delight;
The plough, the spear, the laden barks,
The field, the founded city, marks;
He marks the smiler of the streets,
The singer upon garden seats;
He sees the climber in the rocks:
To him, the shepherd folds his flocks.
For those he loves that underprop
With daily virtues Heaven’s top,
And bear the falling sky with ease,
Unfrowning caryatides.
Those he approves that ply the trade,
That rock the child, that wed the maid,
That with weak virtues, weaker hands,
Sow gladness on the peopled lands,
And still with laughter, song and shout,
Spin the great wheel of earth about.
The shadow of a great oak lies abroad upon the ground at noon, perfect,
clear, and stable like the earth. But let a man set himself to mark out
the boundary with cords and pegs, and were he never so nimble and never so
exact, what with the multiplicity of the leaves and the progression of the
shadow as it flees before the travelling sun, long ere he has made the
circuit the whole figure will have changed. Life may be compared, not to a
single tree, but to a great and complicated forest; circumstance is more
swiftly changing than a shadow, language much more inexact than the tools
of a surveyor; from day to day the trees fall and are renewed; the very
essences are fleeting as we look; and the whole world of leaves is
swinging tempest-tossed among the winds of time. Look now for your
shadows. O man of formulae, is this a place for you? Have you fitted the
spirit to a single case? Alas, in the cycle of the ages when shall such
another be proposed for the judgment of man? Now when the sun shines and
the winds blow, the wood is filled with an innumerable multitude of
shadows, tumultuously tossed and changing; and at every gust the whole
carpet leaps and becomes new. Can you or your heart say more?
Indeed, I can see no dishonesty in not avowing a difference; and
especially in these high matters, where we have all a sufficient assurance
that, whoever may be in the wrong, we ourselves are not completely
right.... I know right well that we are all embarked upon a troublesome
world, the children of one Father, striving in many essential points to do
and to become the same.
The word ‘facts’ is, in some ways, crucial. I have spoken with Jesuits and
Plymouth Brethren, mathematicians and poets, dogmatic republicans and dear
old gentlemen in bird’s-eye neckcloths; and each understood the word
‘facts’ in an occult sense of his own. Try as I might, I could get no
nearer the principle of their division. What was essential to them, seemed
to me trivial or untrue. We could come to no compromise as to what was, or
what was not, important in the life of man. Turn as we pleased, we all
stood back to back in a big ring, and saw another quarter of the heavens,
with different mountain-tops along the sky-line and different
constellations overhead. We had each of us some whimsy in the brain, which
we believed more than anything else, and which discoloured all experience
to its own shade. How would you have people agree, when one is deaf and
the other blind?
The average man lives, and must live, so wholly in convention, that
gunpowder charges of the truth are more apt to discompose than to
invigorate his creed. Either he cries out upon blasphemy and indecency,
and crouches the closer round that little idol of part-truth and
part-conveniences which is the contemporary deity, or he is convinced by
what is new, forgets what is old, and becomes truly blasphemous and
indecent himself. New truth is only wanted to expand, not to destroy, our
civil and often elegant conventions. He who cannot judge had better stick
to fiction and the daily papers. There he will get little harm, and, in
the first at least, some good.
The human race is a thing more ancient than the ten commandments; and the
bones and the revolutions of the Kosmos in whose joints we are but moss
and fungus, more ancient still.
The canting moralist tells us of right and wrong; and we look abroad, even
on the face of our small earth, and find them change with every climate,
and no country where some action is not honoured for a virtue and none
where it is not branded for a vice; and we look into our experience, and
find no vital congruity in the wisest rules, but at the best a municipal
fitness. It is not strange if we are tempted to despair of good. We ask
too much. Our religions and moralities have been trimmed to flatter us,
till they are all emasculate and sentimentalised, and only please and
weaken. Truth is of a rougher strain. In the harsh face of life, faith can
read a bracing gospel.
Gentleness and cheerfulness, these come before all morality; they are the
perfect duties.... If your morals make you dreary, depend upon it they are
wrong. I do not say ‘give them up,’ for they may be all you have; but
conceal them like a vice, lest they should spoil the lives of better and
simpler people.
There is no quite good book without a good morality; but the world is
wide, and so are morals. Out of two people who have dipped into Sir
Richard Burton’s Thousand and One Nights, one shall have been offended by
the animal details; another to whom these were harmless, perhaps even
pleasing, shall yet have been shocked in his turn by the rascality and
cruelty of all the characters. Of two readers, again, one shall have been
pained by the morality of a religious memoir, one by that of the VICOMTE
DE BRAGELONNE. And the point is that neither need be wrong. We shall
always shock each other both in life and art; we cannot get the sun into
our pictures, nor the abstract right (if there be such a thing) into our
books; enough if, in the one, there glimmer some hint of the great light
that blinds us from heaven; enough if, in the other, there shine, even
upon foul details, a spirit of magnanimity.
For to do anything because others do it, and not because the thing is
good, or kind, or honest in its own right, is to resign all moral control
and captaincy upon yourself, and go post-haste to the devil with the
greater number. The respectable are not led so much by any desire of
applause as by a positive need for countenance. The weaker and the tamer
the man, the more will he require this support; and any positive quality
relieves him, by just so much, of this dependence.
Happiness and goodness, according to canting moralists, stand in the
relation of effect and cause. There was never anything less proved or less
probable: our happiness is never in our own hands; we inherit our
constitutions; we stand buffet among friends and enemies; we may be so
built as to feel a sneer or an aspersion with unusual keenness, and so
circumstanced as to be unusually exposed to them; we may have nerves very
sensitive to pain, and be afflicted with a disease more painful. Virtue
will not help us, and it is not meant to help us. It is not even its own
reward, except for the self-centred and—I had almost said—the
unamiable.
Noble disappointment, noble self-denial, are not to be admired, not even
to be pardoned, if they bring bitterness. It is one thing to enter the
kingdom of heaven maim; another to maim yourself and stay without.
To make our idea of morality centre on forbidden acts is to defile the
imagination and to introduce into our judgments of our fellow-men a secret
element of gusto. If a thing is wrong for us, we should not dwell upon the
thought of it; or we shall soon dwell upon it with inverted pleasure.
There is a certain class, professors of that low morality so greatly more
distressing than the better sort of vice, to whom you must never represent
an act that was virtuous in itself, as attended by any other consequences
than a large family and fortune.
All have some fault. The fault of each grinds down the hearts of those
about him, and—let us not blink the truth—hurries both him and
them into the grave. And when we find a man persevering indeed, in his
fault, as all of us do, and openly overtaken, as not all of us are, by its
consequences, to gloss the matte over, with too polite biographers, is to
do the work of the wrecker disfiguring beacons on a perilous seaboard; but
to call him bad, with a self-righteous chuckle, is to be talking in one’s
sleep with Heedless and Too-bold in the arbour.
The most influential books, and the truest in their influence, are works
of fiction. They do not pin the reader to a dogma, which he must
afterwards discover to be inexact; they do not teach a lesson, which he
must afterwards unlearn. They repeat, they rearrange, they clarify the
lessons of life; they disengage us from ourselves, they constrain us to
the acquaintance of others; and they show us the web of experience, not as
we can see it for ourselves, but with a singular change—that
monstrous, consuming ego of ours being, for the nonce, struck out. To be
so, they must be reasonably true to the human comedy; and any work that is
so serves the turn of instruction.
Nature is a good guide through life, and the love of simple pleasures
next, if not superior, to virtue.
The soul asks honour and not fame; to be upright, not to be successful; to
be good, not prosperous; to be essentially, not outwardly, respectable.
Practice is a more intricate and desperate business than the toughest
theorising; life is an affair of cavalry, where rapid judgment and prompt
action are alone possible and right.
Each man should learn what is within him, that he may strive to mend; he
must be taught what is without him, that he may be kind to others. It can
never be wrong to tell him the truth; for, in his disputable state,
weaving as he goes his theory of life, steering himself, cheering or
reproving others, all facts are of the first importance to his conduct;
and even if a fact shall discourage or corrupt him, it is still best that
he should know it; for it is in this world as it is, and not in a world
made easy by educational suppression, that he must win his way to shame or
glory.
A generous prayer is never presented in vain; the petition may be refused,
but the petitioner is always, I believe, rewarded by some gracious
visitation.
EVENSONG
The embers of the day are red
Beyond the murky hill.
The kitchen smokes: the bed
In the darkling house is spread:
The great sky darkens overhead,
And the great woods are shrill.
So far have I been led,
Lord, by Thy will:
So far I have followed, Lord, and wondered still.
The breeze from the enbalmed land
Blows sudden toward the shore,
And claps my cottage door.
I hear the signal, Lord—I understand.
The night at Thy command
Comes. I will eat and sleep and will not question more.
It is not at all a strong thing to put one’s reliance upon logic; and our
own logic particularly, for it is generally wrong. We never know where we
are to end if once we begin following words or doctors. There is an
upright stock in a man’s own heart that is trustier than any syllogism;
and the eyes, and the sympathies, and appetites know a thing or two that
have never yet been stated in controversy. Reasons are as plentiful as
blackberries; and, like fisticuffs, they serve impartially with all sides.
Doctrines do not stand or fall by their proofs, and are only logical in so
far as they are cleverly put. An able controversialist no more than an
able general demonstrates the justice of his cause.
To any man there may come at times a consciousness that there blows,
through all the articulations of his body, the wind of a spirit not wholly
his; that his mind rebels; that another girds him and carries him whither
he would not.
The child, the seed, the grain of corn,
The acorn on the hill,
Each for some separate end is born
In season fit, and still
Each must in strength arise to work the almighty will.
So from the hearth the children flee,
By that almighty hand
Austerely led; so one by sea
Goes forth, and one by land;
Nor aught of all man’s sons escapes from that command.
So from the sally each obeys
The unseen almighty nod;
So till the ending all their ways
Blindfolded loth have trod:
Nor knew their task at all, but were the tools of God.
A few restrictions, indeed, remain to influence the followers of
individual branches of study. The DIVINITY, for example, must be an avowed
believer; and as this, in the present day, is unhappily considered by many
as a confession of weakness, he is fain to choose one of two ways of
gilding the distasteful orthodox bolus. Some swallow it in a thin jelly of
metaphysics; for it is even a credit to believe in God on the evidence of
some crack-jaw philosopher, although it is a decided slur to believe in
Him on His own authority. Others again (and this we think the worst
method), finding German grammar a somewhat dry morsel, run their own
little heresy as a proof of independence; and deny one of the cardinal
doctrines that they may hold the others without being laughed at.
In particular, I heard of clergymen who were employing their time in
explaining to a delighted audience the physics of the Second Coming. It is
not very likely any of us will be asked to help. If we were, it is likely
we should receive instructions for the occasion, and that on more reliable
authority. And so I can only figure to myself a congregation truly curious
in such flights of theological fancy, as one of veteran and accomplished
saints, who have fought the good fight to an end and outlived all worldly
passion, and are to be regarded rather as a part of the Church Triumphant
than the poor, imperfect company on earth.
The whole creation groaneth and travaileth together. It is the common and
the god-like law of life. The browsers, the biters, the barkers, the hairy
coats of field and forest, the squirrel in the oak, the thousand-footed
creeper in the dust, as they share with us the gift of life, share with us
the love of an ideal; strive like us—like us are tempted to grow
weary of the struggle—to do well; like us receive at times unmerited
refreshment, visitings of support, returns of courage; and are condemned
like us to be crucified between that double law of the members and the
will. Are they like us, I wonder, in the timid hope of some reward, some
sugar with the drug? Do they, too, stand aghast at unrewarded virtues, at
the sufferings of those whom, in our partiality, we take to be just, and
the prosperity of such as in our blindness we call wicked?
But to be a true disciple is to think of the same things as our prophet,
and to think of different things in the same order. To be of the same mind
with another is to see all things in the same perspective; it is not to
agree in a few indifferent matters near at hand and not much debated; it
is to follow him in his farthest flights, to see the force of his
hyperboles, to stand so exactly in the centre of his vision that whatever
he may express, your eyes will light at once on the original, that
whatever he may see to declare, your mind will at once accept....
Now, every now and then, and indeed surprisingly often, Christ finds a
word that transcends all commonplace morality; every now and then He quits
the beaten track to pioneer the unexpressed, and throws out a pregnant and
magnanimous hyperbole; for it is only by some bold poetry of thought that
men can be strung up above the level of everyday conceptions to take a
broader look upon experience or accept some higher principle of conduct.
To a man who is of the same mind that was in Christ, who stand at some
centre not too far from His, and looks at the world and conduct from some
not dissimilar or, at least, not opposing attitude—or, shortly, to a
man who is of Christ’s philosophy—every such saying should come home
with a thrill of joy and corroboration; he should feel each one below his
feet as another sure foundation in the flux of time and chance; each
should be another proof that in the torrent of the years and generations,
where doctrines and great armaments and empires are swept away and
swallowed, he stands immovable, holding by the eternal stars.
Those who play by rule will never be more than tolerable players; and you
and I would like to play our game in life to the noblest and the most
divine advantage....For no definite precept can be more than an
illustration, though its truth were resplendent like the sun, and it was
announced from heaven by the voice of God. And life is so intricate and
changing, that perhaps not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in the ages,
shall we find that nice consent of circumstances to which alone it can
apply....
It is to keep a man awake, to keep him alive to his own soul and its fixed
design of righteousness, that the better part of moral and religious
education is directed; not only that of words and doctors, but the sharp
ferule of calamity under which we are all God’s scholars till we die. If,
as teachers, we are to say anything to the purpose, we must say what will
remind the pupil of his soul; we must speak that soul’s dialect; we must
talk of life and conduct as his soul would have him think of them. If,
from some conformity between us and the pupil, or perhaps among all men,
we do in truth speak in such a dialect and express such views, beyond
question we shall touch in him a spring; beyond question he will recognise
the dialect as one that he himself has spoken in his better hours; beyond
question he will cry, ‘I had forgotten, but now I remember; I too have
eyes, and I had forgot to use them! I too have a soul of my own,
arrogantly upright, and to that I will listen and conform.’ In short, say
to him anything that he has once thought, or been upon the point of
thinking, or show him any view of life that he has once clearly seen, or
been on the point of clearly seeing; and you have done your part and may
leave him to complete the education for himself.
God, if there be any God, speaks daily in a new language, by the tongues
of men; the thoughts and habits of each fresh generation and each
new-coined spirit throw another light upon the universe, and contain
another commentary on the printed Bibles; every scruple, every true dissent,
every glimpse of something new, is a letter of God’s alphabet; and though
there is a grave responsibility for all who speak, is there none for those
who unrighteously keep silent and conform? Is not that also to conceal and
cloak God’s counsel?
Mankind is not only the whole in general, but every one in particular.
Every man or woman is one of mankind’s dear possessions; to his or her
just brain, and kind heart, and active hands, mankind intrusts some of its
hopes for the future; he or she is a possible wellspring of good acts and
source of blessings to the race.
Morals are a personal affair; in the war of righteousness every man fights
for his own hand; all the six hundred precepts of the Mishna cannot shake
my private judgment; my magistracy of myself is an indefeasible charge,
and my decisions absolute for the time and case. The moralist is not a
judge of appeal, but an advocate who pleads at my tribunal. He has to show
not the law, but that the law applies. Can he convince me? then he gains
the cause. And thus you find Christ giving various counsels to varying
people, and often jealously careful to avoid definite precept. Is He
asked, for example, to divide a heritage? He refuses; and the best advice
that He will offer is but a paraphrase of the tenth commandment which
figures so strangely among the rest. Take heed, and beware of
covetousness. If you complain that this is vague, I have failed to carry
you along with me in my argument. For no definite precept can be more than
an illustration, though its truth were resplendent like the sun, and it
was announced from heaven by the voice of God. And life is so intricate
and changing, that perhaps not twenty times, or perhaps not twice in the
ages, shall we find that nice consent of circumstances to which alone it
can apply.
But if it is righteousness thus to fuse together our divisive impulses and
march with one mind through life, there is plainly one thing more
unrighteous than all others, and one declension which is irretrievable and
draws on the rest. And this is to lose consciousness of oneself. In the
best of times, it is but by flashes, when our whole nature is clear,
strong, and conscious, and events conspire to leave us free, that we enjoy
communion with our soul. At the worst we are so fallen and passive that we
may say shortly we have none. An arctic torpor seizes upon men. Although
built of nerves, and set adrift in a stimulating world, they develop a
tendency to go bodily to sleep; consciousness becomes engrossed among the
reflex and mechanical parts of life; and soon loses both the will and
power to look higher considerations in the face. This is ruin; this is the
last failure in life; this is temporal damnation, damnation on the spot
and without the form of judgment: ‘What shall it profit a man if he gain
the whole world and LOSE HIMSELF?’
To ask to see some fruit of our endeavour is but a transcendental way of
serving for reward; and what we take to be contempt of self is only greed
of hire.
We are are all such as He was—the inheritors of sin; we must all
bear and expiate a past which was not ours; there is in all of us—ay,
even in me—a sparkle of the divine. Like Him, we must endure for a
little while, until morning returns, bringing peace.
A human truth, which is always very much a lie, hides as much of life as
it displays. It is men who hold another truth, or, as it seems to us,
perhaps, a dangerous lie, who can extend our restricted field of
knowledge, and rouse our drowsy consciences.
Truth of intercourse is something more difficult than to refrain from open
lies. It is possible to avoid falsehood and yet not tell the truth. It is
not enough to answer formal questions. To reach the truth by yea and nay
communications implies a questioner with a share of inspiration, such as
is often found in mutual love. YEA and NAY mean nothing; the meaning must
have been related in the question. Many Words are often necessary to
convey a very simple statement; for in this sort of exercise we never hit
the gold; the most that we can hope is by many arrows, more or less far
off on different sides, to indicate, in the course of time, for what
target we are aiming, and after an hour’s talk, back and forward, to
convey the purport of a single principle or a single thought.
The cruellist lies are often told in silence. A man may have sat in a room
for hours and not opened his teeth, and yet come out of that room a
disloyal friend or a vile calumniator. And how many loves have perished
because, from pride, or spite, or diffidence, or that unmanly shame which
withholds a man from daring to betray emotion, a lover, at the critical
point of the relation, has but hung his head and held his tongue? And,
again, a lie may be told by a truth, or a truth conveyed through a lie.
Truth to facts is not always truth to sentiment; and part of the truth, as
often happens in answer to a question, may be the foulest calumny. A fact
may be an exception; but the feeling is the law, and it is that which you
must neither garble nor belie. The whole tenor of a conversation is a part
of the meaning of each separate statement; the beginning and the end
define and travesty the intermediate conversation. You never speak to God;
you address a fellow-man, full of his own tempers: and to tell truth,
rightly understood, is not to state the true facts, but to convey a true
impression; truth in spirit, not truth to letter, is the true veracity.
He talked for the pleasure of airing himself. He was essentially glib, as
becomes the young advocate, and essentially careless of the truth, which
is the mark of the young ass; and so he talked at random. There was no
particular bias, but that one which is indigenous and universal, to
flatter himself, and to please and interest the present friend.
How wholly we all lie at the mercy of a single prater, not needfully with
any malign purpose! And if a man but talk of himself in the right spirit,
refers to his virtuous actions by the way, and never applies to them the
name of virtues, how easily his evidence is accepted in the court of
public opinion!
In one word, it must always be foul to tell what is false; and it can
never be safe to suppress what is true.
Conclusions, indeed, are not often reached by talk any more than by
private thinking. That is not the profit. The profit is in the exercise,
and above all in the experience; for when we reason at large on any
subject, we review our state and history in life. From time to time,
however, and specially, I think, in talking art, talk becomes effective,
conquering like war, widening the boundaries of knowledge like an
exploration.
Natural talk, like ploughing, should turn up a large surface of life,
rather than dig mines into geological strata. Masses of experience,
anecdote, incident, cross-lights, quotation, historical instances, the
whole flotsam and jetsam of two minds forced in and in upon the matter in
hand from every point of the compass, and from every degree of mental
elevation and abasement—these are the material with which talk is
fortified, the food on which the talkers thrive. Such argument as is
proper to the exercise should still be brief and seizing. Talk should
proceed by instances; by the apposite, not the expository. It should keep
close along the lines of humanity, near the bosoms and businesses of men,
at the level where history, fiction, and experience intersect and
illuminate each other.
There can be no fairer ambition than to excel in talk; to be affable, gay,
ready, clear and welcome; to have a fact, a thought, or an illustration,
pat to every subject; and not only to cheer the flight of time among our
intimates, but bear our part in that great international congress, always
sitting, where public wrongs are first declared, public errors first
corrected, and the course of public opinion shaped, day by day, a little
nearer to the right. No measure comes before Parliament but it has been
long ago prepared by the grand jury of the talkers; no book is written
that has not been largely composed by their assistance. Literature in many
of its branches is no other than the shadow of good talk; but the
imitation falls far short of the original in life, freedom, and effect.
There are always two to a talk, giving and taking, comparing experience
and according conclusions. Talk is fluid, tentative, continually ‘in
further search and progress’; while written words remain fixed, become
idols even to the writer, found wooden dogmatisms, and preserve flies of
obvious error in the amber of the truth. Last and chief, while literature,
gagged with linsey-woolsey, can only deal with a fraction of the life of
man, talk goes fancy free and may call a spade a spade. Talk has none of
the freezing immunities of the pulpit. It cannot, even if it would, become
merely aesthetic or merely classical like literature. A jest intervenes,
the solemn humbug is dissolved in laughter, and speech runs forth out of
the contemporary groove into the open fields of nature, cheery and
cheering, like schoolboys out of school. And it is in talk alone that we
can learn our period and ourselves. In short, the first duty of a man is
to speak; that is his chief business in this world; and talk, which is the
harmonious speech of two or more, is by far the most accessible of
pleasures. It costs nothing in money; it is all profit; it completes our
education, founds and fosters our friendships, and can be enjoyed at any
age and in almost any state of health.
And it happens that literature is, in some ways, but an indifferent means
to such an end. Language is but a poor bull’s-eye lantern wherewith to
show off the vast cathedral of the world; and yet a particular thing once
said in words is so definite and memorable, that it makes us forget the
absence of the many which remain unexpressed; like a bright window in a
distant view, which dazzles and confuses our sight of its surroundings.
There are not words enough in all Shakespeare to express the merest
fraction of a man’s experience in an hour. The speed of the eyesight and
the hearing, and the continual industry of the mind, produce; in ten
minutes, what it would require a laborious volume to shadow forth by
comparisons and roundabout approaches. If verbal logic were sufficient,
life would be as plain sailing as a piece of Euclid. But, as a matter of
fact, we make a travesty of the simplest process of thought when we put it
into words; for the words are all coloured and forsworn, apply
inaccurately, and bring with them, from former uses, ideas of praise and
blame that have nothing to do with the question in hand. So we must always
see to it nearly, that we judge by the realities of life and not by the
partial terms that represent them in man’s speech; and at times of choice,
we must leave words upon one side, and act upon those brute convictions,
unexpressed and perhaps inexpressible, which cannot be flourished in an
argument, but which are truly the sum and fruit of our experience. Words
are for communication, not for judgment. This is what every thoughtful man
knows for himself, for only fools and silly schoolmasters push definitions
over far into the domain of conduct; and the majority of women, not
learned in these scholastic refinements, live all-of-a-piece and
unconsciously, as a tree grows, without caring to put a name upon their
acts or motives.
The correction of silence is what kills; when you know you have
transgressed, and your friend says nothing and avoids your eye. If a man
were made of gutta-percha, his heart would quail at such a moment. But
when the word is out, the worst is over; and a fellow with any good-humour
at all may pass through a perfect hail of witty criticism, every bare
place on his soul hit to the quick with a shrewd missile, and reappear, as
if after a dive, tingling with a fine moral reaction, and ready, with a
shrinking readiness, one-third loath, for a repetition of the discipline.
All natural talk is a festival of ostentation; and by the laws of the game
each accepts and fans the vanity of the other. It is from that reason that
we venture to lay ourselves so open, that we dare to be so warmly
eloquent, and that we swell in each other’s eyes to such a vast
proportion. For talkers, once launched, begin to overflow the limits of
their ordinary selves, tower up to the height of their secret pretensions,
and give themselves out for the heroes, brave, pious, musical, and wise,
that in their most shining moments they aspire to be. So they weave for
themselves with words and for a while inhabit a palace of delights, temple
at once and theatre, where they fill the round of the world’s dignities,
and feast with the gods, exulting in Kudos. And when the talk is over,
each goes his way, still flushed with vanity and admiration, still
trailing clouds of glory; each declines from the height of his ideal
orgie, not in a moment, but by slow declension.
No man was ever so poor that he could express all he has in him by words,
looks, or actions; his true knowledge is eternally incommunicable, for it
is a knowledge of himself; and his best wisdom comes to him by no process
of the mind, but in a supreme self-dictation, which keeps varying from
hour to hour in its dictates with the variation of events and
circumstances.
Overmastering pain—the most deadly and tragical element in life—alas!
pain has its own way with all of us; it breaks in, a rude visitant, upon
the fairy garden where the child wanders in a dream, no less surely than
it rules upon the field of battle, or sends the immortal war-god
whimpering to his father; and innocence, no more than philosophy, can
protect us from this sting.
Where did you hear that it was easy to be honest? Do you find that in your
Bible? Easy? It is easy to be an ass and follow the multitude like a
blind, besotted bull in a stampede; and that, I am well aware, is what you
and Mrs. Grundy mean by being honest. But it will not bear the stress of
time nor the scrutiny of conscience.
Though I have all my life been eager for legitimate distinction, I can lay
my hand upon my heart, at the end of my career, and declare there is not
one—no, nor yet life itself—which is worth acquiring or
preserving at the slightest cost of dignity.
For surely, at this time of the day in the nineteenth century, there is
nothing that an honest man should fear more timorously than getting and
spending more than he deserves.
It remains to be seen, by each man who would live a true life to himself
and not a merely specious life to society, how many luxuries he truly
wants and to how many he merely submits as to a social propriety; and all
these last he will immediately forswear. Let him do this, and he will be
surprised to find how little money it requires to keep him in complete
contentment and activity of mind and senses. Life at any level among the
easy classes is conceived upon a principle of rivalry, where each man and
each household must ape the tastes and emulate the display of others. One
is delicate in eating, another in wine, a third in furniture or works of
art or dress; and I, who care nothing for any of these refinements, who am
perhaps a plain athletic creature and love exercise, beef, beer,
flannel-shirts, and a camp bed, am yet called upon to assimilate all these
other tastes and make these foreign occasions of expenditure my own. It
may be cynical; I am sure I will be told it is selfish; but I will spend
my money as I please and for my own intimate personal gratification, and
should count myself a nincompoop indeed to lay out the colour of a
halfpenny on any fancied social decency or duty. I shall not wear gloves
unless my hands are cold, or unless I am born with a delight in them.
Dress is my own affair, and that of one other in the world; that, in fact,
and for an obvious reason, of any woman who shall chance to be in love
with me. I shall lodge where I have a mind. If I do not ask society to
live with me, they must be silent; and even if I do, they have no further
right but to refuse the invitation.
To a gentleman is to be one all the world over, and in every relation and
grade of society. It is a high calling, to which a man must first be born,
and then devote himself for life. And, unhappily, the manners of a certain
so-called upper grade have a kind of currency, and meet with a certain
external acceptation throughout all the others, and this tends to keep us
well satisfied with slight acquirements and the amateurish accomplishments
of a clique. But manners, like art, should be human and central.
Respectability is a very thing in its way, but it does not rise superior
to all considerations. I would not for a moment venture to hint that it
was a matter of taste; but I think I will go as far as this: that if a
position is admittedly unkind, uncomfortable, unnecessary, and
superfluously useless, although it were as respectable as the Church of
England, the sooner a man is out of it, the better for himself and all
concerned.
After all, I thought, our satirist has just gone far enough into his
neighbours to find that the outside is false, without caring to go farther
and discover what is really true. He is content to find that things are
not what they seem, and broadly generalises from it that they do not exist
at all. He sees our virtues are not what they pretend they are; and, on
the strength of that, he denies us the possession of virtue altogether. He
has learned the first lesson, that no man is wholly good; but he has not
even suspected that there is another equally true, to wit, that no man is
wholly bad.
Or take the case of men of letters. Every piece of work which is not as
good as you can make it, which you have palmed off imperfect, meagrely
thought, niggardly in execution, upon mankind, who is your paymaster on
parole, and in a sense your pupil, every hasty or slovenly or untrue
performance, should rise up against you in the court of your own heart and
condemn you for a thief.
Sympathy is a thing to be encouraged, apart from humane considerations,
because it supplies us with the materials for wisdom. It is probably more
instructive to entertain a sneaking kindness for any unpopular person....
than to give way to perfect raptures of moral indignation against his
abstract vices.
In the best fabric of duplicity there is some weak point, if you can
strike it, which will loosen all.
It is at best but a pettifogging, pickthank business to decompose actions
into little personal motives, and explain heroism away. The Abstract
Bagman will grow like an Admiral at heart, not by ungrateful carping, but
in a heat of admiration.
After an hospital, what uglier piece is there in civilisation than a court
of law? Hither come envy, malice, and all uncharitableness to wrestle it
out in public tourney; crimes, broken fortunes, severed households, the
knave and his victim, gravitate to this low building with the arcade. To
how many has not St. Giles’s bell told the first hour after ruin? I think
I see them pause to count the strokes and wander on again into the moving
High Street, stunned and sick at heart.
There are two things that men should never weary of—goodness and
humility.
It is not enough to have earned our livelihood. Either the earning itself
should have been serviceable to mankind, or something else must follow. To
live is sometimes very difficult, but it is never meritorious in itself;
and we must have a reason to allege to our own conscience why we should
continue to exist upon this crowded earth. If Thoreau had simply dwelt in
his house at Walden, a lover of trees, birds, and fishes, and the open air
and virtue, a reader of wise books, an idle, selfish self-improver, he
would have managed to cheat Admetus, but, to cling to metaphor, the devil
would have had him in the end. Those who can avoid toil altogether and
dwell in the Arcadia of private means, and even those who can, by
abstinence, reduce the necessary amount of it to some six weeks a year,
having the more liberty, have only the higher moral obligation to be up
and doing in the interest of man.
A man may have done well for years, and then he may fail; he will hear of
his failure. Or he may have done well for years, and still do well, but
the critic may have tired of praising him, or there may have sprung up
some new idol of the instant, some ‘dust a little gilt,’ to whom they now
prefer to offer sacrifice. Here is the obverse and the reverse of that
empty and ugly thing called popularity. Will any man suppose it worth
gaining?
Among sayings that have a currency in spite of being wholly false upon the
face of them for the sake of a half-truth upon another subject which is
accidentally combined with the error, one of the grossest and broadest
conveys the monstrous proposition that it is easy to tell the truth and
hard to tell a lie. I wish heartily it were. But the truth is one; it has
first to be discovered, then justly and exactly uttered.
For such things as honour and love and faith are not only nobler than food
and drink, but indeed I think that we desire them more, and suffer more
sharply for their absence.
There is a strong feeling in favour of cowardly and prudential proverbs.
The sentiments of a man while he is full of ardour and hope are to be
received, it is supposed, with some qualification. But when the same
person has ignominiously failed and begins to eat up his words, he should
be listened to like an oracle. Most of our pocket wisdom is conceived for
the use of mediocre people, to discourage them from ambitious attempts,
and generally console them in their mediocrity. And since mediocre people
constitute the bulk of humanity, this is no doubt very properly so. But it
does not follow that the one sort of proposition is any less true than the
other, or that Icarus is not to be more praised, and perhaps more envied,
than Mr. Samuel Budgett the successful merchant.
‘You know it very well, it cannot in any way help that you should brood
upon it, and I sometimes wonder whether you and I—who are a pair of
sentimentalists—are quite good judges of plain men.’
For, after all, we are vessels of a very limited content. Not all men can
read all books; it is only in a chosen few that any man will find his
appointed food; and the fittest lessons are the most, palatable, and make
themselves welcome to the mind.
It is all very fine to talk about tramps and morality. Six hours of police
surveillance (such as I have had) or one brutal rejection from an inn-door
change your views upon the subject like a course of lectures. As long as
you keep in the upper regions, with all the world bowing to you as you go,
social arrangements have a very handsome air; but once get under the
wheels and you wish society were at the devil. I will give most
respectable men a fortnight of such a life, and then I will offer them
twopence for what remains of their morality.
I hate cynicism a great deal worse than I do the devil; unless, perhaps,
the two were the same thing? And yet ‘tis a good tonic; the cold tub and
bath-towel of the sentiments; and positively necessary to life in cases of
advanced sensibility.
Most men, finding themselves the authors of their own disgrace, rail the
louder against God or destiny. Most men, when they repent, oblige their
friends to share the bitterness of that repentance.
Delay, they say, begetteth peril; but it is rather this itch of doing that
undoes men.
Every man has a sane spot somewhere.
That is never a bad wind that blows where we want to go.
It is a great thing if you can persuade people that they are somehow or
other partakers in a mystery. It makes them feel bigger.
But it is an evil age for the gypsily inclined among men. He who can sit
squarest on a three-legged stool, he it is who has the wealth and glory.
For truth that is suppressed by friends is the readiest weapon of the
enemy.
But O, what a cruel thing is a farce to those engaged in it!
It is not always the most faithful believer who makes the cunningest
apostle.
Vanity dies hard; in some obstinate cases it outlives the man.
A man may live in dreams, and yet be unprepared for their realisation.
‘Be soople, Davie, in things immaterial.’
No class of man is altogether bad; but each has its own faults and
virtues.
But it is odd enough, the very women who profess most contempt for mankind
as a sex seem to find even its ugliest particulars rather lively and
high-minded in their own sons.
To cling to what is left of any damaged quality is virtue in the man.
But we have no bravery nowadays, and, even in books, must all pretend to
be as dull and foolish as our neighbours.
It always warms a man to see a woman brave.
Condescension is an excellent thing, but it is strange how one-sided the
pleasure of it is!
Some strand of our own misdoing is involved in every quarrel.
There was never an ill thing made better by meddling.
Let any man speak long enough, he will get believers.
Every one lives by selling something, whatever be his right to it.
A man dissatisfied with endeavour is a man tempted to sadness.
Drama is the poetry of conduct, romance the poetry of circumstance.
It is one of the most common forms of depreciation to throw cold water on
the whole by adroit over-commendation of a part, since everything worth
judging, whether it be a man, a work of art, or only a fine city, must be
judged upon its merits as a whole.
I wonder, would a negative be found enticing? for, from the negative point
of view, I flatter myself this volume has a certain stamp. Although it
runs to considerably over a hundred pages, it contains not a single
reference to the imbecility of God’s universe, nor so much as a single
hint that I could have made a better one myself—I really do not know
where my head can have been.
It’s deadly commonplace, but, after all, the commonplaces are the great
poetic truths.
Those who try to be artists use, time after time, the matter of their
recollections, setting and resetting little coloured memories of men and
scenes, rigging up (it may be) some especial friend in the attire of a
buccaneer, and decreeing armies to manoeuvre, or murder to be done, on the
playground of their youth. But the memories are a fairy gift which cannot
be worn out in using. After a dozen services in various tales, the little
sunbright pictures of the past still shine in the mind’s eye with not a
lineament defaced, not a tint impaired. GLUCK UND UNGLUCK WIRD GESANG, if
Goethe pleases; yet only by endless avatars, the original re-embodying
after each. So that a writer, in time, begins to wonder at the perdurable
life of these impressions; begins, perhaps, to fancy that he wrongs them
when he weaves them in with fiction; and looking back on them with
ever-growing kindness, puts them at last, substantive jewels, in a setting
of their own.
Place them in a hospital, put them in a jail in yellow overalls, do what
you will, young Jessamy finds young Jenny.
‘You fret against the common law,’ I said. ‘You rebel against the voice of
God, which He has made so winning to convince, so imperious to command.
Hear it, and how it speaks between us! Your hand clings to mine, your
heart leaps at my touch, the unknown elements of which we are compounded
awake and run together at a look; the clay of the earth remembers its
independent life, and yearns to join us; we are drawn together as the
stars are turned about in space, or as the tides ebb and flow; by things
older and greater than we ourselves.’
‘Olalla,’ I said, ‘the soul and the body are one, and mostly so in love.
What the body chooses, the soul loves; where the body clings, the soul
cleaves; body for body, soul to soul, they come together at God’s signal;
and the lower part (if we can call aught low) is only the footstool and
foundation of the highest.’
She sent me away, and yet I had but to call upon her name and she came to
me. These were but the weaknesses of girls, from which even she, the
strangest of her sex, was not exempted.
For even in love there are unlovely humours; ambiguous acts, unpardonable
words, may yet have sprung from a kind sentiment. If the injured one could
read your heart, you may be sure that he would understand and pardon; but,
alas! the heart cannot be shown—it has to be demonstrated in words.
There is no greater wonder than the way the face of a young woman fits in
a man’s mind, and stays there, and he could never tell you why; it just
seems it was the thing he wanted.
There are many matters in which you may waylay Destiny, and bid him stand
and deliver. Hard work, high thinking, adventurous excitement, and a great
deal more that forms a part of this or the other person’s spiritual bill
of fare, are within the reach of almost any one who can dare a little and
be patient. But it is by no means in the way of every one to fall in
love....A wet rag goes safely by the fire; and if a man is blind, he
cannot expect to be much impressed by romantic scenery. Apart from all
this, many lovable people miss each other in the world, or meet under some
unfavourable star.
To deal plainly, if they only married when they fell in love, most people
would die unwed; and among the others, there would be not a few tumultuous
households. The Lion is the King of Beasts, but he is scarcely suitable
for a domestic pet. In the same way, I suspect love is rather too violent
a passion to make, in all cases, a good domestic sentiment. Like other
violent excitements, it throws up not only what is best, but what is worst
and smallest, in men’s characters. Just as some people are malicious in
drink, or brawling and virulent under the influence of religious feeling,
some are moody, jealous, and exacting when they are in love, who are
honest, downright, good-hearted fellows enough in the everyday affairs and
humours of the world.
There is only one event in life which really astonishes a man and startles
him out of his prepared opinions. Everything else befalls him very much as
he expected. Event succeeds to event, with an agreeable variety indeed,
but with little that is either startling or intense; they form together no
more than a sort of background, or running accompaniment to the man’s own
reflections; and he falls naturally into a cool, curious, and smiling
habit of mind, and builds himself up in a conception of life which expects
to-morrow to be after the pattern of to-day and yesterday. He may be
accustomed to the vagaries of his friend and acquaintances under the
influence of love. He may sometime look forward to it for himself with an
incomprehensible expectation. But it is a subject in which neither
intuition nor the behaviour of others will help the philosopher to the
truth. There is probably nothing rightly thought or rightly written on
this matter of love that is not a piece of the person’s experience.
It is the property of things seen for the first time, or for the first
time after long, like the flowers in spring, to re-awaken in us the sharp
edge of sense, and that impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise
passes out of life with the coming years; but the sight of a loved face is
what renews a man’s character from the fountain upwards.
Nothing is given for nothing in this world; there can be no true love,
even on your own side, without devotion; devotion is the exercise of love,
by which it grows; but if you will give enough of that, if you will pay
the price in a sufficient ‘amount of what you call life,’ why then,
indeed, whether with wife or comrade, you may have months and even years
of such easy, natural, pleasurable, and yet improving intercourse as shall
make time a moment and kindness a delight.
Love is not blind, nor yet forgiving. ‘O yes, believe me,’ as the song
says, ‘Love has eyes!’ The nearer the intimacy, the more cuttingly do we
feel the unworthiness of those we love; and because you love one, and
would die for that love to-morrow, you have not forgiven, and you never
will forgive that friend’s misconduct. If you want a person’s faults, go
to those who love him. They will not tell you, but they know. And herein
lies the magnanimous courage of love, that it endures this knowledge
without change.
Certainly, whatever it may be with regard to the world at large, this idea
of beneficent pleasure is true as between the sweethearts. To do good and
communicate is the lover’s grand intention. It is the happiness of the
other that makes his own most intense gratification. It is not possible to
disentangle the different emotions, the pride, humility, pity, and
passion, which are excited by a look of happy love or an unexpected
caress. To make one’s self beautiful, to dress the hair, to excel in talk,
to do anything and all things that puff out the character and attributes
and make them imposing in the eyes of others, is not only to magnify one’s
self, but to offer the most delicate homage at the same time. And it is in
this latter intention that they are done by lovers, for the essence of
love is kindness; and, indeed, it may be best defined as passionate
kindness; kindness, so to speak, run mad and become importunate and
violent.
What sound is so full of music as one’s own name uttered for the first
time in the voice of her we love!
We make love, and thereby ourselves fall the deeper in it. It is with the
heart only that one captures a heart.
O, have it your own way; I am too old a hand to argue with young gentlemen
who choose to fancy themselves in love; I have too much experience, thank
you.
And love, considered as a spectacle, must have attractions for many who
are not of the confraternity. The sentimental old maid is a commonplace of
the novelists; and he must be rather a poor sort of human being, to be
sure, who can look on at this pretty madness without indulgence and
sympathy. For nature commends itself to people with a most insinuating
art; the busiest is now and again arrested by a great sunset; and you may
be as pacific or as cold-blooded as you will, but you cannot help some
emotion when you read of well-disputed battles, or meet a pair of lovers
in the lane.
Jealousy, at any rate, is one of the consequences of love; you may like it
or not, at pleasure; but there it is.
With our chosen friends, on the other hand, and still more between lovers
(for mutual understanding is love’s essence), the truth is easily
indicated by the one and aptly comprehended by the other. A hint taken, a
look understood, conveys the gist of long and delicate explanations; and
where the life is known even YEA and NAY become luminous. In the closest
of all relations—that of a love well founded and equally
shared-speech is half discarded, like a roundabout, infantile process or a
ceremony of formal etiquette; and the two communicate directly by their
presences, and with few looks and fewer words contrive to share their good
and evil and uphold each other’s hearts in joy.
And yet even while I was exulting in my solitude I became aware of a
strange lack. I wished a companion to lie near me in the starlight, silent
and not moving, but ever within touch. For there is a fellowship more
quiet even than solitude, and which, rightly understood, is solitude made
perfect. And to live out of doors with the woman a man loves is of all
lives the most complete and free.
The flower of the hedgerow and the star of heaven satisfy and delight us:
how much more the look of the exquisite being who was created to bear and
rear, to madden and rejoice mankind!
So strangely are we built: so much more strong is the love of woman than
the mere love of life.
You think that pity—and the kindred sentiments-have the greatest
power upon the heart. I think more nobly of women. To my view, the man
they love will first of all command their respect; he will be
steadfast-proud, if you please; dry-possibly-but of all things steadfast.
They will look at him in doubt; at last they will see that stern face
which he presents to all of the rest of the world soften to them alone.
First, trust, I say. It is so that a woman loves who is worthy of heroes.
The sex likes to pick up knowledge and yet preserve its superiority. It is
good policy, and almost necessary in the circumstances. If a man finds a
woman admires him, were it only for his acquaintance with geography, he
will begin at once to build upon the admiration. It is only by
unintermittent snubbing that the pretty ones can keep us in our place.
Men, as Miss Howe or Miss Harlowe would have said, ‘are such encroachers.’
For my part, I am body and soul with the women; and after a well-married
couple, there is nothing so beautiful in the world as the myth of the
divine huntress. It is no use for a man to take to the woods; we know him;
Anthony tried the same thing long ago, and had a pitiful time of it by all
accounts. But there is this about some women, which overtops the best
gymnosophist among men, that they suffice themselves, and can walk in a
high and cold zone without the countenance of any trousered being. I
declare, although the reverse of a professed ascetic, I am more obliged to
women for this ideal than I should be to the majority of them, or indeed
to any but one, for a spontaneous kiss. There is nothing so encouraging as
the spectacle of self-sufficiency. And when I think of the slim and lovely
maidens, running the woods all night to the note of Diana’s horn; moving
among the old oaks, as fancy-free as they; things of the forest and the
starlight, not touched by the commotion of man’s hot and turbid
life-although there are plenty other ideals that I should prefer—I
find my heart beat at the thought of this one. ‘Tis to fail in life, but
to fail with what a grace! That is not lost which is not regretted. And
where—here slips out the male—where would be much of the glory
of inspiring love, if there were no contempt to overcome?
The drawing-room is, indeed, an artificial place; it is so by our choice
and for our sins. The subjection of women; the ideal imposed upon them
from the cradle, and worn, like a hair-shirt, with so much constancy;
their motherly, superior tenderness to man’s vanity and self-importance;
their managing arts-the arts of a civilised slave among good-natured
barbarians-are all painful ingredients and all help to falsify relations.
It is not till we get clear of that amusing artificial scene that genuine
relations are founded, or ideas honestly compared. In the garden, on the
road or the hillside, or TETE-A-TETE and apart from interruptions,
occasions arise when we may learn much from any single woman; and nowhere
more often than in married life. Marriage is one long conversation,
chequered by disputes. The disputes are valueless; they but ingrain the
difference; the heroic heart of woman prompting her at once to nail her
colours to the mast. But in the intervals, almost unconsciously and with
no desire to shine, the whole material of life is turned over and over,
ideas are struck out and shared, the two persons more and more adapt their
notions one to suit the other, and in process of time, without sound of
trumpet, they conduct each other into new worlds of thought.
Kirstie was now over fifty, and might have sat to a sculptor. Long of
limb, and still light of foot, deep-breasted, robust-loined, her golden
hair not yet mingled with any trace of silver, the years had but caressed
and embellished her. By the lines of a rich and vigorous maternity, she
seemed destined to be the bride of heroes and the mother of their
children.
And lastly, he was dark and she fair, and he was male and she female, the
everlasting fountain of interest.
The effervescency of her passionate and irritable nature rose within her
at times to bursting point. This is the price paid by age for unseasonable
ardours of feeling.
Weir must have supposed his bride to be somewhat suitable; perhaps he
belonged to that class of men who think a weak head the ornament of women—an
opinion invariably punished in this life.
Never ask women folk. They’re bound to answer ‘No.’ God never made the
lass that could resist the temptation.
It is an odd thing how happily two people, if there are two, can live in a
place where they have no acquaintance. I think the spectacle of a whole
life in which you have no part paralyses personal desire. You are content
to become a mere spectator. The baker stands in his door; the colonel with
his three medals goes by to the CAFE at night; the troops drum and trumpet
and man the ramparts as bold as so many lions. It would task language to
say how placidly you behold all this. In a place where you have taken some
root you are provoked out of your indifference; you have a hand in the
game—your friends are fighting with the army. But in a strange town,
not small enough to grow too soon familiar, nor so large as to have laid
itself out for travellers, you stand so far apart from the business that
you positively forget it would be possible to go nearer; you have so
little human interest around you that you do not remember yourself to be a
man.
Pity was her weapon and her weakness. To accept the loved one’s faults,
although it has an air of freedom, is to kiss the chain.
Marriage is a step so grave and decisive that it attracts light-headed,
variable men by its very awfulness. They have been so tried among the
inconstant squalls and currents, so often sailed for islands in the air or
lain becalmed with burning heart, that they will risk all for solid ground
below their feet. Desperate pilots, they run their sea-sick, weary bark
upon the dashing rocks. It seems as if marriage were the royal road
through life, and realised, on the instant, what we have all dreamed on
summer Sundays when the bells ring, or at night when we cannot sleep for
the desire of living. They think it will sober and change them. Like those
who join a brotherhood, they fancy it needs but an act to be out of the
coil and clamour for ever. But this is a wile of the devil’s. To the end,
spring winds will sow disquietude, passing faces leave a regret behind
them, and the whole world keep calling and calling in their ears. For
marriage is like life in this-that it is a field of battle, and not a bed
of roses.
For there is something in marriage so natural and inviting, that the step
has an air of great simplicity and ease; it offers to bury for ever many
aching preoccupations; it is to afford us unfailing and familiar company
through life; it opens up a smiling prospect of the blest and passive kind
of love, rather than the blessing and active; it is approached not only
through the delights of courtship, but by a public performance and
repeated legal signatures. A man naturally thinks it will go hard within
such august circumvallations. And yet there is probably no other act in a
man’s life so hot-headed and foolhardy as this one of marriage.
Again, when you have married your wife, you would think you were got upon
a hilltop, and might begin to go downward by an easy slope. But you have
only ended courting to begin marriage. Falling in love and winning love
are often difficult tasks to overbearing and rebellious spirits; but to
keep in love is also a business of some importance, to which both man and
wife must bring kindness and goodwill. The true love story commences at
the altar, when there lies before the married pair a most beautiful
contest of wisdom and generosity, and a life-long struggle towards an
unattainable ideal. Unattainable? Ay, surely unattainable, from the very
fact that they are two instead of one.
When the generation is gone, when the play is over, when the thirty years’
panorama has been withdrawn in tatters from the stage of the world, we may
ask what has become of these great, weighty, and undying loves and the
sweethearts who despised mortal conditions in a fine credulity; and they
can only show us a few songs in a bygone taste, a few actions worth
remembering, and a few children who have retained some happy stamp from
the disposition of their parents.
Hope looks for unqualified success; but Faith counts certainly on failure,
and takes honourable defeat to be a form of victory. In the first, he
expects an angel for a wife; in the last, he knows that she is like
himself—erring, thoughtless, and untrue; but like himself also,
filled with a struggling radiancy of better things, and adorned with
ineffective qualities. You may safely go to school with hope; but, ere you
marry, should have learned the mingled lesson of the world: that dolls are
stuffed with sawdust, and yet are excellent playthings; that hope and love
address themselves to a perfection never realised, and yet, firmly held,
become the salt and staff of life; that you yourself are compacted of
infirmities, perfect, you might say, in imperfections, and yet you have a
something in you lovable and worth preserving; and that, while the mass of
mankind lies under this scurvy condemnation, you will scarce find one but,
by some generous reading, will become to you a lesson, a model, and a
noble spouse through life. So thinking, you will constantly support your
own unworthiness, and easily forgive the failings of your friend. Nay, you
will be wisely glad that you retain the sense of blemishes; for the faults
of married people continually spur up each of them, hour by hour, to do
better and to meet and love upon a higher ground. And ever, between the
failures, there will come glimpses of kind virtues to encourage and
console.
But it is the object of a liberal education not only to obscure the
knowledge of one sex by another, but to magnify the natural differences
between the two. Man is a creature who lives not upon bread alone, but
principally by catchwords; and the little rift between the sexes is
astonishingly widened by simply teaching one set of catchwords to the
girls and another to the boys. To the first, there is shown but a very
small field of experience, and taught a very trenchant principle for
judgment and action; to the other, the world of life is more largely
displayed, and their rule of conduct is proportionally widened. They are
taught to follow different virtues, to hate different vices, to place
their ideal, even for each other, in different achievements. What should
be the result of such a course? When a horse has run away, and the two
flustered people in the gig have each possessed themselves of a rein, we
know the end of that conveyance will be in the ditch. So, when I see a raw
youth and a green girl, fluted and fiddled in a dancing measure into that
most serious contract, and setting out upon life’s journey with ideas so
monstrously divergent, I am not surprised that some make shipwreck, but
that any come to port.
Those who have a few intimates are to be avoided; while those who swim
loose, who have their hat in their hand all along the street, who can
number an infinity of acquaintances, and are not chargeable with any one
friend, promise an easy disposition and no rival to the wife’s influence.
I will not say they are the best of men, but they are the stuff out of
which adroit and capable women manufacture the best husbands.
A ship captain is a good man to marry if it is a marriage of love, for
absences are a good influence in love, and keep it bright and delicate;
but he is just the worst man if the feeling is more pedestrian, as habit
is too frequently torn open and the solder has never time to set.
A certain sort of talent is almost indispensable for people who would
spend years together and not bore themselves to death. But the talent,
like the agreement, must be for and about life. To dwell happily together,
they should be versed in the niceties of the heart, and born with a
faculty for willing compromise. The woman must be talented as a woman, and
it will not much matter although she is talented in nothing else. She must
know HER METIER DE FEMME, and have a fine touch for the affections. And it
is more important that a person should be a good gossip, and talk
pleasantly and smartly of common friends and the thousand and one nothings
of the day and hour, than that she should speak with the tongues of men
and angels; for a while together by the fire happens more frequently in
marriage than the presence of a distinguished foreigner to dinner.... You
could read Kant by yourself, if you wanted; but you must share a joke with
some one else. You can forgive people who do not follow you through a
philosophical disquisition; but to find your wife laughing when you had
tears in your eyes, or staring when you were in a fit of laughter, would
go some way towards a dissolution of the marriage.
Now this is where there should be community between man and wife. They
should be agreed on their catchword in FACTS OF RELIGION, OR FACTS OF
SCIENCE, OR SOCIETY, MY DEAR; for without such an agreement all
intercourse is a painful strain upon the mind.... For there are
differences which no habit nor affection can reconcile, and the Bohemian
must not intermarry with the Pharisee. Imagine Consuelo as Mrs. Samuel
Budgett, the wife of the successful merchant! The best of men and the best
of women may sometimes live together all their lives, and, for want of
some consent on fundamental questions, hold each other lost spirits to the
end.
Marriage is of so much use to women, opens out to her so much more of
life, and puts her in the way of so much more freedom and usefulness,
that, whether she marry ill or well, she can hardly miss some benefit. It
is true, however, that some of the merriest and most genuine of women are
old maids; and that those old maids, and wives who are unhappily married,
have often most of the true motherly touch.
The fact is, we are much more afraid of life than our ancestors, and
cannot find it in our hearts either to marry or not to marry. Marriage is
terrifying, but so is a cold and forlorn old age. People who share a cell
in the Bastile, or are thrown together on an uninhabited isle, if they do
not immediately fall to fisticuffs, will find some possible ground of
compromise. They will learn each other’s ways and humours, so as to know
where they must go warily, and where they may lean their whole weight. The
discretion of the first years becomes the settled habit of the last; and
so, with wisdom and patience, two lives may grow indissolubly into one.
‘Well, an ye like maids so little, y’are true natural man; for God made
them twain by intention, and brought true love into the world, to be man’s
hope and woman’s comfort.’
There are no persons so far away as those who are both married and
estranged, so that they seem out of earshot, or to have no common tongue.
My idea of man’s chief end was to enrich the world with things of beauty,
and have a fairly good time myself while doing so.
But the gymnast is not my favourite; he has little or no tincture of the
artist in his composition; his soul is small and pedestrian, for the most
part, since his profession makes no call upon it, and does not accustom
him to high ideas. But if a man is only so much of an actor that he can
stumble through a farce, he is made free of a new order of thoughts. He
has something else to think about beside the money-box. He has a pride of
his own, and, what is of far more importance, he has an aim before him
that he can never quite attain. He has gone upon a pilgrimage that will
last him his life long, because there is no end to it short of perfection.
He will better himself a little day by day; or, even if he has given up
the attempt, he will always remember that once upon a time he had
conceived this high ideal, that once upon a time he fell in love with a
star. ‘Tis better to have loved and lost.’ Although the moon should have
nothing to say to Endymion, although he should settle down with Audrey and
feed pigs, do you not think he would move with a better grace and cherish
higher thoughts to the end? The louts he meets at church never had a fancy
above Audrey’s snood; but there is a reminiscence in Endymion’s heart
that, like a spice, keeps it fresh and haughty.
People do things, and suffer martyrdom, because they have an inclination
that way. The best artist is not the man who fixes his eye on posterity,
but the one who loves the practice of his art. And instead of having a
taste for being successful merchants and retiring at thirty, some people
have a taste for high and what we call heroic forms of excitement.
These are predestined; if a man love the labour of any trade, apart from
any question of success or fame, the gods have called him.
The incommunicable thrill of things, that is the tuning-fork by which we
test the flatness of our art. Here it is that Nature teaches and condemns,
and still spurs us up to further effort and new failure.
To please is to serve; and so far from its being difficult to instruct
while you amuse, it is difficult to do the one thoroughly without the
other.
We shall never learn the affinities of beauty, for they lie too deep in
nature and too far back in the mysterious history of man.
Mirth, lyric mirth, and a vivacious contentment are of the very essence of
the better kind of art.
This is the particular crown and triumph of the artist—not to be
true merely, but to be lovable; not simply to convince, but to enchant.
Life is hard enough for poor mortals, without having it indefinitely
embittered for them by bad art.
So that the first duty of any man who is to write is intellectual.
Designedly or not, he has so far set himself up for a leader in the minds
of men; and he must see that his own mind is kept supple, charitable, and
bright. Everything but prejudice should find a voice through him; he
should see the good in all things; where he has even a fear that he does
not wholly understand, there he should be wholly silent; and he should
recognise from the first that he has only one tool in his workshop, and
that tool is sympathy.
Through no art beside the art of words can the kindness of a man’s
affections be expressed. In the cuts you shall find faithfully paraded the
quaintness and the power, the triviality and the surprising freshness of
the author’s fancy; there you shall find him outstripped in ready
symbolism and the art of bringing things essentially invisible before the
eyes: but to feel the contact of essential goodness, to be made in love
with piety, the book must be read and not the prints examined.
And then I had an idea for John Silver from which I promised myself funds
of entertainment: to take an admired friend of mine (whom the reader very
likely knows and admires as much as I do), to deprive him of all his finer
qualities and higher graces of temperament, to leave him with nothing but
his strength, his courage, his quickness, and his magnificent geniality,
and to try to express these in terms of the culture of a raw tarpaulin,
such physical surgery is, I think, a common way of ‘making character’;
perhaps it is, indeed, the only way. We can put in the quaint figure that
spoke a hundred words with us yesterday by the wayside; but do we know
him? Our friend with his infinite variety and flexibility, we know-but can
we put him in? Upon the first, we must engraft secondary and imaginary
qualities, possibly all wrong; from the second, knife in hand, we must cut
away and deduct the needless arborescence of his nature, but the trunk and
the few branches that remain we may at least be fairly sure of.
In anything fit to be called by the name of reading, the process itself
should be absorbing and voluptuous; we should gloat over a book, be rapt
clean out of ourselves, and rise from the perusal, our mind filled with
the busiest, kaleidoscopic dance of images, incapable of sleep or of
continuous thought. The words, if the book be eloquent, should run
thenceforward in our ears like the noise of breakers, and the story, if it
be a story, repeat itself in a thousand coloured pictures to the eye.
The obvious is not of necessity the normal; fashion rules and deforms; the
majority fall tamely into the contemporary shape, and thus attain, in the
eyes of the true observer, only a higher power of insignificance; and the
danger is lest, in seeking to draw the normal, a man should draw the null,
and write the novel of society instead of the romance of man.
There is a kind of gaping admiration that would fain roll Shakespeare and
Bacon into one, to have a bigger thing to gape at; and a class of men who
cannot edit one author without disparaging all others.
Style is the invariable mark of any master; and for the student who does
not aspire so high as to be numbered with the giants, it is still the one
quality in which he may improve himself at will. Passion, wisdom, creative
force, the power of mystery or colour, are allotted in the hour of birth,
and can be neither learned nor stimulated. But the just and dexterous use
of what qualities we have, the proportion of one part to another and to
the whole, the elision of the useless, the accentuation of the important,
and the preservation of a uniform character end to end—these, which
taken together constitute technical perfection, are to some degree within
the reach of industry and intellectual courage.
The love of words and not a desire to publish new discoveries, the love,
of form and not a novel reading of historical events, mark the vocation of
the writer and the painter.
The life of the apprentice to any art is both unstrained and pleasing; it
is strewn with small successes in the midst of a career of failure,
patiently supported; the heaviest scholar is conscious of a certain
progress; and if he come not appreciably nearer to the art of Shakespeare,
grows letter-perfect in the domain of A-B, ab.
The fortune of a tale lies not alone in the skill of him that writes, but
as much, perhaps, in the inherited experience of him who reads; and when I
hear with a particular thrill of things that I have never done or seen, it
is one of that innumerable army of my ancestors rejoicing in past deeds.
Thus novels begin to touch not the fine DILETTANTI but the gross mass of
mankind, when they leave off to speak of parlours and shades of manner and
still-born niceties of motive, and begin to deal with fighting, sailoring,
adventure, death or childbirth; and thus ancient outdoor crafts and
occupations, whether Mr. Hardy wields the shepherd’s crook or Count
Tolstoi swings the scythe, lift romance into a near neighbourhood with
epic. These aged things have on them the dew of man’s morning; they lie
near, not so much to us, the semi-artificial flowerets, as to the trunk
and aboriginal taproot of the race. A thousand interests spring up in the
process of the ages, and a thousand perish; that is now an eccentricity or
a lost art which was once the fashion of an empire; and those only are
perennial matters that rouse us to-day, and that roused men in all epochs
of the past.
L’ART DE BIEN DIRE is but a drawing-room accomplishment unless it be
pressed into the service of the truth. The difficulty of literature is not
to write, but to write what you mean; not to affect your reader, but to
affect him precisely as you wish. This is commonly understood in the case
of books or set orations; even in making your will, or writing an explicit
letter, some difficulty is admitted by the world. But one thing you can
never make Philistine natures understand; one thing, which yet lies on the
surface, remains as unseizable to their wits as a high flight of
metaphysics-namely, that the business of life is mainly carried on by
means of this difficult art of literature, and according to a man’s
proficiency in that art shall be the freedom and fulness of his
intercourse with other men. Anybody, it is supposed, can say what he
means; and, in spite of their notorious experience to the contrary, people
so continue to suppose.
Even women, who understand men so well for practical purposes, do not know
them well enough for the purposes of art. Take even the very best of their
male creations, take Tito Melema, for instance, and you will find he has
an equivocal air, and every now and again remembers he has a comb in the
back of his head. Of course, no woman will believe this, and many men will
be so polite as to humour their incredulity.
A dogma learned is only a new error—the old one was perhaps as good;
but a spirit communicated is a perpetual possession. These best teachers
climb beyond teaching to the plane of art; it is themselves, and what is
best in themselves, that they communicate.
In this world of imperfections we gladly welcome even partial intimacies.
And if we find but one to whom we can speak out our heart freely, with
whom we can walk in love and simplicity without dissimulation, we have no
ground of quarrel with the world or God.
But we are all travellers in what John Bunyan calls the wilderness of this
world-all, too, travellers with a donkey; and the best that we find in our
travels is an honest friend. He is a fortunate voyager who finds many. We
travel, indeed, to find them. They are the end and the reward of life.
They keep us worthy of. ourselves; and when we are alone, we are only
nearer to the absent.
We are all INCOMPRIS, only more or less concerned for the mischance; all
trying wrongly to do right; all fawning at each other’s feet like dumb,
neglected lap-dogs. Sometimes we catch an eye-this is our opportunity in
the ages—and we wag our tail with a poor smile. ‘IS THAT ALL?’ All?
If you only knew! But how can they know? They do not love us; the more
fools we to squander life on the indifferent. But the morality of the
thing, you will be glad to hear, is excellent; for it is only by trying to
understand others that we can get our own hearts understood; and in
matters of human feeling the clement judge is the most successful pleader.
There is no friendship so noble, but it is the product of the time; and a
world of little finical observances, and little frail proprieties and
fashions of the hour, go to make or to mar, to stint or to perfect, the
union of spirits the most loving and the most intolerant of such
interference. The trick of the country and the age steps in even between
the mother and her child, counts out their caresses upon niggardly
fingers, and says, in the voice of authority, that this one thing shall be
a matter of confidence between them, and this other thing shall not.
There is not anything more bitter than to lose a fancied friend.
The habitual liar may be a very honest fellow, and live truly with his
wife and friends; while another man who never told a formal falsehood in
his life may yet be himself one lie-heart and face, from top to bottom.
This is the kind of lie which poisons intimacy. And, vice versa, veracity
to sentiment, truth in a relation, truth to your own heart and your
friends, never to feign or falsify emotion—that is the truth which
makes love possible and mankind happy.
But surely it is no very extravagant opinion that it is better to give
than to receive, to serve than to use our companions; and, above all,
where there is no question of service upon either side, that it is good to
enjoy their company like a natural man.
A man who has a few friends, or one who has a dozen (if there be any one
so wealthy on this earth), cannot forget on how precarious a base his
happiness reposes; and how by a stroke or two of fate—a death, a few
light words, a piece of stamped paper, or a woman’s bright eyes—he
may be left in a month destitute of all.
In these near intimacies, we are ninety-nine times disappointed in our
beggarly selves for once that we are disappointed in our friend; that it
is we who seem most frequently undeserving of the love that unites us; and
that it is by our friend’s conduct that we are continually rebuked and yet
strengthened for a fresh endeavour.
‘There are some pains,’ said he, ‘too acute for consolation, or I would
bring them to my kind consoler.’
But there are duties which come before gratitude and offences which justly
divide friends, far more acquaintances.
Life, though largely, is not entirely carried on by literature. We are
subject to physical passions and contortions; the voice breaks and
changes, and speaks by unconscious and winning inflections; we have
legible countenances, like an open book; things that cannot be said look
eloquently through the eyes; and the soul, not locked into the body as a
dungeon, dwells ever on the threshold with appealing signals. Groans and
tears, looks and gestures, a flush or a paleness, are often the most clear
reporters of the heart, and speak more directly to the hearts of others.
We are different with different friends; yet if we look closely we shall
find that every such relation reposes on some particular apotheosis of
oneself; with each friend, although we could not distinguish it in words
from any other, we have at least one special reputation to preserve: and
it is thus that we run, when mortified, to our friend or the woman that we
love, not to hear ourselves called better, but to be better men in point
of fact. We seek this society to flatter ourselves with our own good
conduct. And hence any falsehood in the relation, any incomplete or
perverted understanding, will spoil even the pleasure of these visits.
But it follows that since they are neither of them so good as the other
hopes, and each is, in a very honest manner, playing a part above his
powers, such an intercourse must often be disappointing to both.
It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made
from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends
were those of his own blood, or those whom he had known the longest; his
affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in
the object.
Of those who are to act influentially on their fellows, we should expect
always something large and public in their way of life, something more or
less urbane and comprehensive in their sentiment for others. We should not
expect to see them spend their sympathy in idyls, however beautiful. We
should not seek them among those who, if they have but a wife to their
bosom, ask no more of womankind, just as they ask no more of their own
sex, if they can find a friend or two for their immediate need. They will
be quick to feel all the pleasures of our association-not the great ones
alone, but all. They will know not love only, but all those other ways in
which man and woman mutually make each other happy-by sympathy, by
admiration, by the atmosphere they bear about them-down to the mere
impersonal pleasure of passing happy faces in the street. For, through all
this gradation, the difference of sex makes itself pleasurably felt. Down
to the most lukewarm courtesies of life, there is a special chivalry due
and a special pleasure received, when the two sexes are brought ever so
lightly into contact. We love our mothers otherwise than we love our
fathers; a sister is not as a brother to us; and friendship between man
and woman, be it never so unalloyed and innocent, is not the same as
friendship between man and man. Such friendship is not even possible for
all. To conjoin tenderness for a woman that is not far short of passionate
with such disinterestedness and beautiful gratuity of affection as there
is between friends of the same sex, requires no ordinary disposition in
the man. For either it would presuppose quite womanly delicacy of
perception, and, as it were, a curiosity in shades of differing sentiment;
or it would mean that he had accepted the large, simple divisions of
society: a strong and positive spirit robustly virtuous, who has chosen a
better part coarsely, and holds to it steadfastly, with all its
consequences of pain to himself and others; as one who should go straight
before him on a journey, neither tempted by wayside flowers nor very
scrupulous of small lives under foot.
I could have thought he had been eaves-dropping at the doors of my heart,
so entire was the coincidence between his writing and my thought.
A knowledge that another has felt as we have felt, and seen things, even
as they are little things, not much otherwise than we have seen them, will
continue to the end to be one of life’s choicest pleasures.
The morning drum-call on my eager ear
Thrills unforgotten yet; the morning dew
Lies yet undried along my field of noon.
But now I pause at whiles in what I do,
And count the bell, and tremble lest I hear
(My work untrimmed) the sunset gun too soon.
The ground of all youth’s suffering, solitude, hysteria, and haunting of
the grave, is nothing else than naked, ignorant selfishness. It is himself
that he sees dead; those are his virtues that are forgotten; his is the
vague epitaph. Pity him but the more, if pity be your cue; for where a man
is all pride, vanity, and personal aspiration, he goes through fire
unshielded. In every part and corner of our life, to lose oneself is to be
gainer; to forget oneself is to be happy; and this poor, laughable, and
tragic fool has not yet learned the rudiments; himself, giant Prometheus,
is still ironed on the peaks of Caucasus. But by and by his truant
interests will leave that tortured body, slip abroad and gather flowers.
Then shall death appear before him in an altered guise; no longer as a
doom peculiar to himself, whether fate’s crowning injustice or his own
last vengeance upon those who fail to value him; but now as a power that
wounds him far more tenderly, not without solemn compensations, taking and
giving, bereaving and yet storing up.
The interests of youth are rarely frank; his passions, like Noah’s dove,
come home to roost. The fire, sensibility, and volume of his own nature,
that is all that he has learned to recognise. The tumultuary and gray tide
of life, the empire of routine, the unrejoicing faces of his elders, fill
him with contemptuous surprise; there also he seems to walk among the
tombs of spirits; and it is only in the course of years, and after much
rubbing with his fellow-men, that he begins by glimpses to see himself
from without and his fellows from within: to know his own for one among
the thousand undenoted countenances of the city street, and to divine in
others the throb of human agony and hope. In the meantime he will avoid
the hospital doors, the pale faces, the cripple, the sweet whiff of
chloroform-for there, on the most thoughtless, the pains of others are
burned home; but he will continue to walk, in a divine self-pity, the
aisles of the forgotten graveyard. The length of man’s life, which is
endless to the brave and busy, is scorned by his ambitious thought. He
cannot bear to have come for so little, and to go again so wholly. He
cannot bear, above all, in that brief scene, to be still idle, and by way
of cure, neglects the little that he has to do. The parable of the talent
is the brief, epitome of youth. To believe in immortality is one thing,
but it is first needful to believe in life. Denunciatory preachers seem
not to suspect that they may be taken gravely and in evil part; that young
men may come to think of time as of a moment, and with the pride of Satan
wave back the inadequate gift. Yet here is a true peril; this it is that
sets them to pace the graveyard alleys and to read, with strange extremes
of pity and derision, the memorials of the dead.
Books were the proper remedy: books of vivid human import, forcing upon
their minds the issues, pleasures, busyness, importance, and immediacy of
that life in which they stand; books of smiling or heroic temper, to
excite or to console; books of a large design, shadowing the complexity of
that game of consequences to which we all sit down, the hanger-back not
least. But the average sermon flees the point, disporting itself in that
eternity of which we know, and need to know, so little; avoiding the
bright, crowded, and momentous fields of life where destiny awaits us.
And so in the majority of cases, a man who fancies himself dying will get
cold comfort from the very youthful view expressed in this essay. He, as a
living man, has some to help, some to love, some to correct; it may be
some to punish. These duties cling, not upon humanity, but upon the man
himself. It is he, not another, who is one woman’s son and a second
woman’s husband, and a third woman’s father. That life which began so
small has now grown, with a myriad filaments, into the lives of others. It
is not indispensable; another will take the place and shoulder the
discharged responsibilities; but the better the man and the nobler his
purposes, the more will he be tempted to regret the extinction of his
powers and the deletion of his personality. To have lived a generation is
not only to have grown at home in that perplexing medium, but to have
assumed innumerable duties. To die at such an age has, for all but the
entirely base, something of the air of a betrayal.
Even if death catch people, like an open pitfall, and in mid-career,
laying out vast projects, and planning monstrous foundations, flushed with
hope, and their mouths full of boastful language, they should be at once
tripped up and silenced: is there not something brave and spirited in such
a termination? and does not life go down with a better grace, foaming in
full body over a precipice, than miserably straggling to an end in sandy
deltas? When the Greeks made their fine saying that those whom the gods
love die young, I cannot help believing they had this sort of death also
in their eye. For, surely, at whatever age it overtake the man, this is to
die young.
And so they were at last in ‘their resting graves.’ So long as men do
their duty, even if it be greatly in a misapprehension, they will be
leading pattern lives; and whether or not they come to lie beside a
martyrs’ monument, we may be sure they will find a safe haven somewhere in
the providence of God. It is not well to think of death, unless we temper
the thought with that of heroes who despised it. Upon what ground, is of
small account; if it be only the bishop who was burned for his faith in
the antipodes, his memory lightens the heart and makes us walk undisturbed
among graves. And so the martyrs’ monument is a wholesome spot in the
field of the dead; and as we look upon it, a brave influence comes to us
from the land of those who have won their discharge, and in another phrase
of Patrick Walker’s, got ‘cleanly off the stage.’
It is not only our enemies, those desperate characters-it is we ourselves
who know not what we do;-thence springs the glimmering hope that perhaps
we do better than we think: that to scramble through this random business
with hands reasonably clean, to have played the part of a man or woman
with some reasonable fulness, to have often resisted the diabolic, and at
the end to be still resisting it, is for the poor human soldier to have
done right well.
We are not content to pass away entirely from the scenes of our delight;
we would leave, if but in gratitude, a pillar and a legend.
There are many spiritual eyes that seem to spy upon our actions-eyes of
the dead and the absent, whom we imagine to behold us in our most private
hours, and whom we fear and scruple to offend: our witnesses and judges.
How unsubstantial is this projection of a man s existence, which can lie
in abeyance for centuries and then be brushed up again and set forth for
the consideration of posterity by a few dips in an antiquary’s ink-pot!
This precarious tenure of fame goes a long way to justify those (and they
are not few) who prefer cakes and cream in the immediate present.
But I beard the voice of a woman singing some sad, old endless ballad not
far off. It seemed to be about love and a BEL AMOUREUX, her handsome
sweetheart; and I wished I could have taken up the strain and answered
her, as I went on upon my invisible woodland way, weaving, like Pippa in
the poem, my own thoughts with hers. What could I have told her? Little
enough; and yet all the heart requires. How the world gives and takes
away, and brings sweethearts near only to separate them again into distant
and strange lands; but to love is the great amulet which makes the world a
garden; and ‘hope, which comes to all,’ outwears the accidents of life,
and reaches with tremulous hand beyond the grave and death. Easy to say:
yea, but also, by God’s mercy, both easy and grateful to believe!
As a matter of fact, although few things are spoken of with more fearful
whisperings than this prospect of death, few have less influence on
conduct under healthy circumstances.... If we clung as devotedly as some
philosophers pretend we do to the abstract idea of life, or were half as
frightened as they make out we are, for the subversive accident that ends
it all, the trumpets might sound by the hour and no one would follow them
into battle—the blue-peter might fly at the truck, but who would
climb into a sea-going ship? Think (if these philosophers were right) with
what a preparation of spirit we should affront the daily peril of the
dinner-table: a deadlier spot than any battle-field in history, where the
far greater proportion of our ancestors have miserably left their bones!
What woman would ever be lured into marriage, so much more dangerous than
the wildest sea? And what would it be to grow old?
If a man knows he will sooner or later be robbed upon a journey, he will
have a bottle of the best in every inn, and look upon all his
extravagances as so much gained upon the thieves. And, above all, where,
instead of simply spending, he makes a profitable investment for some of
his money when it will be out of risk of loss. So every bit of brisk
living, and, above all, when it is healthful, is just so much gained upon
the wholesale filcher, death. We shall have the less in our pockets, the
more in our stomachs, when he cries, ‘Stand and deliver.’
It is better to lose health like a spendthrift than to waste it like a
miser. It is better to live and be done with it, than to die daily in the
sickroom. By all means begin your folio; even if the doctor does not give
you a year, even if he hesitates about a month, make one brave push and
see what can be accomplished in a week. It is not only in finished
undertakings that we ought to honour useful labour. A spirit goes out of
the man who means execution, which outlives the most untimely ending. All
who have meant good work with their whole hearts, have done good work,
although they may die before they have the time to sign it. Every heart
that has beat strong and cheerfully has left a hopeful impulse behind it
in the world, and bettered the tradition of mankind.
Now the man who has his heart on his sleeve, and a good whirling
weathercock of a brain, who reckons his life as a thing to be dashingly
used and cheerfully hazarded, makes a very different acquaintance of the
world, keeps all his pulses going true and fast, and gathers impetus as he
runs, until, if he be running towards anything better than wildfire, he
may shoot up and become a constellation in the end.
When the time comes that he should go, there need be few illusions left
about himself. Here lies one who meant well, tried a little, failed
much:-surely that may be his epitaph, of which he need not be ashamed, nor
will he complain at the summons which calls a defeated soldier from the
field; defeated, ay, if he were Paul or Marcus Aurelius!—but if
there is still one inch of fight in his old spirit, undishonoured. The
faith which sustained him in his lifelong blindness and lifelong
disappointment will scarce even be required in this last formality of
laying down his arms. Give him a march with his old bones; there, out of
the glorious sun-coloured earth, out of the day and the dust and the
ecstasy-there goes another Faithful Failure.
We are apt to make so much of the tragedy of the tragedy of death, and
think so little of the enduring tragedy of some men’s lives, that we see
more to lament for in a life cut off in the midst of usefulness and love,
than in one that miserably survives all love and usefulness, and goes
about the world the phantom of itself, without hope, or joy, or any
consolation.
‘You are a strange physician,’ said Will, looking steadfastly upon his
guest.
‘I am a natural law,’ he replied, ‘and people call me Death.’
‘Why did you not tell me so at first?’ cried Will.
‘I have been waiting for you these many years. Give me your hand, and
welcome.’
Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live, and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
But the girls picked up their skirts, as if they were sure they had good
ankles, and followed until their breath was out. The last to weary were
the three graces and a couple of companions; and just as they, too, had
had enough, the foremost of the three leaped upon a tree-stump and kissed
her hand to the canoeists. Not Diana herself, although this was more of a
Venus, after all, could have done a graceful thing more gracefully. ‘Come
back again!’ she cried; and all the others echoed her; and the hills about
Origny repeated the words, ‘Come back.’ But the river had us round an
angle in a twinkling, and we were alone with the green trees and running
water.
Come back? There is no coming back, young ladies, on the impetuous stream
of life.
‘The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star,
The plowman from the sun his season takes.’
And we must all set our pocket watches by the clock of fate. There is a
headlong, forthright tide, that bears away man with his fancies like
straw, and runs fast in time and space. It is full of curves like this,
your winding river of the Oise; and lingers and returns in pleasant
pastorals; and yet, rightly thought upon, never returns at all. For though
it should revisit the same acre of meadow in the same hour, it will have
made an ample sweep between-whiles; many little streams will have fallen
in; many exhalations risen toward the sun; and even although it were the
same acre, it will not be the same river Oise. And thus, oh graces of
Origny, although the wandering fortune of my life should carry me back
again to where you await death’s whistle by the river, that will not be
the old I who walks the streets; and those wives and mothers, say, will
those be you?
THE CELESTIAL SURGEON
If I have faltered more or less
In my great task of happiness;
If I have moved among my race
And shown no glorious morning face;
If beams from happy human eyes
Have moved me not; if morning skies,
Books, and my food, and summer rain
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain
Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take
And stab my spirit broad awake;
Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,
Choose Thou, before that spirit die,
A piercing pain, a killing sin,
And to my dead heart run them in!
Purge out of every heart the lurking grudge. Give us grace and strength to
forbear and to persevere. Offenders, give us the grace to accept and to
forgive offenders. Forgetful ourselves, help us to bear cheerfully the
forgetfulness of others. Give us courage and gaiety and the quiet mind.
Spare us to our friends, soften us to our enemies. Bless us, if it may be,
in all our innocent endeavours. If it may not, give us the strength to
encounter that which is to come, that we be brave in peril, constant in
tribulation, temperate in wrath, and in all changes of fortune, and down
to the gates of death, loyal and loving one to another.
PRAYER AT MORNING
The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and
duties. Help us to play the man, help us to perform then with laughter and
kind faces, let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely
on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and
content and undishonoured, and grant us in the end the gift of sleep.
PRAYER AT EVENING
Our guard is relieved, the service of the day is over, and the hour come
to rest. We resign into Thy hands our sleeping bodies, our cold hearths
and open doors. Give us to awake with smiles, give us to labour smiling.
As the sun returns in the east, so let our patience be renewed with dawn;
as the sun lightens the world, so let our loving-kindness make bright this
house of our habitations.
Blind us to the offences of our beloved, cleanse them from our memories,
take them out of our mouths for ever. Let all here before Thee carry and
measure with the false balances of love, and be in their own eyes and in
all conjunctures the most guilty. Help us at the same time with the grace
of courage, that we be none of us cast down when we sit lamenting amid the
ruins of our happiness or our integrity; touch us with fire from the
altar, that we may be up and doing to rebuild our city.
We beseech Thee, Lord, to behold us with favour, folk of many families and
nations gathered together in the peace of this roof, weak men and women
subsisting under the covert of Thy patience. Be patient still; suffer us
yet a while longer;—with our broken purposes of good, with our idle
endeavours against evil, suffer us a while longer to endure, and (if it
may be) help us to do better. Bless to us our extraordinary mercies; if
the day come when these must be taken, brace us to play the man under
affliction. Be with our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each of us to
rest; if any awake, temper to them the dark hours of watching; and when
the day returns, return to us, our sun and comforter, and call us up with
morning faces and with morning hearts—eager to labour—eager to
be happy, if happiness shall be our portion—and if the day be marked
for sorrow, strong to endure it.
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