What is true at last will tell;Few at first will place thee well;Some too low would have thee shine,Some too high—no fault of thine!Hold thine own and work thy will!
What is true at last will tell;Few at first will place thee well;Some too low would have thee shine,Some too high—no fault of thine!Hold thine own and work thy will!
What is true at last will tell;Few at first will place thee well;Some too low would have thee shine,Some too high—no fault of thine!Hold thine own and work thy will!
What is true at last will tell;
Few at first will place thee well;
Some too low would have thee shine,
Some too high—no fault of thine!
Hold thine own and work thy will!
Very commonplace and familiar—perhaps too commonplace and familiar is the subject of Work. Every one worthy the name of man or woman is, or desires to be a Worker, and none surely would voluntarily swell the distressed ranks of the Unemployed. For to be unemployed is to be miserable. To find nothing to do,—to be of no use to ourselves or to our fellow-creatures is to be more or less set aside and cast out from the ever-working Divine scheme of labour and fruition, ambition and accomplishment. Among all the blessings which the Creator showers so liberally upon us, there is none greater thanWork. And amid all the evils which Man wilfully accumulates on his own head through ignorance and obstinacy, there is none so blighting and disastrous as Idleness.
There are, however, certain people who have persuaded themselves to look upon Work as a curse. Many of these pin their theories on the Third Chapter of the Book of Genesis. There they read:
“Cursëd is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life.
“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return unto the ground.”
But we may take comfort in the fact that the Book of Genesis shows some curious discrepancies. For in the Second Chapter God is represented as makingonesingle man out of the dust of the ground, yet in the very First Chapter of the same Book we read that,—
“God created man in His own image; male and female created hethem.
“And God blessedthemand said untothem... Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth andsubdueit: and havedominionover the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”
Thus we find that the story of Adam and Eve and the Serpent does not occur tillafterthe creation of mankind (in the plural) andafterthe Divine order that this same mankind (in the plural) should “replenish the earth and subdue it.” No “curse” accompanied this command. On the contrary, it was sanctified by a blessing. “God blessed them.” And whether Genesis be taken seriously, or only read as poetic legend founded on some substratum of actual events, the fact remains that “to replenish the earth and subdue it,” literally means,—toWork. The “dominion” of man over the planet he inhabits is not to be gained by sitting down with folded hands and waiting for food to drop into the mouth. It is evident that he was intended to earn his right to live. It is also evident that the blessing of God will be his, if from the first beginnings of conscious intelligence and aptitude he resolutely and honestly sets his shoulder to the wheel.
It is only when we are at work that we are vitallyand essentially a part of God’s great creative scheme. Idleness is an abnormal condition. It is not to be found in nature. There everything works, and in the special task allotted to it, each conscious atom finds its life and joy. The smallest seedworks, as it slowly but surely pushes its way up through the soil;—the birdworks, as it builds its nest and forages the earth and air to find food for its young. We cannot point to the minutest portion of God’s magnificent creation and say that it is idle. Nothing is absolutely at rest. There is—strictly speaking—no rest in the whole Universe. All things are working; all things are moving. Man clamours for rest,—but rest is what he will never get,—not even in the grave. For though he may seem dead, new forms of life germinate from his body, and go on working in their appointed way,—while, with the immortal part of himself which is his Soul, he enters at once into fresh fields of labour. Rest is no more possible than death, in the Divine scheme of everlasting progress where all is Life.
Nature is our mother, from whose gentle or severe lessons we must learn the problems of our own lives. And whenever we go to her for help or for instruction, we always find her working. She never sleeps. She never has a spare moment. “Without haste, without rest” is her eternal motto. When we, like fretful children, complain of long hours of toil, scant wages and short holidays, she silently points us to the Universe around us of which we are a part, and bids us set our minds “in tune with the Infinite.” The Sun never takes holiday. With steady regularity it performsits task. For countless ages it has worked without any attempt to swerve from its monotonous round of duty. It shines on the just and on the unjust alike; it gives life and joy equally to the gnat dancing in its beams, as to the human being who hails its glory and warmth as the simple expression of “a fine day.” It gets no wages. It receives very little in the way of thanks. Its duty is so evident and is always so well done, that by the very perfection of its performance it has exhausted the far too easily exhausted sense of human gratitude. Like a visible lamp of God’s love for us it generates beauty and brightness about us wherever we go,—and it invites us to look beyond the veil of creation to the Creator, who alone sustains the majestic fabric of life.
In some ways God Himself may be resembled to the Sun, seeing that He receives very little of our gratitude. We are so wonderfully guided by His wisdom that we sometimes think ourselves wiser than He. Of our own accord we give Him scarcely any of our real working powers, and were it not that we are all, in the mass, unconsciously swayed by His command, the little we do give would be less. Our ideas of serving Him too often consist in attending various sectarian places of worship where quarrelling is far more common than brotherly love and unity. In these places of worship we pray to Him for Ourselves and our own concerns. We ask Him for all we can possibly think of, and we seldom pause to consider that He has already given us more than we deserve. It very rarely enters into our heads to realize that we are required to show Him some return—thatwe are bound to work—no matter in how small a degree—towards something in His vast design which has, or shall have, its place in the world’s progress. We continue to implore Him to work for Us,—just as if He needed our urging! We petition Him to give us food and other material comforts,—yet if we study the laws of Nature we shall learn that we are intended to Work for our food and for all the things we want. We must Work for them in common with the rest of all our fellows in the animal, bird, and insect kingdoms. What a man does, that he has. We have no need to ask God for what He has already given us. He has provided all that is necessary for our health and sustenance on the earth,—but we must earn it,—deserve it,—and take a little intelligent trouble to understand the value of it, as well as to learn the laws by which we may gain and hold our own in life. We must, in fact, Work. All Creation visibly shows us that God Himself has worked and is still working. He, who has made us in “His own Image” must have from each one of us a strong and faithful effort to follow His Divine pre-ordained order of Labour and Progress. It may be asked—To what does the Labour and Progress tend? The answer of our last great Poet Laureate, Tennyson, is the best—the
One far off divine eventTo which the whole creation moves.
One far off divine eventTo which the whole creation moves.
One far off divine eventTo which the whole creation moves.
One far off divine event
To which the whole creation moves.
Whether it be work with the hands, or work with the brain, it is work of some kind that we must do if we would prove ourselves worthy to be a part of the ever-working Universe. And if bydisinclination,—or by lethargy of mind and spirit, we decline to share in the splendid “onward and upward” march of toil, the time comes when great Mother Nature will accept us exactly at our own valuation. If we choose to be no more than clods of clay, then as clods of clay she will use us, to make soil for braver feet than our own. If, on the contrary, we strive to be active intelligences, she will equally use us for nobler purposes. The formation of our condition rests absolutely with ourselves. No one person can shape the life of another. The father cannot ensure the fortunes of his son. The mother cannot guarantee the happiness of her daughter. Both mother and father may do their best on these lines, but sooner or later the son and daughter will take their own way and make their own lives. Each individual man or woman must work out his or her own salvation. For this is the Law,—and it is a Law divine and eternal against which there is no appeal.
Let us realize, therefore, the Divine Necessity of Work,—and having realized it let us take an honest joy in being able to do any sort of work ourselves, no matter how humble or monotonous such work may be. There is nothing really common even in what is called “common” work. There is nothing undignified in the roughest labour. It is only the “loafer” who loses both self-respect and dignity. The peasant who turns the soil with his spade all day long is a noble and primeval figure in the landscape, and deserves our consideration and respect. The countless thousands of men, working in huge factories, patiently guiding the machinery of giant looms, sweltering their verylives out in the fiery heat of huge furnaces where iron and steel are shaped for the uses of the world—these are the actual body of mankind—the nerves, the muscles, the sinews of humanity. They represent the nobility, the worth, the movement of the age. They are the Working People. And the Working People of this, or of any other nation are the People indeed—the People whose word—if they will only utter it—must inevitably become Law.
Sometimes, however, when we work,—when we perform some special round of duty more or less monotonous, we are unlike the rest of the working Universe. The Universe works without any grumbling at its work—but we—well!—we rather like to grumble. We want every one to know how hard our work is, and how badly paid we are. Many of us, who are men, would like to pass entire days, loafing about, our hands in our pockets, our pipes in our mouths, serving no purpose whatever in the world save that of replenishing the till of the nearest public-house. Others of us who are women, would love to dress up for all we are worth and meander through the streets, staring into shop-windows and coveting goods we have no money to buy. We forget that while we are wasting time in this fashion, we are consuming some of the very energy that should be at work to obtain for us whatever we desire. And we are also apt to forget that very often those who possess what we envy,—who hold all that we would win—have worked for it.
It is of course quite true that some workers are well rewarded while others get little if any rewardat all. But to understand the cause of this inequality we must examine the character of the work implied, and the spirit in which that work is done. Is it undertaken with cheerfulness and zeal? Or is it merely accepted as a “grind,” to be shirked whenever possible and only half accomplished? I venture to think that the man who loves his work,—who is content to begin at the lowest rung of the ladder in order to master all the minutest details of his particular trade or profession—whose Work is dearer to him than either his wages or his dinner—is bound to be rewarded, bound to succeed in whatever calling of life he may be. It is the half-hearted worker who fails. It is the “scamp” worker who sticks in the rut. Every man should do his utmost best. When he does only his half or quarter best, he wrongs his own capability and intelligence even more than he wrongs his employer. To “scamp” even the simplest kind of work proves him to be out of tune with Nature. For in the natural world we find no “scamping.” Each tiny leaf, each humble insect is as perfect in its way as the planet itself. A midge’s wing seen through the microscope is as brilliant and beautiful as that of a butterfly. And so,—“looking up through Nature unto Nature’s God” we hear everywhere the Divine command—“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy Might.”
I hardly think the love of Work, for Work’s own sake, is a leading characteristic of the workers of the present day. There is a tendency to “rush” everything,—to get it done and over. It is a rare thing to meet a man who is so fond of his work that he can hardly be persuaded to leave it. Yet inhim is the real germ of success, and with him are the true possibilities of power. For the conscientious and painstaking worker more often than not may become the great discoverer. In the very earnestness with which he bends over his daily toil which may often seem the merest monotonous drudgery, it frequently chances that a little hint,—an unexpected clue,—is given out from the great factory of nature, which may revolutionize a whole handicraft, or quicken a failing industry. Nothing of value in science or art is ever vouchsafed to the mere “hustler.” And there is by far too much “hustling,” nowadays. I am an ardent lover of steady toil and continuous progress, provided the progress is accompanied by the growth of beauty, goodness and happiness, but I am no advocate of “rush” or “speed.” Nothing is well done that is done in a hurry. Every scrap of time should be used as a precious gift,—not snatched up and devoured. For with haste comes carelessness and what is called “slop work.” “As long as it’s done never mind how it’s done,” is a kind of humour that is common enough and easily fostered. Haste by no means implies real swiftness or attention to details. We need not draw comparisons between the foreign workman and his British brother, because there is a maxim which says “Comparisons are odious.” But in justice to the foreign workman, it must be said that he often shows great intelligence and artistic ability. Moreover that he sometimes works twelve hours a day against the British eight, at half the British workman’s wages.
But my own love for everything British is sodeep and hearty that I should like to see British handicraft, British art, British work of all kinds at the head of creation. And I do most distinctly think it the duty of every British employer of labour to provide work for British workers first. Let the men who live in the land find means to live. It is surely the right of the British working man to have the first chance with a British employer. But this does not always happen. It is a “consummation devoutly to be wished,” but it is not to be at once realized even by schemes of fiscal policy. It is only to be attained by the British working people themselves,—by the quality of the work they do and the spirit in which they do it. We talk a great deal about Education, technical and otherwise. What are the results? The fact seems to be that when there was no compulsory Education much better work was done. Houses were better built,—furniture was more strongly made. Compare the brick-and-a-half “modern villa” architecture, with its lath and plaster doors and window-frames, with the warm thick walls and stout oak timbers of a farm or manor-house of the sixteenth century! Put side by side the flimsy modern chair, and the serviceable oak one, hand made in the time of our forefathers! Connoisseurs and collectors of bric-à-brac are supposed to have a craze for “old” things, merely because theyare“old.” This is not altogether true. Old things are appreciated because they are good,—because they show evidences of painstaking and careful Work. An old oak staircase in a house is valued as a treasure, not only for its age, but for its artistic construction, which our best workerscan only imitate and never surpass. It must, I think, be conceded that our forefathers had better conceptions of the fitting and the beautiful in some ways of work than we have. We have only to compare the Cathedrals which they built for the worship of God, with our uninspired ugly modern Churches and chapels. We know that they appreciated the beauties of the landscape, and that they loved the grand old English trees, which our short-sighted County Councils are destroying every year. Nothing can be more pitiful to see than the ruthless and stupid cutting down of noble trees all over the country, under the rule that their branches shall not hang over the road. Thus, every grateful place of shade is ruined, as well as much natural beauty. Our ancestors, more individually free, showed finer taste. The roofs of their houses were picturesquely thatched or tiled, and gabled,—their eyes were never affronted by the dull appearance of cheap slate and corrugated iron. They left us a heritage of many lovely and lasting things; but it is greatly to be feared that we shall not do likewise to those that come after us. We are destroying far more than we are creating.
And when we come to the higher phases of intellectual work, we find that though we have plenty of “schools of art” we have no great British artists such as Gainsborough, Reynolds or Romney. And though every one is supposed to know how to read and write, we have no great literature such as that of Shakespeare, Scott, Thackeray or Dickens. These belonged to the days of non-compulsory Education. Poetry, too, the divinest of the arts,is well-nigh dead. The great poets were born in so-called “uneducated” times. Our present system of Education is absolutely disastrous in one respect—that of its tendency to depress and cramp rather than to encourage the aspiring student. Its mechanical routine works on the line of flattening all human creatures down to one level. Originality is often “quashed.” Yet in all educational schemes there should be plenty of room left for the natural ability of the student or worker to expand and declare itself in some entirely new form wherever possible.
But despite our perpetual talk of the advantages of Education, here we are to-day with plenty of schools both before and behind us, but no very great men. And looking a long way back in history we see that when there was no Compulsory Education at all, therewerevery great men,—men who made the glory of England. Shall we leave anything after us, to match their heritage? It is open to doubt. Much of our modern work is “scamped” and badly done. And a great deal of the mischief arises from our way of “rushing” things. We are so anxious to catch Time by the forelock that we almost tear that forelock off. But why such haste? What is our object? Well,—we want to make money before we die. We want to make it, and then spend it on ourselves, or else leave it to our children, who will no doubt get rid of it all for us with the most cheerful rapidity. Or we want to have enough to “sit down and do nothing.” This is some people’s idea of perfect bliss. A servant of mine once very kindly reproached me for sticking at my desk so long. “IfI were a lady,” said she—“I would sit down and do nothing.” No more cruel torture can be imagined than this. We read in history of prisoners who, condemned to such a life, went mad with the misery of it. The only way to live happily and healthfully is to try with every moment of our time to accomplish something—even if it be only a thought. Thought, as we know, crystallizes into action. Yet very few people really think. Many get no further than to think they are thinking. To think is a kind of Work—too hard for many folks. In politics, for instance, some people let the Press think for them. They cannot be bothered to do it for themselves. And when the Press makes what is called a “corner” in any particular policy, they sometimes submit to be “cornered.” There have been of late a great many rumours concerning a gigantic Press “combine” which is to be formed for the purpose of swaying the opinion of the British public and particularly the opinion of the British working man. In other words, opinion is no longer to be “free,” but coerced by something like a Press “Trust” Company. Now if we are to believe this, we must likewise believe the British public fools. And we should surely be sorry to be forced to such a conclusion. Let us hope the British public has an opinion of its own entirely apart from the Press, and that it will declare that opinion bravely and openly. It is hard to imagine that it will allow its fondness for “prize-competitions” and “puzzle-pictures” to interfere with its common sense and honesty. I may say, however, that I have often marvelled at the generosity with which a large majority of people willinsist on filling the pockets of newspaper capitalists, by purchasing such quantities of the particular journals which contain these puzzles and competitions. The guileless innocence of childhood in the nursery is not more touching than the faith of the great British public in what is called a “Picture” or “Word” puzzle. Over this kind of thing I have seen otherwise sane though indolent people actuallywork! Once I made a calculation of the hours spent by a friend of mine in deciphering one of these newspaper problems, and found that he could certainly have obtained a very fair knowledge of French or Italian in the time, or he could have learned shorthand and typewriting. He was successful in the competition, and received for his pains the splendid sum of three-halfpence. It was explained to him that there were so many successful competitors that the hundred—or thousand pounds reward had to be divided among the crowd. Three half-pence therefore was his legitimate share.
I am no politician. I am simply a Worker—and I do such work as I can, quite independently of sect or party. Butasa Worker, and looker-on at the events taking place around me, I cannot help feeling that this dear land of ours is on the verge of a great crisis in her history. We hear much of failing trade,—depression in this or that quarter,—yet apart from political agitators, it seems to me that Great Britain stands where she has always stood—at the top of the world! Whatever influences have set her there, surely there she is. And it is for all true workers to keep her there. It is not by what parties or Governments will do forus that her position will be sustained and strengthened,—it is by what we, in the skill and excellence of our Work in all trades and professions, will do for Her. It is by our determination to excel in all kinds of Work that she will hold her own,—by our unstinted time, our ungrudging labour, our zeal, our cheerfulness, our love for her glory that she—and ourselves—will exist. It is necessary to “protect” her, and all things that may help to make her stronger and greater—but sometimes the word “Protection” may be made to apply chiefly to capitalists and “cornerers” of trade. Herein comes the hard work of Thinking. We must Think for ourselves. God has given us brains to work with. There is never any good reason why we should hastily adopt the political views of certain newspaper proprietors, who are perhaps under the impression that we have no brains at all, and that being thus sadly deficient, we are willing to buy their brains for a penny or a halfpenny! It is by the workers of the land that the land lives. And more than this,—it is from the workers that must come the great battle of Right against Might. It is for the Workers to put to shame by their own faith and honour, the wicked Atheism and open immorality which are disgracing some of our so-called “upper” classes to-day—and it is for the Workers to show by their upright, temperate lives, and their steady downright Work, that they are determined to keep the foundations of the Home secure, and the heart of England warm and true. What says brave Thomas Carlyle?
“All true Work is sacred; in all true Work, were it but true hand-labour, there is somethingof divineness. Labour, wide as the Earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of the brow, and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart—which includes all Kepler calculations, Newton meditations, all Sciences, all spoken Epics, all acted Heroisms, and Martyrdoms, up to that ‘Agony of bloody sweat’ which all men have called divine! O brother, if this is not ‘worship,’ then I say the more pity for worship, for this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God’s sky. Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil? Complain not. Look up, my wearied brother!—see thy fellow Workmen there in God’s eternity, surviving there, they alone surviving; sacred Band of the Immortals, celestial Bodyguard of the Empire of Mankind. Even in the weak Human memory they survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods, they alone surviving—peopling, they alone, the measured solitudes of Time. To thee, Heaven, though severe, isnotunkind; Heaven is kind as a noble Mother—as that Spartan mother, saying while she gave her son his shield—“With it, my son, or upon it!” Thou too shalt return home in honour, brother Worker!—to thy far distant Home, in honour, doubt it not, if in the battle thou keep thy shield!”
Most people want to be happy if they can. I suppose it may be safely set down without fear of contradiction that no one who is sane and healthy wilfully elects to be miserable. Yet the secret of happiness seems to be solved by very few. People try to be happy in all sorts of queer ways—in speculation, land-grabbing, dram-drinking, horse-racing, bridge-playing, newspaper-running, and various other methods which are more or less suited to their constitutional abilities—but in many cases these channels, carefully dug out for the reception of a perpetual inflowing of the stream of happiness, appear very soon to run dry. I have been asked scores of times what I consider to be the happiest life in the world, and I have always answered without the least hesitation—the Life Literary. In all respects it answers perfectly to the description of the “Happy Life” portrayed by that gentle sixteenth-century poet, Sir Henry Wotton:—
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another’s will,Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill.
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another’s will,Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill.
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another’s will,Whose armour is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill.
How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another’s will,
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill.
Herein we have the vital essence of all delight—honestthought and simple truth—and in the “serveth not another’s will,” glorious liberty. For chiefest among the joys of the Life Literary are its splendid independence, its right of free opinion, and its ability to express that opinion. An author is bound to no person, no place, and no party, unless he or she wilfully elects to be so bound. To him, or to her, all the realms of Nature and imagination are entrance-free—the pen unlocks every closed door—and not only is the present period of time set out like a stage-scene for contemplation and criticism, but all the past ages, with their histories, and the rise and fall of their civilizations, arrange themselves to command in a series of pictures for the pleasure of the literary eye and brain; and it is just as easy to converse in one’s own library with Plato on the immortality of the soul as it is good-humouredly to tolerate Mr. Mallock and his little drawing-room philosophies. For a book is more or less the expression of the mind, or a part of the mind, of its writer, and, inasmuch as it is only with the moral and intellectual personalities of our friends and enemies that we care to deal, it matters little whether such personalities be three or four thousand years old, or only of yesterday. And to live the Life Literary means that we can always choose our own company. We can reject commoners and receive kings, orvice versâ. The author who is careful to hold and to maintain all the real privileges and rights of authorship is a ruler of millions, and under subjection to none. The position is unique and, to my thinking, unequalled.
There are many, of course, who will by no meansagree with me as to the superior charm of the Life Literary over all other lives—and such objectors will be found mostly in the literary profession itself. Unsuccessful authors—particularly those who are in any way troubled with dyspepsia—will be among them. “Tied” authors also—and by “tied” authors I mean the unhappy wretches who have signed contracts with publishers several years ahead, and are, so to speak, dancing in fetters. Authors who count the number of words they write per day, like potatoes, and anxiously calculate how much a publisher will possibly give for them per bushel, are not likely to experience any very particular “happiness” while they are measuring out halfpence in this fashion. And authors who run after “society” and want to be seen here, there, and everywhere, are bound to lose the gifts of the gods one by one as they scamper helter-skelter through the world’s Vanity Fair, while they may be perfectly sure that the “great” or swagger persons with whom they seek to associate will be the first to despise and neglect them in any time of need or trouble, as well as the last to support or help them in any urgent cause which might be benefited by their assistance.
On this point we have only to remember the melancholy experience of Robert Burns, who, after having been flattered and feasted by certain individuals who were, in an ephemeral sense, influential for the time being, either through their rank or their wealth, was afterwards shamefully neglected by them, and finally, notwithstanding the various social attentions and courtesy he had at one time received, he was left, when ill and dying, in suchextremity as to be compelled to implore his publisher for the loan of five pounds! What had become of all his wealthy and “influential” friends? Why they were exactly where all “influential” persons would be now in a similar case—“otherwise engaged” when their help is needed. Nothing can well be more deplorable than the position of any author who depends for success on a clique of “distinguished” or “society” persons. He or she has exchanged independence for slavery—the nectar of the gods for a base mess of pottage—and the true “happiness” of the Life Literary for a mere miserable restlessness and constant craving after fresh excitement, which gradually breeds nervous troubles, and disturbs that fine and even balance of brain without which no clear or convincing thought is possible. Again, authors who deliberately prostitute their talents to the writing of lewd matter unfit to be handled by cleanly-minded men and women need never hope to possess that happy and studious peace which comes from the
Pure intent to do the bestPurely—and leave to God the rest.
Pure intent to do the bestPurely—and leave to God the rest.
Pure intent to do the bestPurely—and leave to God the rest.
Pure intent to do the best
Purely—and leave to God the rest.
For the highest satisfaction in the Life Literary is to think that perhaps, in a fortunate or inspired moment, one may have written at least a sentence, a line, a verse, that may carry comfort and a sense of beauty to the sorrowful, or hope to the forlorn; while surely the greatest pang would be to know that one had cast the already despairing soul into a lower depth of degradation, or caused the sinner to revel more consciously in his sin.
But are there no drawbacks, no disappointments, no sufferings in the Life Literary? Why, of course there are! Who would be such a useless block of stone, such a senseless lump of unvalued clay, as not to ardently wish for drawbacks, disappointments, and sufferings? Who that has a soul at all does not pray that it may be laid like glowing iron on the anvil of endurance, there to be beaten and hammered by destiny till it is of a strong and shapely mould, fit for combat, nerved to victory? And I maintain that such drawbacks, disappointments, difficulties, and sufferings as the profession of Literature entails are sweeter and nobler than the cares besetting other professions, inasmuch as they are always accompanied by never-failing consolations. If the pinch be poverty, the true servant of Literature can do with less of this world’s goods than most people. Luxury is not called for when one is rich in idealism and fancy. Heavy feeding will not make a clear, quick brain. Extravagant apparel is a necessity for no one—and genius was never yet born of a millionaire.
If the “thorn in the flesh” is the petty abuse of one’s envious contemporaries, that is surely a matter for rejoicing rather than grief, as it is merely the continuance of an apparently “natural law in the spiritual world” acting from the Inferior upon the Superior, which may be worded thus: “Whosoever will be great, let him be flayed alive!” Virgil was declared by Pliny to be destitute of invention; Aristotle was styled “ignorant, vain, and ambitious” by both Cicero and Plutarch; Plato was so jealous of Democritus that he proposedto burn up all his works; Sophocles was brought to trial by his own children as a lunatic; Horace was accused of stealing from all the minor Greek poets; and so on in the same way down to our own times.
Pope went so far as to make a collection of all the libels passed upon him, and had them preserved and bound with singular care, though I believe no one now knows where to find these scandalous splutterings of Grub Street. Swift is reported to have said to the irate author of the “Dunciad”: “Give me a shilling and I will ensure you that posterity shall never know one single enemy against you excepting those whose memory youyourselfhave preserved.” Herein is a profound truth. The malicious enemies of a great author only become known to the public through the mistaken condescension of the great author’s notice.
Milton’s life was embittered by the contemptible spite of one Salmasius. Who was Salmasius? we ask nowadays. We do not task who was Milton. Salmasius was the author of the “Defensio Regi” or Defence of Kings, a poor piece of work long ago forgotten, and he was the procurer of foul libel against the author of “Paradise Lost,” one of England’s greatest and noblest men. What small claim he has to the world’s memory arises merely from his viciousness, for not only did he make use of the lowest tools to aid him in conspiring against Milton’s reputation, but he spread the grossest lies broadcast, even accusing the poet of having a hideous personal appearance—“a puny piece of man; a homunculus; a dwarf deprived of the human figure; a contemptiblepedagogue.” When the despicable slanderer learned the fact that Milton, so far from answering to this description, was of a pleasing and attractive appearance, he immediately changed his tactics and began to attack his moral character—which, as even Milton’s bitterest political enemies knew, was austerely above the very shadow of suspicion. It was said that the poet’s over-zealousness in answering the calumnies of Salmasius cost him his eye-sight, which, if true, was surely regrettable. Salmasius died dishonoured and disgraced, as such a cowardly brute deserved to die; Milton still holds his glorious place in England’s literary history. So it was, so it is, so it ever will be.
Greatness is always envied—it is only mediocrity that can boast of a host of friends. “When you have resolved to be great,” says Emerson, “abide by yourself, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world.” It is impossible to quote one single instance of a truly great man existing without calumniators. And the Life Literary without any enemies would be a shabby go-cart; or, as our American cousins put it, a “one-horse concern.” Some lines that were taught to me when I was a child seem apposite to this subject, and I quote them here for the benefit of any struggling units of the Life Literary who may haply be in need:—
You have no enemies, you say?Alas! my friend, the boast is poor—He who has mingled in the frayOf duty, that the brave endure,Musthave made foes! If you have none,Small is the work that you have done;You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,You’ve never turned the wrong to right—You’ve been a coward in the fight![5]
You have no enemies, you say?Alas! my friend, the boast is poor—He who has mingled in the frayOf duty, that the brave endure,Musthave made foes! If you have none,Small is the work that you have done;You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,You’ve never turned the wrong to right—You’ve been a coward in the fight![5]
You have no enemies, you say?Alas! my friend, the boast is poor—He who has mingled in the frayOf duty, that the brave endure,Musthave made foes! If you have none,Small is the work that you have done;You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,You’ve never turned the wrong to right—You’ve been a coward in the fight![5]
You have no enemies, you say?
Alas! my friend, the boast is poor—
He who has mingled in the fray
Of duty, that the brave endure,
Musthave made foes! If you have none,
Small is the work that you have done;
You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,
You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,
You’ve never turned the wrong to right—
You’ve been a coward in the fight![5]
But it is perhaps time that I should drop the masculine personal pronoun for the feminine, and, being a woman, treat of the Life Literary from the woman’s point of view. In olden days the profession of literature was looked upon as a terrible thing for a woman to engage in, and the observations of some very kindly and chivalrous writers on this subject are not without pathos. To quote one example only, can anything be more quaintly droll at this time of day than the following:—
“Of all the sorrows in which the female character may participate there are few more affecting than those of an Authoress—often insulated and unprotected in society—with all the sensibility of the sex, encountering miseries which break the spirits of men!”
This delicate expression of sympathy for a woman’s literary struggles was written by the elder Disraeli as late as 1840. Truly we have raced along the rails of progress since then at express speed—and the “affecting” sorrows of an “Authoress” (with a capital A) now affect nobody except in so far as they make “copy” for the callow journalist to hang a string of cheap sneers upon. The Authoress must take part with the Author in the general rough-and-tumble of life—and she cannot too quickly learn the truth that when once she enters the literary arena, where men are already fisticuffing and elbowing each other remorselessly, she will be met chiefly with“kicks and no ha’pence.” She must fight like the rest, unless she prefers to lie down and be walked over. If she elects to try for a first place, it will take her all her time to win it, and, when won, to hold it; and, in the event of her securing success, she must not expect any chivalrous consideration from the opposite sex, or any special kindness and sympathy from her own. For the men will consider her “out of her sphere” if she writes books instead of producing babies, and the women will, in nine cases out of ten, begrudge her the freedom and independence she enjoys, particularly if such freedom and independence be allied to fortune and fame. This all goes without saying. It has to be understood and accepted uncomplainingly. The “old-fashioned” grace of chivalry to women, once so proudly lauded by poets and essayists as the distinguishing trait of all manly men, is not to be relied on in the Life Literary—for there it is as dead as door-nails. Men can be found in the literary profession who will do anything to “down” a woman in the same calling, and, if they cannot for shame’s sake do it openly, they will do it behind her back. “’Tis pitiful, ’tis wondrous pitiful”—for the men! But if the woman concerned has studied her art to any purpose she will accept calumny as a compliment, slander as a votive wreath, and “envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness” (from which, with pious hypocrisy, the most envious and uncharitable persons pray “Good Lord deliver us” every Sunday) as so many tokens and proofs of her admitted power. And none of these things need disturb the equanimity of the Life Literary. “Canany man cast me out of the Universe? He cannot; but whithersoever I may go there will be the sun and the moon, and the stars and visions, and communion with the gods!”[6]
Speaking as a woman, I can quite understand and appreciate all the little difficulties, irritations, and trials incident to a woman’s career in literature; and though I myself welcome such difficulties as so many incentives to fresh effort, I know that there are many of my sex who, growing weary and discouraged, are not able to adopt this attitude. And looking back into the past, one is bound to see a host of brilliant women done to death by cruel injustice and misrepresentation, a state of things which is quite likely to be continued as long as humanity endures.
But no useful object is served by brooding over this apparently incurable evil. “The noble army of martyrs” who praise the Lord in the “Te Deum” are likely to be of the sex feminine. But what does that matter? It is more glorious to be martyred than to die of over-eating and general plethora. Moreover mental or intellectual martyrdom is a necessary ingredient for the “happy” life—a touch of it is like the toothache, helping one to be duly thankful when the pain ceases. For, if we never understood trouble, we should never taste the full measure of joy.
One thing can be very well dispensed with by both men and women who look for happiness in the Life Literary, and that is the uneasy hankering after what is called “Fame.” Fame has a habit of setting its halo on the elected brows withoutany outside advice or assistance. Those authors who are destined for it will assuredly win it, though all the world should intervene; those for whom it is not intended must content themselves with the temporary notoriety of pretty newspaper puffs and “stock” compliments, such as “the renowned” or “well-known” or “admired” author or authoress, and be glad and grateful for these meaningless terms, inasmuch as the higher Fame itself at its utmost is only a brief and very often inaccurate “line in history.”
The rewards and emoluments of the happy life, such as I have always found the Life Literary to be, are manifold and frequently incongruous. They may be considered in two sections—the outward or apparent and the interior or invisible. Concerning these I can only, of course, speak from my own experience. The outward or apparent occur (so far as I myself am concerned) as follows:—
1. Certain payments, small or large, made by publishers who undertake to present one’s brain work to the world in print, and who do the best they can for their authors, as well as for themselves.
2. Public appreciation and condemnation, about equally divided.
3. Critical praise and censure, six of one and half-a-dozen of the other.
4. Endless requests for autographs.
5. Innumerable begging letters.
6. Imperative, sometimes threatening, demands for “interviews.”
7. Hundreds of love-letters.
8. Continual offers of marriage.
9. Shoals of MSS. sent by literary aspirants to be “placed” or “recommended.”
10. Free circulation of lies, caricatures, and slanders concerning oneself, one’s personality, friends, ways of work, and general surroundings.
11. The grudging and bitter animosity of rival contemporaries.
12. Persistent public and private mis-representation of one’s character, aims, and intentions.
But all these things taken together weigh very little when compared with the other side of the medal—the interior and invisible delight and charm of the Life Literary—the unpurchasable and never-failing happiness which no external advantage can give, no inimical influence take away. It is well-nigh impossible to enumerate the pleasures that attend the lover and servant of Literature; they are multitudinous, and, like all things spiritual, outweigh all things temporal. Here are just a few among the kindly and constant favours of the gods:—
1. The power and affluence of creative thought.
2. A perpetual sense of intimate participation in the wonders of Nature and Art.
3. A keen perception of the beautiful.
4. Intense delight in the genius of all great men and women.
5. A cheerful and contented spirit.
6. Constant variety of occupation.
7. Joy in simple things.
8. The love of friends that are tried and true.
9. The never-wearying interest of working to try and give pleasure to one’s reading public.
10. The gifts and glories of Imagination.
11. Tranquillity of mind.
12. Firm faith in noble ideals.
And, to quote from Walt Whitman what the inward sense of the “happiness” of the Life Literary really is, the disciple of Literature may say:—
“I will show that there is no imperfection in the present and can be none in the future. And I will show that, whatever happens to anybody, it may be turned to beautiful results.”
Were all the lives in the world offered to me for my choice, from the estate of queens to that of commoners, I would choose the Life Literary in preference to any other, as ensuring the greatest happiness. It is full of the most lasting pleasure, it offers the most varied entertainment, all the arts and sciences group themselves naturally around it as with it and of it—for the literary student is, or should be, as devout a lover of music as of poetry, as ardent an admirer of painting and sculpture as of history and philosophy—that is, if complete enjoyment of the literary gift is to be possessed completely.
I take it, of course, for granted, in this matter of the “happy” life, that the individual concerned, whether male or female, is neither dyspeptic nor bilious, nor afflicted with the incurableennuiof utter selfishness, nor addicted to dram or drug drinking. Because under unnatural conditions the mind itself becomes unnatural, and the Life Literary is no more productive of happiness than any other life that is self-poisoned at its source. But, given a sane mind in a sound body, a clear brain, a quick perception, a keen imagination, a warm heart, and a never-to-be-parted-with ideal of humanityat its best, noblest and purest, then the Life Literary, with all the advantages it bestows, the continuous education it fosters, the refinement of taste it engenders, the love and sympathy of unknown thousands of one’s fellow-creatures which it brings, is the sweetest, most satisfying, most healthful and happy life in the world. Moreover it is a life of power and responsibility—a life that forms character and tests courage. We soon learn to know the force of a Thinker in our midst, whether man or woman. We soon realize who it is that sends the lightning of truth across our murky sky, when we see a sudden swarm of cowards scurrying away from the storm and trying to shelter themselves under a haystack of lies; and we invariably respect whosoever has the valour of his or her opinions, and the strength to enunciate them boldly and convincingly with a supreme indifference to conventional conveniences. For “To know the truth,” says an Arabian sage, “is a great thing for thyself; but to tell the truth to others is a greater thing for the world!”
[5]The late Charles Mackay, LL.D.
[6]Epictetus.
At the present time, and during the present time’s singularly loose notions of manners, morals, and dignity of behaviour, it was perhaps to be expected that some one or other of the daily newspapers would, in sagacious appreciation of free “copy,” start a public discussion on the religious faith of this Christian Empire. It was perhaps as equally probable that considering the remarkable laxity of certain bishops and ordained ministers of the gospel generally, a “press” question should be put to the House of Tom, Dick and Harry—“Do We Believe?” Granting the premises, it was hardly to be wondered at that Tom, Dick and Harry should straightway arise in their strength and reply to the question,—and not only Tom, Dick and Harry of the laity, but Tom, Dick and Harry of the clergy likewise. Great was the discussion,—fast and furious waged the war of words, and the Penny Daily which provoked the combat was thus conveniently supplied with material for which the proprietors,—most of them Sons of Israel,—had nothing to pay. And now, the arguments being heard and ended, nobody is a whit the wiser, though some few may be several whits the sadder. For to speak honestly, nothing more reprehensible has ever smirched thecareer of an English journal than the fact that it should have lent itself to the advertized questioning of the nation’s religious faith. It was an open flaunting of infidelity in the face of the civilized world. To talk of the “conversion” of India, China or Japan, while a leading British newspaper openly invites the notoriety-hunting section of the British public to air their opinions of the Christian Faith in its columns, just as if the Faith itself were on public trial in a Christian country, is only one example of the many forms of utter Humbug in which we are nowadays so unfortunately prone to indulge. Our sometimes-called “heathen” ally, Japan, has lately taught us many lessons which perhaps we knew once and have forgotten, and which perhaps we need to learn again,—such as valour without conceit, strength without roughness, and endurance without complaint,—but one of the greatest lessons of all she has given us is that of her people’s pious reverence for the Unseen and Eternal, and their belief in the ever-present “Spirits of the Dead” whom they honour and will not shame. What a deplorable contrast we make in our pandering to the lowest tastes of the mob when, without a word of protest, we permitour“Spirits of the Dead,”—the spirits of our gallant forefathers who fought for the pure Faith of England and sealed it with their blood,—to be degraded and insulted by a cheap newspaper discussion on the most private and sacred emotions of the soul, as though such a discussion were of a character suited to take its place among police-cases and quack medical advertisements! True, we are constantly being made aware that the British Press is no longer the clean,sane, strong and reliable institution it once was, when “personalities” were deemed vulgar, and lies dishonourable,—and therefore we perhaps ought not to feel very greatly surprised when the name and possible attributes of the Almighty Creator Himself are dragged through the purlieus of “up-to-date” journalism,—but surely there is something very deplorable and disgraceful in the fact that any one professing to be a follower of the Christian Faith should have replied to what can only be termed, considering the quarter from whence it came, an ironical demand, “Do We Believe?” The best and wisest answer would have been complete silence on the part of the public. No more effectual “snubbing” to the non-Christian faction could have been given. But unfortunately there are a certain class of persons whose prime passion is to see themselves in print, and to this end they will commit any folly and write any letter to the newspapers, even if it be only to state that primroses were seen somewhat early in bloom in their back yards. And such, chiefly, were the kind of men and women who poured themselves into the channels of the “Do We Believe?” discussion, like water running down the streets into gutters and mains,—never seeming to realize that to the thinking and intellectual world, their foolish letters, addressed to such a public quarter, merely proved their utter loss of respect for themselves, not only as professing Christians and subjects of a Christian Empire, but as men and women. No real follower of a Faith—any Faith—would be so lost to every sense of decency as to discuss it in a daily newspaper. As for the clergy who took part in the boresomepalaver, one can only marvel at them and ask why they did not “veto” the whole thing at once? A penny paper is not the Hall of Pontius Pilate. As ministers of Christ they might have protested against a modern-vulgar “mock” trial of their Master. It was in their power to do so, and such a protest would have redounded to their honour. At any rate, they might themselves have abstained from joining in the foolish and unnecessary gabble. For gabble it was, and gabble it is. No useful cause has been served thereby and no advantage gained. The Sons of Israel have asked a question,—and some of the unwise among professing Christians, being caught in the Israelitish trap, have answered it. The manner in which both question was put and answer given, was unworthy of a country where the Christian Faith is the guiding light of the realm. Matters of religion are of course open to discussion in the treatise or book intended for quiet library reading, or even in the better-class magazines, but to hawk sacred subjects of personal sentiment and national creed about in the daily wear of newspaper columns which equally include murders, divorces, bigamies, stocks and shares, and the generaldébriscast off as flotsam and jetsam in the turgid waves of Mankind’s ever-recurring mischief against itself, was to the last degree reprehensible and regrettable. And this, if only for the possible impression likely to be created by such an action among the peoples of those countries to whom, with ridiculous inconsistency, we presume to send missionaries for the purpose of “converting” them to a Creed we ourselves drag through the mire of doubt in our daily press. Fortunately, however, the matter,deplorably as it has exhibited our “religion” to the eyes of “heathen” nations, has now come to an end. It has worked no change,—it has strengthened no weak places,—it has helped no struggling effort towards good. The Soul of the Nation has not been moved thereby, and it is the Soul of the Nation—that great, silent patient and labouring Soul with which all religion has to do,—that Soul, which the Christian Creed, ever since it was first preached in Britain, has raised to such a height of supremacy and power, that it needs all its reserve of sober courage and devout humility to help it bear its honours greatly. For has it not been said—“Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall!”
One may look upon the innate spirit of Revivalism, exemplified in the hysteric wave of preaching, praying and psalm-singing that has recently spread over Wales and other districts, as so much instinctive and natural popular rebellion against the insidious flood of atheism which has for the past ten years been striving to poison all the channels of man’s better health and saner condition,—rebellion too against the apathetic coldness and shameless indifference of the ordained clergy to the clamorous needs of those neglected “flocks” which they are elected to serve. “Enough,” say the People, “of shams and shows!—enough of ministers who only minister to themselves and their own convenience!—enough of the preaching of the Gospel by men who do not and will not fulfil a single one of its commands in their own lives and actions! Let us have something forcible and earnest,—let us be permitted tofeel, even though we shout and sing ourselveshoarse with the emotion which has been seething in us for years,—an emotion which we cannot explain to ourselves, but which craves, with a passion beyond all speech, for some touch of Heaven, some closer comprehension of that ‘After-Death,’ which God keeps back from us like a prize or a punishment for His obedient or rebellious children! Anything is better than the cold dead inertia of the Churches, sunk as they are in a blind lethargy from which they only bestir themselves dully when a chance is offered to them of engaging in some petty personal quarrel. We are weary of priestly humbug, selfishness and inefficiency—we will gather ourselves together and re-assert our faith in the world to come, as true disciples of the Lord!” And whether such Revivalists elect to march under the banner of Cocoa Cadbury, (an excellent advertisement for Cadbury,) or any other emblazoned device of a successful trading concern, is not a matter of much moment. Starving folk will march anywhere,—under anything or anybody,—if they are promised nourishment at the end of the journey. And the Soul of the Nation is, at this present period of time, starving to the point of inanition in all forms of spiritual food. The Good Shepherd gave His life for the sheep, but the underlings who care not for the flock have let the wolves into the fold.
A thing which would appear to be frequently forgotten by those who hold Governmental authority, is that the most vital, most powerful and most active principle of a Nation is this spark of the Divine which for want of any clearer mode of description we call the Soul. The Soul of a singleindividual man or woman is the mere copy in miniature of the Soul of a race, or the Soul of a world. An involuntary, half-conscious, but nevertheless resistless impetus towards ultimate Good is the Soul’s original quality and inborn Ideal. For, if the human weakness of the fleshly creature impel it towards temporary phases of evil, sooner or later the Soul will set to work to pull it out of the stifling quagmire. Material Nature is, as we all know, a remedial agent, and wherever mischief is wrought she seeks to amend it. Spiritual Nature is a still stronger healer. For every injury self-inflicted or wrought by others on the immortal Soul she has a saving balm,—and for every inch of progress which the Soul essays to make along the lines leading to good, she helps it forward a mile. Individuals find this out very soon in their own personal experience,—Nations discover it more slowly, first, because they have a longer time to live and learn than the individual unit,—and secondly because, moving in great masses, their periods of transit from one epoch of civilization to another must necessarily be more laborious and difficult. But in all epochs, in all eras, the Soul wins. The fiery leaven which is of God, works through the lump in various strange and complex forms till the whole is leavened. And those nations in which the Soul, or Spirit of the Ideal, is crushed and kept down by the iron hand of Materialism, are very soon seen to fall back in the rear of progress,—so far back indeed that we are fain to speak of them as “decaying nations,” though of a truth no decay is possible to them, but only temporary retrogression, which will indue course revert to progress again when the Soul is once more allowed to have its way. But Governments whose common law of procedure is to put this Soul or “spirit of the Ideal,” in the background as a kind of myth or chimera, and who seek to settle everything pertaining to the interests of the people by what they term “practical” methods, (which often prove whollyunpractical,) are naturally prone to forget that whatever they do, whatever they say, the busy Soul of the Nation is altogether outside and above them, fighting for itself, often desperately and piteously, and struggling to make use of its wings and rise higher and ever higher despite its hobbles of iron and feet of clay. Religion is supposed to give it this, its demanded freedom of noble flight, and the Christian religion, above all religions in the world, with its consoling teaching that out of sorrow cometh joy, and out of Death is born Life, should make for the happiness and peace of every living creature. But when the very ministers of that glorious Faith cast doubt upon it, and live their own lives in direct opposition to it,—when undevout and therefore limited scientists dissect a midge of truth in order to launch a leviathan of fallacious theory,—when there is noONEpure and simple Church of Christ where all may meet in honest worship of His perfect Creed, but only a million Sects which blaspheme His Divine memory by their outrageous and petty quarrels one with the other,—it is no matter for surprise that a strong revulsion of feeling should set in, or that the Soul of the Nation, conceiving itself grievously wronged and neglected, should try to find some fresh path of its own heavenward,—someway out of mere Sham—in the belief that if it obeys its own instinctive desire towards the Highest Ideal, God will not suffer it to go far astray. For the quarrels of the Churches are the second crucifixion of Christ. The apathy of the priesthood is the deliberate casting away to sin of the people. Where there is no unity, there is no force; and the divine founder of Christianity Himself has told us that a house divided against itself shall not stand.
Yet when one comes to think of it, it is the strangest thing in the world that Christians should quarrel, seeing how plain and clear are the instructions left to them for their guidance by the Master whom they profess to serve. The New Testament is easy reading. Its commands are brief and concise enough. There would seem to be no room for discussion or difference. Why should there be followers of Luther, Wesley, or any other limited human preacher or teacher, when all that is necessary is that we should be followers of Christ? The Soul of the Nation asks no more than this Gospel of Love, lovingly imparted,—it seeks but for the one firm faith in the eternal things which are its birthright,—a faith held purely, and wholly undoubted by those whose high mission is to teach it to each generation in turn,—it craves no more than that touch of heavenly sympathy which makes the whole world kin—that holy link which binds all mankind together in one strong knot of indissoluble spiritual belief in the love and justice; the Unseen Force behind Creation, which will surely, out of the verities of that same love and justice, grant us a future life wherein will be made clear to us the reason and necessity of our strangesufferings, martyrdoms, disappointments and losses in this present mere brief episode of living. The Soul of the Nation does not in itself ask reward for its good deeds,—nor does it weakly complain if punishment be inflicted upon it for its evil ones,—but it does demand justice,—it does ask why, for no conscious fault of its own, it should be born, only to die. Were this question never to be answered, then the mathematical exactitude with which everything, small or great, is balanced in the universe would be a merely elaborate scheme of unnecessary fallacy, irrationally designed for the delusion of creatures who are not worth the trouble of deluding. No one who is sane and morally healthy can contemplate such an idea as this for a moment,—it follows therefore that Man, living as he does between two Infinities, and endowed with a brain which can spiritually consider both without reeling, must be guided by some great and illimitably wise destiny towards ends he knows not, but which he may be reverently permitted to believe are for his better progress, greater happiness and higher understanding, and that he needs, out of all things in the world, a Faith, by which his soul shall be kept strong and pure, his mind steady, and his sympathies active. No mockery of Christianity, such as that of Servian priests who have publicly blessed regicides,—no cruel tyranny, such as that of the Greek Church which dares to appeal to a God of Love while the mighty masses of the Russian people remain steeped in misery, and are, by very wretchedness, driven to crime,—no cold Conventionality of Form and Custom, such as is practised in fashionable London“West End” churches where society humbugs gather together to listen smirkingly to the civil cant of other society humbugs in surplices, who, passing for ministers of Christ, almost fear to preach the Gospel as it was written, lest its plain blunt truths should offend some highly-placed personage,—none of this kind of “religion” at all is of use,—but faith,—real faith—real aspiration—real uplifting to the Ideal of all things noble, all things great, wise, helpful and true. This, at the present crucial moment of time, is what the Soul of the Nation demands,—and not only the Soul of our own beloved and glorious Nation, but the Souls of all nations whatsoever on the globe. They stand up,—each in place, each on its own spiritual plane,—stern, strong and beautiful;—like the fabled statue of Memnon they face the sunrise, and at the first touch of the first ray of glory they speak. Their voices are as thunder among the spheres,—they demand what they deserve,—justice, hope, comfort, uplifting! To the mystic High Altar of the Infinite and Eternal they lift their praying hands, and to the priests of all religions they appeal. “Give us the Way, the Truth and the Life! Cease your own wranglings and petty disputations,—have done with mere human dogma concerning the matters of life and death,—let us see theMAN, Christ,—He who suffered our sorrows, and knew our need,—the Brother, the Friend, the Helper, for whom, in braver days than these, men gladly gave their lives to sword and fire and the jaws of wild beasts,—is there no manhood left now of such undaunted mettle?—is there not one who will think ofUS, the Nations, who hunger for theglorious vitality of Faith, which, like the blood in our veins, keeps us warm and young and vigorous? Or must we perish in the devil-clutch of Materialism, and go down to the depths, thrust there by the very men who have been elected to hold us close to God? We demand our rights in the Divine and Eternal Love!—and these rights, born in us from the beginning, we will have, even if all present-existing human forms and fabrics of creed go down in our struggle for the one pure faith under whose holy influence we shall become stronger and wiser, and better able to understand our work and place in creation! The gates of Life shall not be shut upon us;—we will not accept the materialist’s latter-day testimony that death shall be the end of all. For if there be an Eternal Good we are part of its being and share in its Eternal attributes. And we say,—we Souls of the Nations,—to all our preachers and teachers and representatives of the Divine on earth—Lift us up! Do not cast us down! Be yourselves the models of what you would haveUSbecome!—so shall we be willing and ready to learn from you,—so shall we honour, love and patiently follow you. But if you, as ministers of religion, show yourselves worse hypocrites than the very sinners whom the law condemns, then beware of us and our just vengeance! For you take from us our very life-blood, when you cheat us of the hope of Heaven!”
This is true. A Nation robbed of its faith, is like a human body robbed of its heart—it has neither pulse nor motion,—it is the mere corpse of itself lying prone in the dust of perishable waste things. And the fact that grave retribution willfollow the steps of those who assist in bringing it to this doom cannot be doubted. Such retribution has then been visited heavily on over-prosperous peoples, who, misled by special pleaders in the cause of Materialism have set God aside out of their countings as a non-proven quantity. The “non-proven” has always proved itself with crushing swiftness and authority in the fall of great powers, the shaking of great thrones, and the ruin and degradation of great names,—while very often a calamitous climax of misery and disaster has befallen an entire civilization and brought it to utter decay. Such occurrences are traceable through all history, and always appear to result from the same cause,—the crushing out of the vital principle, the spiritual starving of the Soul of a Nation. Heaven has not denied or diminished its bounteous nourishment and blessing,—for, in our own day, the wonders of Science have opened out to our view such infinite reaches of the Ideal as should double and treble our perception of the glories yet to be unfolded to us when we have “shuffled off this mortal coil”—while at the same time, nothing in all our changing phases of progress has yet occurred to alter the simple and noble teaching of Christ, or to make such instruction otherwise than sane, pure and helpful for every man, woman and child ever born. Indeed, it would seem with the marvellous new penetration we have gained into the secrets of the earth, air and light, that the Infinite Creator is approaching His creature even more nearly, with fresh pledges of help and promise such as His Messenger brought in the words: “Fear not, little flock,—it is yourFather’s good pleasure to give you the Kingdom.” And to the Soul of the Nation that “Kingdom” is everything. In that kingdom it hopes to find all it has loved and lost, all it has striven for and failed to win, all that it has prayed for, wept for, worked for. Yet to-day between that aspiring Soul and its immortal Inheritance stand two deadly enemies,—a contentious Churchdom and a capitalized Press,—the one hypocrite, the other materialist. And the satirical demand “Do we Believe?” is but an echo of Pilate’s question “What is truth?”—a question immediately followed by Truth’s crucifixion. Nevertheless the Soul of the Nation—our nation, our empire—is becoming aware of its enemies. It is instinctively conscious of threatening evil, and is on the alert to save Itself if others will not save it. But its way out of the labyrinth of difficulty will probably be neither through Church nor Press,—nor will it be aided by “revival” meetings or Salvationist assemblies. Its path will be cloven straight,—not crookedly; for the British Nation, above all other nations in the world, does most easily sicken of priestly Sham and subsidized Journalism. And the sane, strong Soul of it—that Soul which in its native intrinsic virtue, is devoutly God-fearing, pure and true, will find means to shake off its pressing foes and stand free. For priestcraft and dogma are like prison chains fastened upon the progressive spirit of humanity, and they have nothing in common with the simple teaching of Christ, which is the only real Christianity.
Butler & Tanner,The Selwood Printing Works,Frome, and London.