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ON NOTHING
& KINDRED SUBJECTS

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Paris

Hills and the Sea

Emmanuel Burden, Merchant

ON NOTHING

& KINDRED SUBJECTS

H. BELLOC

METHUEN & CO.

36 ESSEX STREET W.C.

LONDON

(V\f)W

THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY

369095A

ASTOR, L**J«X AND
TlLBEN FOUNDATIONS

H iW<& L

First Published in igo8

MAURICE BARING

CONTENTS

On the Pleasure of Taking up One's Pen
On Getting Respected in Inns and Hotels
On Ignorance
On Advertisement
On a House

On the Illness of my Muse
On a Dog and a Man also
On Tea
On Them

On Railways and Things
On Conversations in Trains
On the Return of the Dead
•On the Approach of an Awful Doom
On a Rich Man who Suffered
On a Child who Died
On a Lost Manuscript
On a Man who was Protected by Another
Man

vii

7
*5
23
3i
4*
47
57
63
69
81
89

99
107
117
127

135

On Nothing

On National Debts

On Lords .....

On Jingoes : In the Shape of a Warning

On a Winged Horse and the Exile who
Rode Him ....

On a Man and His Burden

On a Fisherman and the Quest of Peace

On a Hermit whom I knew

On an Unknown Country

On a Faery Castle . . .

On a Southern Harbour

On a Young Man and an Older Man .

On the Departure of a Guest

On Death ......

On Coming to an End

PAGE
145

*53
l6l

171
l8l
,89
197
207
217
225

233
241
247
255

King's Land,

December the 18th, 1907

My dear Maurice,

It was in Normandy, you will remember,
and in the heat of the year, when the birds were
silent in the trees and the apples nearly ripe,
with the sun above us already of a stronger
kind, and a somnolence within and without, that
it was determined among us (the jolly company !)
that I should write upon Nothing, and upon
all that is cognate to Nothing, a task not yet
attempted since the Beginning of the World.

Now xvhen the matter was begun and the
subject nearly approached, I saw more clearly
that this writing upon Nothing might be very
grave, and as I looked at it in every way the
difficulties of my adventure appalled me, nor
am I certain that I have overcome them all.
But I had promised you that I would pro-
ceed, and so I did, in spite of my doubts and
terrors.

For first I perceived that in writing upon
this matter I was in peril of offending the
privilege of others, and of those especially who
are powerful to-day, since I would be discussing

On Nothing

things very dear and domestic to my fellow-men,
such as The Honour of Politicians, The Tact
of Great Ladies, The Wealth of Journalists,
The Enthusiasm of Gentlemen, and the Wit
of Bankers. All that is most intimate and
dearest to the men that make our time, all that
they would most defend from the vulgar gaze, —
this it was proposed to make the theme of a
common book.

In spite of such natural fear and of interests
so powerful to detain me, I have completed my
task, and I will confess that as it grew it en-
thralled me. There is in Nothing something so
majestic and so high that it is a fascination
and spell to regard it. Is it not that which
Mankind, after the great effort of life, at last
attains, and that which alone can satisfy Man-
kind's desire? Is it not that which is the end
of so many generation of analysis, the final
word of Philosophy, and the goal of the search
j or reality ? Is it not the very matter of our
modern creed in which the great spirits of our
time repose, and is it not, as it were, the cul-
mhiation of their intelligence ? It is indeed the
sum and meaning of all around !

On Nothing

How well has the world perceived it and how
powerfully do its legends illustrate what Nothing
is to men !

You know that once in Lombardy Alfred and
Charlemagne and the Kaliph Haroun-al-Ras-
chid met to make trial of their swords. The
sivord of Alfred was a simple sword: its name
was Hewer. And the sword of Charlemagne
xoas a French sword, and its name xvas Joyeuse.
But the sword of Haroun was of the finest steel,
forged in Toledo, tempered at Cordova, blessed
in Mecca, damascened (as one might imagine) in
Damascus, sharpened upon JacoVs Stone, and
so wrought that when one struck it it sounded
like a bell. And as for its name, By Allah I
that was very subtle— for it had no name at
all.

Well then, upon that day in Lombardy Alfred
and Charlemagne and the Kaliph were met to
take a trial of their blades. Alfred took a pig
of lead which he had brought from the Mendip
Hills, and swiping the air once or twice in the
Western fashion, he cut through that lead and
girded the edge of his sword upon the rock
beneath, making a little dent.

On Nothing

Then Charlemagne, taking in both hands his
sword Joyeuse, and aiming at the dent, with a
laugh swung down and cut the stone itself right
through, so that it fell into two pieces, one on
either side, and there they lie to-day near by
Piacenza in afield.

Now that it had come to the KalipKs
turn, one would have said there was nothing
left for him to do, for Hewer had man-
fully hewn lead, and Joyeuse had joyfully
clef stone.

But the Kaliph, with an Arabian hole, picked
out of his pocket a gossamer scarf from Cash-
mir, so light that when it was tossed into the air
it would hardly fall to the ground, but floated
downwards slowly like a mist. This, with a
light pass, he severed, and immediately received
the prize. For it was deemed more difficult by
far to divide such a veil in mid-air, than to cleave
lead or even stone.

I knew a man once, Maurice, who was at
Oxford for three years, and after that went down
with no degree. At College, while his friends
were seeking for Truth in funny brown German
Philosophies, Sham Religions, stinking bottles

On Nothing

and identical equations, he was lying on his back
in Eynsham meadows thinking of Nothing, and
got the Truth by this parallel road of his much
more quickly than did they by theirs ; for the
asses are still seeking, mildly disputing, and, in
a cultivated manner, following the gleam, so that
they have become in their Donnish middleage a
nuisance and a pest; zvhile he — that other —
with the Truth very fast and firm at the end
of a leather thong is dragging her sliding,
whining and crouching on her four feet, drag-
ging her reluctant through the world, even
into the broad daylight where Truth most hates
to be.

He it was who became my master in this
creed. For once as we lay under a hedge at the
corner of a road near Bagley Wood zee heard
far off the notes of military music and the dis-
tant marching of a column ; these notes and that
tramp grew louder, till there swung round the
turning with a blaze of sound five hundred men
in order. They passed, and we xverefull of the
scene and of the memories of the zvorld, when he
said to me : " Do you know what is in your
heart ? It is the musk. And do you know the

On Nothing

cause and Mover of that music? It is the
Nothingness inside the bugle; it is the holloxv
Nothingness inside the Drum"

Then I thought of the poem where it says of
the Army of the Republic:

The thunder of the limber and the rumble of a hundred

of the guns.
And there hums as she comes the roll of her innumerable

drums,

I knew him to be right.

From this first moment I determined to con-
sider and to meditate upon Nothing.

Many things have I discovered about Nothing,
which have proved it — to me at least — to be the
warp or ground of all that is holiest. It is of
such fine gossamer that loveliness was spun, the
mists under the hills on an autumn morning are
hit gross reflections of it ; moonshine on lovers
is earthy compared with it; song sung most
charmingly and stirring the dearest recollections
is but a failure in the human attempt to reach
its embrace and be dissolved in it. It is out of
Nothing that are woven those* fine poems of
which we carry but vague rhythms in the
head: — and that Woman zvho is a shade, the

On Nothing

Insaisissable, whom several have enshrined in
melody — well, her Christian name, her maiden
name, and, as I personally believe, her married
name as well, is Nothing. I never see a gallery
of pictures now but I know how the use of
empty spaces makes a scheme, nor do I ever go
to a play but I see how silence is half the merit
of acting and hope some day for absence and
darkness as well upon the stage. What do
you think the fairy Melisende said to Fulk-
Nerra when he had lost his soul for her and he
met her in the Marshes after twenty years?
Why, Nothing — what else could she have said ?
Nothing is the reward of good men who alone
can pretend to taste it in long easy sleep, it is
the meditation of the wise and the charm of
happy dreamers. So excellent and final is it
that I would here and now declare to you
that Nothing was the gate of eternity, that by
passing through Nothing we reached our every
oVject as passionate and happy beings — were it
not for the Council of Toledo that restrains my
pen. Yet . . % . indeed, indeed when I think
what an Elixir is this Nothing I am for
putting up a statue nowhere, on a pedestal that

On Nothing

shall not exist, and for inscribing on it in
letters that shall never be written :

TO NOTHING
THE HUMAN RAGE IN GRATITUDE.

So I began to write my book, Maurice : and
as I wrote it the dignity of what I had to do
rose continually before me, as does the dignity
of a mountain range which first seemed a vague
part of the sky, but at last stands out august
and fixed before the traveller ,• or as the sky at
night may seem to a man released from a dun-
geon who sees it but gradually, first bewildered
by the former constraint of his narrow room
but nozv gradually enlarging to drink in its
immensity. Indeed this Nothing is too great
for any man who has once embraced it to leave
it alone thenceforward for ever; and finally, the
dignity of Nothing is sufficiently exalted in
this : that Nothing is the tenuous stuff from
which the world was made.

For when the Elohim set out to make the
world, first they debated among themselves the
Idea, and one suggested this and another sug-
gested that, till they had threshed out between
them a very pretty picture of it all. There

On Nothing

were to be hills beyond hills, good grass and
trees, and the broadness of rivers, animals of
all kinds, both comic and terrible, and savours
and colours, and all around the ceaseless stream-
ing of the sea.

Noxv when they had got that far, and debated
the Idea m detail, and with amendment and
resolve, it very greatly concerned them of what
so admirable a compost should be mixed. Some
said of this, and some said of that, but in the
long run it was decided by the narrow majority
of eight in a full house that Nothing was the
only proper material out of which to make this
World of theirs, and out of Nothing they made
it : as it says in the Ballade :

Dear, tenuous stuffy of which the world was made.
And ogam in the Envoi :

Prince, draw this sovereign draught in your despair,
That when your riot in that rest is laid,
You shall he merged with an Essential Air : —
Dear, tenuous stuff, of which the world was made !

Out of Nothing then did they proceed to
make the world, this sweet world, always ex-
cepting Man the Marplot. Man was made in a
muddier fashion, as you shall hear.

On Nothing

For when the world seemed ready finished
and, as it were, presentable for use, and was
fall of ducks, tigers, mastodons, waddling
hippopotamuses, lilting deer, strong-smelling
herbs, angry lions, frowsy snakes, cracked
glaciers, regular waterfalls, coloured sunsets,
and the rest, it suddenly came into the head of
the youngest of these strong Makers of the
World (the youngest, who had been sat upon
and snubbed all the while the thing was doing,
and hardly been allowed to look on, let alone
to touch), it suddenly came into his little head,
I say, that he would make a Man.

Then the Elder Elohim said, some of them,
" Oh, leave well alone! send him to bed!" And
others said sleepily (for they were tired), " No !
no ! let him play his little trick and have done
with it, and then we shall have some rest?
Little did they know! . . . And others again,
who were still broad awake, looked on with
amusement and applauded, saying : " Go on,
little one! Let us see what you can do? But
when these last stooped to help the child, they
found that all the Nothing had been used up
(and that is why there is none of it about

On Nothing

to-day). So the little fellow began to cry, but
they, to comfort him, said : " Tut, lad ! tut ! do
not cry ; do your best with this bit of mud. It
will always serve to fashion something."

So the jolly little fellow took the dirty lump
of mud and pushed it this ivay and that, jabbing
with his thumb and scraping with his nail, until
at last he had made Picanthropos, who lived in
Java and was a fool; who begat Eoanthropos,
who begat Meioanthropos, who begat Pleioan-
thropos, who begat Pleistoanthropos, who vt
often mixed up with his father, and a great
warning against keeping the same names in one
family; who begat Paleoanthropos, who begat
Neoanthropos, who begat the three Anthropoids,
great mumblers and murmurers with their
mouths; and the eldest of these begat Him
whose son was He, from whom we are all
descended.

He was indeed halting and patchy, ill-lettered,
passionate and rude; bald of one cheek and
blind of one eye, and his legs were of different
sizes, nevertheless by process of ascent have we,
his descendants, manfully continued to develop
and to progress, and to swell in everything,

On Nothing

until from Homer we came to Euripides, and
from Euripides to Seneca, and from Seneca to
Boethius and his peers ; and from these to Duns
Scotus, and so upwards through James I of
England and the fifth, sixth or seventh of
Scotland {for it is impossible to remember these
things) and on, on, to my Lord Macaulay, and
in the very last reached YOU, the great summits
of the human race and last perfection of the
ages READERS OF THIS BOOK, and you also
Maurice, to whom it is dedicated, and myself,
who have written it for gain.

Amen.

ON NOTHING

On the Pleasure of Taking Up
One's Pen *^ *^ *^

A MONG the sadder and smaller pleasures of
this world I count this pleasure : the
pleasure of taking up one's pen.

It has been said by very many people that
there is a tangible pleasure in the mere act of
writing: in choosing and arranging words. It
has been denied by many. It is affirmed and
denied in the life of Doctor Johnson, and for
my part I would say that it is very true in some
rare moods and wholly false in most others.
However, of writing and the pleasure in it I am
not writing here (with pleasure), but of the
pleasure of taking up one's pen, which is quite
another matter.

Note what the action means. You are alone.
Even if the room is crowded (as was the smoking-
room in the G.W.R. Hotel, at Paddington, only the
other day, when I wrote my " Statistical Abstract

On Nothing

of Christendom "), even if the room is crowded,
you must have made yourself alone to be able to
write at all. You must have built up some kind
of wall and isolated your mind. You are alone,
then ; and that is the beginning.

If you consider at what pains men are to be
alone : how they climb mountains, enter prisons,
profess monastic vows, put on eccentric daily
habits, and seclude themselves in the garrets of
a great town, you will see that this moment
of taking up the pen is not least happy in the
fact that then, by a mere association of ideas,
the writer is alone.

So much for that. Now not only are you
alone, but you are going to " create" .

When people say " create " they flatter them-
selves. No man can create anything. I knew a
man once who drew a horse on a bit of paper to
amuse the company and covered it all over with
many parallel streaks as he drew. When he had
done this, an aged priest (present upon that
occasion) said, " You are pleased to draw a zebra."
When the priest said this the man began to curse
and to swear, and to protest that he had never seen
or heard of a zebra. He said it was all done out
of his own head, and he called heaven to witness,
and his patron saint (for he was of the Old
English Territorial Catholic Families — his patron

On Taking Up One's Pen

saint was jEthelstan), and the salvation of his
immortal soul he also staked, that he was as in-
nocent of zebras as the babe unborn. But there !
He persuaded no one, and the priest scored. It
was most evident that the Territorial was crammed
full of zebraical knowledge.

All this, then, is a digression, and it must be
admitted that there is no such thing as a man's
"creating". But anyhow, when you take up
your pen you do something devilish pleasing :
there is a prospect before you. You are going to
develop a germ : I don't know what it is, and I
promise you I won't call it creation — but possibly a
god is creating through you, and at least you are
making believe at creation. Anyhow, it is a
sense of mastery and of origin, and you know
that when you have done, something will be
added to the world, and little destroyed. For
what will you have destroyed or wasted? A
certain amount of white paper at a farthing a
square yard (and I am not certain it is not
pleasanter all diversified and variegated with
black wriggles) — a certain amount of ink meant
to be spread and dried : made for no other pur-
pose. A certain infinitesimal amount of quill —
torn from the silly goose for no purpose whatso-
ever but to minister to the high needs of Man.

Here you cry "Affectation ! Affectation ! How

On Nothing

do I know that the fellow writes with a quill ? A
most unlikely habit ! " To that I answer you are
right. Less assertion, please, and more humility.
I will tell you frankly with what I am writing.
I am writing with a Waterman's Ideal Fountain
Pen. The nib is of pure gold, as was the throne
of Charlemagne, in the "Song of Roland." That
throne (I need hardly tell you) was borne into
Spain across the cold and awful passes of the
Pyrenees by no less than a hundred and twenty
mules, and all the Western world adored it, and
trembled before it when it was set up at every
halt under pine trees, on the upland grasses.
For he sat upon it, dreadful and commanding:
there weighed upon him two centuries of age ; i

his brows were level with justice and experience, /

and his beard was so tangled and full, that he
was called " bramble-bearded Charlemagne."
You have read how, when he stretched out his
hand at evening, the sun stood still till he had
found the body of Roland? No? You must
read about these things.

Well then, the pen is of pure gold, a pen that
runs straight away like a willing horse, or a jolly
little ship ; indeed, it is a pen so excellent that it
reminds me of my subject : the pleasure of taking
up one's pen.

God bless you, pen ! When I was a boy, and

On Taking Up One's Pen

they told me work was honourable, useful,
cleanly, sanitary, wholesome, and necessary to
the mind of man, I paid no more attention to
them than if they had told me that public men
were usually honest, or that pigs could fly. It
seemed to me that they were merely saying silly
things they had been told to say. Nor do I doubt
to this day that those who told me these things
at school were but preaching a dull and careless
round. But now I know that the things they
told me were true. God bless you, pen of work,
pen of drudgery, pen of letters, pen of posings,
pen rabid, pen ridiculous, pen glorified. Pray, little
pen, be worthy of the love I bear you, and consider
how noble I shall make you some day, when you
shall live in a glass case with a crowd of tourists
round you every day from 10 to 4; pen of justice,
pen of the saeva indignatio, pen of majesty and of
light. I will write with you some day a consider-
able poem ; it is a compact between you and me.
If I cannot make one of my own, then I will
write out some other man's ; but you, pen, come
what may, shall write out a good poem before you
die, if it is only the Allegro.

The pleasure of taking up one's pen has also
this, peculiar among all pleasures, that you have

On Nothing

the freedom to lay it down when you will. Not
so with love. Not so with victory. Not so with
glory.

Had I begun the other way round, I would
have called this Work, " The Pleasure of laying
down one's Pen." But I began it where I began
it, and I am going on to end it just where it is
going to end.

What other occupation, avocation, dissertation,
or intellectual recreation can you cease at will ?
Not bridge — you go on playing to win. Not
public speaking — they ring a bell. Not mere
converse — you have to answer everything the
other insufficient person says. Not life, for it is
wrong to kill one's self; and as for the natural
end of living, that does not come by one's choice; 7

on the contrary, it is the most capricious of all
accidents.

But the pen you lay down when you will. At
any moment : without remorse, without anxiety,
without dishonour, you are free to do this digni-
fied and final thing (I am just going to do it). . . .
You lay it down.

On Getting Respected in Inns and
Hotels ^> -^ -^ *^y

r ~PO begin at the beginning is, next to ending
at the end, the whole art of writing ; as for
the middle you may fill it in with any rubble that
you choose. But the beginning and the end,
like the strong stone outer walls of mediaeval
buildings, contain and define the whole.

And there is more than this : since writing is a
human and a living art, the beginning being the
motive and the end the object of the work, each
inspires it; each runs through organically, and
the two between them give life to what you do.

So I will begin at the beginning and I will lay
down this first principle, that religion and the
full meaning of things has nowhere more dis-
appeared from the modern world than in the
department of Guide Books.

For a Guide Book will tell you always what
are the principal and most vulgar sights of a
town; what mountains are most difficult to climb,
and, invariably, the exact distances between one

On Nothing

place and another. But these things do not
serve the End of Man. The end of man is
Happiness, and how much happier are you with
such a knowledge ? Now there are some Guide
Books which do make little excursions now and
then into the important things, which tell you
(for instance) what kind of cooking you will find
in what places, what kind of wine in countries
where this beverage is publicly known, and even
a few, more daring than the rest, will give a hint
or two upon hiring mules, and upon the way that
a bargain should be conducted, or how to fight.

But with all this even the best of them do
not go to the moral heart of the matter. They
do not give you a hint or an idea of that which
is surely the basis of all happiness in travel. I
mean, the art of gaining respect in the places
where you stay. Unless that respect is paid you
you are more miserable by far than if you had
stayed at home, and I would ask anyone who
reads this whether he can remember one single
journey of his which was not marred by the
evident contempt which the servants and the
owners of taverns showed for him wherever he
went ?

It is therefore of the first importance, much
more important than any question of price or
distance, to know something of this art; it is not
8

On Getting Respected in Inns

difficult to learn, moreover it is so little exploited
that if you will but learn it you will have a
sense of privilege and of upstanding among your
fellows worth all the holidays which were ever
taken in the world.

Of this Respect which we seek, out of so many
human pleasures, a facile, and a very false, inter-
pretation is that it is the privilege of the rich, and
I even knew one poor fellow who forged a cheque
and went to gaol in his desire to impress the host
of the " Spotted Dog," near Barnard Castle. It
was an error in him, as it is in all who so
imagine. The rich in their degree fall under
this contempt as heavily as any, and there is no
wealth that can purchase the true awe which it
should be your aim to receive from waiters,
serving-wenches, boot-blacks, and publicans.

I knew a man once who set out walking from
Oxford to Stow-in-the-Wold, from Stow-in-the-
Wold to Cheltenham, from Cheltenham to Led-
bury, from Ledbury to Hereford, from Hereford to
New Rhayader (where the Cobbler lives), and
from New Rhayader to the end of the world
which lies a little west and north of that place,
and all the way he slept rough under hedges
and in stacks, or by day in open fields, so terrified
was he -at the thought of the contempt that
awaited him should he pay for a bed. And I

On Nothing

knew another man who walked from York to
Thirsk, and from Thirsk to Darlington, and from
Darlington to Durham, and so on up to the
border and over it, and all the way he pretended
to be extremely poor so that he might be certain
the contempt he received was due to nothing of
his own, but to his clothes only : but this was an
indifferent way of escaping, for it got him into
many fights with miners, and he was arrested by
the police in Lanchester; and at Jedburgh, where
his money did really fail him, he had to walk
all through the night, finding that no one would
take in such a tatterdemalion. The thing could
be done much more cheaply than that, and much
more respectably, and you can acquire with but
little practice one of many ways of achieving
the full respect of the whole house, even of that
proud woman who sits behind glass in front of an
enormous ledger ; and the first way is this : —

As you come into the place go straight for the
smoking-room, and begin talking of the local
sport : and do not talk humbly and tentatively as
so many do, but in a loud authoritative tone.
You shall insist and lay down the law and fly
into a passion if you are contradicted. There is
here an objection which will arise in the mind of
every niggler and boggier who has in the past
very properly been covered with ridicule and

On Getting Respected in Inns

become the butt of the waiters and stable-yard,
which is, that if one is ignorant of the local
sport, there is an end to the business. The
objection is ridiculous. Do you suppose that the
people whom you hear talking around you are
more learned than yourself in the matter ? And
if they are do you suppose that they are ac-
quainted with your ignorance ? Remember that
most of them have read far less than you, and
that you can draw upon an experience of travel
of which they can know nothing ; do but make
the plunge, practising first in the villages of the
Midlands, I will warrant you that in a very little
while bold assertion of this kind will carry you
through any tap-room or bar-parlour in Britain.

I remember once in the holy and secluded
village of Washington under the Downs, there
came in upon us as we sat in the inn there a
man whom I recognised though he did not know
me — for a journalist — incapable of understanding
the driving of a cow, let alone horses : a prophet,
a socialist, a man who knew the trend of things
and so forth : a man who had never been out-
side a town except upon a motor bicycle, upon
which snorting beast indeed had he come to this
inn. But if he was less than us in so many
things he was greater than us in this art of
gaining respect in Inns and Hotels. For he sat

On Nothing

down, and when they had barely had time to say
good day to him he gave us in minutest detail
a great run after a fox, a run that never took
place. We were fifteen men in the room ; none
of us were anything like rich enough to hunt,
and the lie went through them like an express.
This fellow "found" (whatever that may mean)
at Gumber Corner, ran right through the combe
(which, by the way, is one of those bits of land
which have been stolen bodily from the English
people), cut down the Sutton Road, across the
railway at Coates (and there he showed the
cloven hoof, for your liar always takes his hounds
across the railway), then all over Egdean, and
killed in a field near Wisborough. All this he
told, and there was not even a man there to ask
him whether all those little dogs and horses swam
the Rother or jumped it. He was treated like
a god; they tried to make him stop but he would
not. He was off to Worthing, where I have no
doubt he told some further lies upon the growing
of tomatoes under glass, which is the main sport
of that district. Similarly, I have no doubt, such
a man would talk about boats at King's Lynn,
murder with violence at Croydon, duck shooting
at Ely, and racing anywhere.

Then also if you are in any doubt as to what
they want of you, you can always change the

On Getting Respected in Inns

scene. Thus fishing is dangerous for even the
poor can fish, and the chances are you do not
know the names of the animals, and you may be
putting salt-water fish into the stream of Lam-
bourne, or talking of salmon upon the Upper
Thames. But what is to prevent you putting
on a look of distance and marvel, and conjuring
up the North Atlantic for them? Hold them
with the cold and the fog of the Newfoundland
seas, and terrify their simple minds with whales.

A second way to attain respect, if you are by
nature a silent man, and one which I think is
always successful, is to write before you go to
bed and leave upon the table a great number of
envelopes which you should address to members
of the Cabinet, and Jewish money-lenders,
dukes, and in general any of the great. It is
but slight labour, and for the contents you cannot
do better than put into each envelope one of
those advertisements which you will find lying
about. Then next morning you should gather
them up and ask where the post is: but you need
not post them, and you need not fear for your
bill. Your bill will stand much the same, and
your reputation will swell like a sponge.

And a third way is to go to the telephone,
since there are telephones nowadays, and ring up
whoever in the neighbourhood is of the greatest

On Nothing

importance. There is no law against it, and
when you have the number you have but to ask
the servant at the other end whether it is not
somebody else's house. But in the meanwhile
your night in the place is secure.

And a fourth way is to tell them to call you
extremely early, and then to get up extremely
late. Now why this should have the effect it
has I confess I cannot tell. I lay down the rule
empirically and from long observation, but I may
suggest that perhaps it is the combination of the
energy you show in early rising, and of the
luxury you show in late rising: for energy and
luxury are the two qualities which menials most
admire in that governing class to which you
flatter yourself you belong. Moreover the strength
of will with which you sweep aside their incon-
venience, ordering one thing and doing another,
is not without its effect, and the stir you have
created is of use to you.

And the fifth way is to be Strong, to Dominate
and to Lead. To be one of the Makers of this
world, one of the Builders. To have the more
Powerful Will. To arouse in all around you by
mere Force of Personality a feeling that they
must Obey. But I do not know how this is
done.

On Ignorance ^y -^ <^ ^y

r I "HERE is not anything that can so suddenly
flood the mind with shame as the conviction of
ignorance, yet we are all ignorant of nearly every-
thing there is to be known. Is it not wonderful,
then, that we should be so sensitive upon the
discovery of a fault which must of necessity be
common to all, and that in its highest degree ?
The conviction of ignorance would not shame us
thus if it were not for the public appreciation of
our failure.

If a man proves us ignorant of German or the
complicated order of English titles, or the rules
of Bridge, or any other matter, we do not care
for his proofs, so that we are alone with him :
first because we can easily deny them all, and
continue to wallow in our ignorance without fear,
and secondly, because we can always counter
with something we know, and that he knows
nothing of, such as the Creed, or the history of
Little Bukleton, or some favourite book. Then,
again, if one is alone with one's opponent, it is

On Nothing

quite easy to pretend that the subject on which
one has shown ignorance is unimportant, peculiar,
pedantic, hole in the corner, and this can be
brazened out even about Greek or Latin. Or,
again, one can turn the laugh against him,
saying that he has just been cramming up the
matter, and that he is airing his knowledge ; or
one can begin making jokes about him till he
grows angry, and so forth. There is no neces-
sity to be ashamed.

But if there be others present ? Ah ! Hoc est
aliud rem, that is another matter, for then the
biting shame of ignorance suddenly displayed
conquers and bewilders us. We have no defence
left. We are at the mercy of the discoverer, we
own and confess, and become insignificant : we
slink away.

Note that all this depends upon what the
audience conceive ignorance to be. It is very
certain that if a man should betray in some cheap
club that he did not know how to ride a horse, he
would be broken down and lost, and similarly,
if you are in a country house among the rich you
are shipwrecked unless you can show acquaint-
ance with the Press, and among the poor you
must be very careful, not only to wear good cloth
and to talk gently as though you owned them,
but also to know all about the rich. Among very
16

On Ignorance

young men to seem ignorant of vice is the ruin of
you, and you had better not have been born than
appear doubtful of the effects of strong drink
when you are in the company of Patriots. There
was a man who died of shame this very year in a
village of Savoy because he did not know the
name of the King reigning over France to-day,
and it is a common thing to see men utterly cast
down in the bar-rooms off the Strand because
they cannot correctly recite the opening words of
"Boys of the Empire." There are schoolgirls who
fall ill and pine away because they are shown to
have misplaced the name of Dagobert III in the
list of Merovingian Monarchs, and quite fearless
men will blush if they are found ignoring the
family name of some peer. Indeed, there is
nothing so contemptible or insignificant but that
in some society or other it is required to be
known, and that the ignorance of it may not at
any moment cover one with confusion. Never-
theless we should not on that account attempt to
learn everything there is to know (for that is
manifestly impossible), nor even to learn every-
thing that is known, for that would soon prove a
tedious and heart-breaking task ; we should rather
study the means to be employed for warding off
those sudden and public convictions of Ignorance
which are the ruin of so many.
2 17

On Nothing

These methods of defence are very numerous
and are for the most part easy of acquirement.
The most powerful of them by far (but the most
dangerous) is to fly into a passion and marvel how
anyone can be such a fool as to pay attention to
wretched trifles. " Powerful/' because it appeals
to that strongest of all passions in men by which
they are predisposed to cringe before what they
think to be a superior station in society.
" Dangerous," because if it fail in its objects this
method does not save you from pain, and secures
you in addition a bad quarrel, and perhaps a heavy
beating. Still it has many votaries, and is more
often carried off than any other. Thus, if in
Bedfordshire, someone* catches you erring on a
matter of crops, you profess that in London such
things are thought mere rubbish and despised ; or
again, in the society of professors at the Univer-
sities, an ignorance of letters can easily be turned
by an allusion to that vapid life of the rich, where
letters grow insignificant ; so at sea, if you slip on
common terms, speak a little of your luxurious
occupations on land and you will usually be safe.

There are other and better defences. One of
these is to turn the attack by showing great
knowledge on a cognate point, or by remember-
ing that the knowledge your opponent boasts has
been somewhere contradicted by an authority.
18

On Ignorance

Thus, if some day a friend should say, as continu-
ally happens in a London club :

" Come, let us hear you decline tctu^ci/os <5i/,"
you can answer carelessly :

"You know as well as I do that the form is
purely Paradigmatic : it is never found."

Or again, if you put the Wrekin by an error
into Staffordshire, you can say, "I was thinking
of the Jurassic formation which is the basis of the

formation of " etc. Or, "Well, Shrewsbury

. . . Staffordshire ? . . . Oh ! I had got my mind
mixed up with the graves of the Staffords."
Very few people will dispute this, none will
follow it. There is indeed this difficulty attached
to such a method, that it needs the knowledge of
a good many things, and a ready imagination and
a stiff face : but it is a good way.

Yet another way is to cover your retreat with
buffoonery, pretending to be ignorant of the most
ordinary things, so as to seem to have been play-
ing the fool only when you made your first error.
There is a special form of this method which has
always seemed to me the most excellent by far
of all known ways of escape. It is to show a
steady and crass ignorance of very nearly every-
thing that can be mentioned, and with all this to
keep a steady mouth, a determined eye, and (this
is essential) to show by a hundred allusions that

On Nothing

you have on your own ground an excellent store
of knowledge.

This is the true offensive-defensive in this kind
of assault, and therefore the perfection of tactics.

Thus if one should say :

" Well, it was the old story. AvdyKrj."

It might happen to anyone to answer: "I
never read the play."

This you will think perhaps an irremediable
fall, but it is not, as will appear from this dia-
logue, in which the method is developed :

Sapiens. But, Good Heavens, it isn't a play !

Ignoramus. Of course not. I know that as
well as you, but the character of AvdyKrj domin-
ates the play. You won't deny that ?

Sapiens. You don't seem to have much ac-
quaintance with Liddell and Scott.

Ignoramus. I didn't know there was anyone
called Liddell in it, but I knew Scott intimately,
both before and after he succeeded to the estate.

Sapiens. But I mean the dictionary.

Ignoramus. I'm quite certain that his father
wouldn't let him write a dictionary. Why, the
library at Bynton hasn't been opened for years.

If, after five minutes of that, Ignoramus cannot
get Sapiens floundering about in a world he knows
nothing of, it is his own fault.

But if Sapiens is over-tenacious there is a final

On Ignorance

method which may not be the most perfect, but
which I have often tried myself, and usually
with very considerable success :

Sapiens. Nonsense, man. The Dictionary.
The Greek dictionary.

Ignoramus. What has Ananti to do with Greek ?

Sapiens. I said AvdyKrj.

Ignoramus. Oh ! h h ! you said avdyKrj, did

you? I thought you said Ananti. Of course,
Scott didn't call the play Ananti, but Ananti
was the principal character, and one always calls
it that in the family. It is very well written. If
he hadn't that shyness about publishing . . . and
so forth.

Lastly, or rather Penultimately, there is the
method of upsetting the plates and dishes, break-
ing your chair, setting fire to the house, shooting
yourself, or otherwise swallowing all the memory
of your shame in a great catastrophe.

But that is a method for cowards ; the brave
man goes out into the hall, comes back with a
stick, and says firmly, "You have just deliber-
ately and cruelly exposed my ignorance before
this company ; I shall, therefore, beat you soundly
with this stick in the presence of them all."

This you then do to him or he to you, mutatis
mutandis, ceteris jyaribus ; and that is all I have to
say on Ignorance.

On Advertisement «^y *o *o o

T T ARMONIDES of Ephesus says in one of his
treatises upon method (I forget which, but
I think the fifth) that a matter is very often more
clearly presented by way of example than in the
form of a direct statement and analysis. I have
determined to follow the advice of this great
though pagan authority in what you will now
read or not read, according to your inclination.

As I was sitting one of these sunny mornings
in my little Park, reading an article upon vivi-
section in the Tablet newspaper, a Domestic [Be
seated, be seated, I pray you !] brought me a
letter upon a Silver Salver [Be covered !]

Which reminds me, why do people say that
silver is the only perfect spondee in the English
language ? Salver is a perfectly good spondee ;
so is North-Cape ; so is great-coat ; so is High-
Mass ; so is Wenchthorpe ; so is forewarp, which
is the rope you throw out from the stem to the
little man in the boat who comes to moor you
along the west gully in the Ramsgate Harbour ;

On Nothing

*V is Longnose, the name of a buoy, and of a reef
of rocks just north of the North Foreland ; so are
a great many other words. But I digress. I
only put in these words to show you in case you
had any dissolving doubts remaining upon the
matter, that the kind of stuff you read is very
often all nonsense, and that you must not take
things for granted merely because they are
printed. I have watched you doing it from time
to time, and have been torn between pity and
anger. But all that is neither here nor there.
This habit of parenthesis is the ruin of good
prose. As I was saying, example clearly put
down without comment is very often more power-
ful than analysis for the purpose of conviction.

The Domestic brought me a letter upon a
Silver Salver. I took it and carefully examined
the outside.

They err who will maintain through thick
and thin upon a mere theory and without any
true experience of the world, that it matters not
what the outside of a letter may be so long as
the contents provoke terror or amusement. The
outside of a letter should appeal to one. When
one gets a letter with a halfpenny stamp and
with the flap of the letter stuck inside, and with
the address on the outside typewritten, one is
very apt to throw it away. I believe that there
24

On Advertisement

is no recorded case of such a letter containing a
cheque, a summons, or an invitation to eat good
food, and as for demand notes, what are they?
Then again those long envelopes which come
with the notice, " Paid in bulk/' outside instead
of a stamp — no man can be moved by them.
They are very nearly always advertisements of
cheap wine.

Do not misunderstand me : cheap wine is by
no means to be despised. There are some sorts
of wine the less you pay for them the better
they are — within reason ; and if a Gentleman has
bought up a bankrupt stock of wine from a
fellow to whom he has been lending money, why
on earth should he not sell it again at a reason-
able profit, yet quite cheap? It seems to be
pure benefit to the world, But I perceive that
all this is leading me from my subject.

I took up the letter, I say, and carefully
examined the outside. It was written in the
hand of an educated man. It was almost il-
legible, and had all the appearance of what an
honest citizen of some culture might write to
one hurriedly about some personal matter. I
noticed that it had come from the eastern central
district, but when you consider what an enormous
number of people live there during the day,
that did not prejudice me against it.

On Nothing

Now, when I opened this letter, I found it
written a little more carefully, but still, written,
not printed, or typewritten, or manifolded, or
lithographed, or anything else of that kind. It
was written.

The art of writing . . . but Patience !
Patience! . . .

It was written. It was very cordial, and it

appealed directly, only the style was otiose, but

in matters of the first importance style is a

hindrance.

Telephone No. 666.

The Mercury,

15th Nishan 5567.

Dear Sir, — Many people wonder, especially in

your profession, [what is It?] why a certain

Taedium Vitac seizes them towards Jive o clock in

the afternoon. The stress and hurry of modern life

have forced so many of Us to draw upon Our

nervous energy that We imagine that [Look at that

' that ' ! The whole Elizabethan tradition chucked

away !] We arc exceeding our powers, and when this

depression comes over Us, we think it necessary to

take a rest, and Let up from working. This is an

erroneous supposition. What it means is that Our

body has received insufficient nutriment during the last

twenty-four hours, and that Nature is craving for

more sustenance.

On Advertisement

We shall be very happy to offer you, through the
medium of this paper, a special offer of our Essence
of The Ox. This offer will only remain open until
Derby Day, during which period a box of our
Essence of The Ox will be sent to you Free, if you
will enclose the following form, and send it to Us in
the stamped envelope, which accompanies this letter.
Very faithfully yours,

Henry De La Mere Ullmo.

It seemed to me a most extraordinary thing.
I had never written for Ullmo and his Mercury,
and I could do them no good in the world, either
here or in Johannesburg. I was never likely
to write for him at all. He is not very pleasant ;
He is by no means rich ; He is ill-informed. He
has no character at all, apart from rather un-
successful money-grubbing, and from a habit of
defending with some virulence, but with no
capacity, his fellow money-grubbers throughout
the world. However, I thought no more about
it, and went on reading about " Vivisection. "

Two days later I got a letter upon thick paper,
so grained as to imitate oak, and having at the
top a coat-of-arms of the most complicated kind.
This coat-of-arms had a little lamb on it, sus-
pended by a girdle, as though it were being
slung on board ship ; there were also three little

On Nothing

sheaves of wheat, a sword, three panthers, some
gules, and a mullet. Above it was a helmet, and
there were two supporters : one was a man with
a club, and the other was another man without a
club, both naked. Underneath was the motto,
"Tout a Toi." This second letter was very
short.

Dear Sir, — Can you tell me why you have not
answered Our letter re the Essence of the Ox ?
Derby Day is approaching, and the remaining time is
very short. We made the offer specially to you, and
we had at least expected the courtesy of an acknow-
ledgment. You will understand that the business of a
great newspaper leaves but little time for private
charity, but we are willing to let the offer remain open
for three days longer, after which date —

How easy it would be to criticise this English !
To continue :

— after which date the price will inevitably be raised
to One Shilling. — We remain, etc.

I had this letter framed with the other, and I
waited to see what would happen, keeping back
from the bank for fear of frightening the fish,
and hardly breathing.

What happened was, after four or five days, a
very sad letter which said that Ullmo expected
28

On Advertisement

better things from me, but that He knew what
the stress of modern life was, and how often
correspondence fell into arrears. He sent me a
smaller specimen box of the Essence of The Ox.
I have it still.

And there it is. There is no moral ; there is no
conclusion or application. The world is not quite
infinite — but it is astonishingly full. All sorts of
things happen in it. There are all sorts of different
men and different ways of action, and different
goals to which life may be directed. Why, in a
little wood near home, not a hundred yards long,
there will soon burst, in the spring (I wish 1 were
there !), hundreds of thousands of leaves, and no
one leaf exactly like another. At least, so the
parish priest used to say, and though 1 have
never had the leisure to put the thing to the
proof, I am willing to believe that he was right,
for he spoke with authority.

On a House -o ^ ^y ^ ^y

T APPEAL loudly to the Muse of History
(whose name I forget and you never knew) to
help me in the description of this house, for —

The Muse of Tragedy would overstrain herself
on it;

The Muse of Comedy would be impertinent
upon it ;

The Muse of Music never heard of it ;

The Muse of Fine Arts disapproved of it ;

The Muse of Public Instruction. . . . (Tut,
tut ! There I was nearly making a tenth Muse !
I was thinking of the French Ministry.)

The Muse of Epic Poetry did not understand
it;

The Muse of Lyric Poetry still less so ;

The Muse of Astronomy is thinking of other
things ;

The Muse Polyhymnia (or Polymnia, who, ac-.
cording to Smith's Dictionary of Antiquities, is
commonly represented in a pensive attitude) has
no attribute and does no work.

On Nothing

And as for little Terpsichore whose feet are
like the small waves in summer time, she would
laugh in a peal if I asked her to write, think of,
describe, or dance in this house (and that makes
eleven Muses. No matter; better more than
less).

Yet it was a house worthy of description and
careful inventory, and for that reason I have
appealed to the Muse of History whose business
it is to set down everything in order as it hap-
pens, judging between good and evil, selecting
facts, condensing narratives, admitting picturesque
touches, and showing her further knowledge by
the allusive method or use of the dependent
clause. Well then, inspired, I will tell you ex-
actly how that house was disposed. First, there
ran up the middle of it a staircase which, had
Horace seen it (and heaven knows he was the
kind of man to live in such a house), he would
have called in his original and striking way "Res
Angusta Domi," for it was a narrow thing.
Narrow do I call it ? Yes— and yet not so
narrow. It was narrow enough to avoid all ap-
pearance of comfort or majesty, yet not so
narrow as to be quaint or snug. It was so de-
signed that two people could walk exactly
abreast, for it was necessary that upon great
occasions the ladies should be taken down from

On a House

the drawing-room by the gentlemen to the
dining-room, yet it would have been a sin and a
shame to make it wider than that, and the house
was not built in the days of crinolines. Upon
these occasions it was customary for the couples
to go down in order and in stately fashion, and
the hostess went last; but do not imagine that
there was any order of precedence. Oh, no !
Far from it, they went as they were directed.

This staircase filled up a kind of Chimney or
Funnel, or rather Parallelopiped, in the house :
half-way between each floor was a landing where
it turned right round on itself, and on each floor
a larger landing flanked by two doors on either
side, which made four altogether. This staircase
was covered with Brussels carpet (and let me tell
you in passing that no better covering for stairs
was ever yet invented ; it wears well and can be
turned, and when the uppers are worn you can
move the whole thing down one file and put the
steps where the uppers were. None of your
cocoanut stuff or gimcracks for the honest house :
when there is money you should have Brussels,
when you have none linoleum — but I digress).
The stair-rods were of brass and beautifully
polished, the banisters of iron painted to look
like mahogany ; and this staircase, which I may
take to be the emblem of a good life lived for

3 33

On Nothing

duty, went up one pair, and two pair, and three
pair — all in the same way, and did not stop till
it got to the top. But just as a good life has
beneath it a human basis so this (heaven forgive
me!) somewhat commonplace staircase changed
its character when it passed the hall door, and
as it ran down to the basement had no landing,
ornament, carpet or other paraphernalia, but a
sound flight of stone steps with a cold rim of
un painted metal for the hand.

The hall that led to these steps was oblong
and little furnished. There was a hat-rack, a
fireplace (in which a fire was not lit) and two
pictures ; one a photograph of the poor men to
whom the owner paid weekly wages at his
Works, all set out in a phalanx, or rather fan,
with the Owner of the House (and them) in the
middle, the other a steel engraving entitled " The
Monarch of the Forest," from a painting by Sir
Edwin Landseer. It represented a stag and was
very ugly.

On the ground floor of the House (which is
a libel, for it was some feet above the ground,
and was led up to by several steps, as the porch
could show) there were four rooms — the Dining-
room, the Smoking-room, the Downstairs-room
and the Back-room. The Dining-room was so
called because all meals were held in it ; the

On a House

Smoking-room because it was customary to smoke
all over the house (except the Drawing-room) ;
the Back-room because it was at the back, and
the Downstairs-room because it was downstairs.
Upon my soul, I would give you a better reason
if I had one, but I have none. Only I may say
that the Smoking-room was remarkable for two
stuffed birds, the Downstairs-room from the fact
that the Owner lived in it and felt at ease
there, the Back-room from the fact that no one
ever went into it (and quite right too), while
the Dining-room — but the Dining-room stands
separate.

The Dining-room was well carpeted ; it had in
its midst a large mahogany table so made that it
could get still larger by the addition of leaves
inside ; there were even flaps as well. It had
eleven chairs, and these in off-times stood ranged
round the wall thinking of nothing, but at meal
times were (according to the number wanted)
put round the table. It is a theory among those
who believe that a spirit nourishes all things
from within, that there was some competition
amongst these chairs as to which should be used
at table, so dull, forlorn and purposeless was
their life against the wall. Seven pictures hung
on that wall ; not because it was a mystic
number, but because it filled up all the required

On Nothing

space ; two on each side of the looking-glass and
three large ones on the opposite wall. They
were all of them engravings, and one of them at
least was that of a prominent statesman (Lord
Beaconsfield), while the rest had to do with his-
torical subjects, such as the visit of Prince Albert
to the Exhibition of 1851, and I really forget
what else. There was a Chiffonier at the end of
the room in which the wines and spirits were
kept, and which also had a looking-glass above
it ; also a white cloth on the top for no reason on
earth. An arm-chair (in which the Owner sat)
commonly stood at the head of the table ; this
remained there even between meals, and was a
symbol that he was master of the house. Four
meals were held here. Breakfast at eight,
dinner at one, tea at six, and a kind of supper
(when the children had gone to bed) at nine or
so. But what am I saying — quo Musa Historiae
tendis?—de&rl dear! I thought I was back
again in the old times ! a thousand pardons. At
the time my story opens — and closes also for that
matter (for I deal of the Owner and the House
in articulo mortis so to speak ; on the very edge of
death) — it was far otherwise. Breakfast was
when you like (for him, however, always at the
same old hour, and there he would sit alone, his
wife dead, his son asleep — trying to read his

On a House

newspaper, but staring out from time to time
through the window and feeling very companion-
less). Dinner was no longer dinner; there was
"luncheon" to which nobody came except on
Saturdays. Then there was another thing (called
by the old name of dinner) at half-past seven,
and what had happened to supper no one ever
made out. Some people said it had gone to
Prince's, but certainly the Owner never followed
it there.

On the next floor was the Drawing-room,
noted for its cabinet of curiosities, its small
aquarium, its large sofa, its piano and its inlaid
table. The back of the drawing-room was an-
other room beyond folding doors. This would
have been convenient if a dance had ever been
given in the house. On the other side were the
best bedroom and a dressing-room. Each in its
way what might be expected, save that at the
head of the best bed were two little pockets as
in the time of our grandfathers ; also there was a
Chevalier looking-glass and on the dressing-table
a pin-cushion with pins arranged in a pattern.
The fire-place and the mantelpiece were of white
marble and had on them two white vases picked
out in bright green, a clock with a bronze upon
it representing a waiter dressed up partly in
fifteenth-century plate and partly in twelfth -

On Nothing

century mail, and on the wall were two Jewish
texts, each translated into Jacobean English and
illuminated with a Victorian illumination. One
said: "He hath prevented all my ways." The
other said: "Wisdom is better than Rubies."
But the gothic "u" was ill made and it looked
like " Rabies.' ' There was also in the room a
good wardrobe of a kind now difficult to get,
made out of cedar and very reasonable in
arrangement. There was, moreover (now it
occurs to me), a little table for writing on ; there
was writing paper with "Wood Thorpe" on it,
but there were no stamps, and the ink was dry in
the bottles (for there were two bottles).

Well, now, shall I be at the pains of telling
you what there was upstairs ? Not I ! I am
tired enough as it is of detailing all these things.
I will speak generally. There were four bed-
rooms. They were used by the family, and above
there was an attic which belonged to the ser-
vants. The decoration of the wall was every-
where much the same, save that it got a little
meaner as one rose, till at last, in the top rooms
of all, there was nothing but little photographs
of sweethearts or pictures out of illustrated papers
stuck against the walls. The wall-paper, that
had cost l 3s. 3d. a piece in the hall and dining-
room, and 7*. 6d. in the drawing-room, suddenly

On a House

began to cost 1$. 4rf. in the upper story and the
attic was merely whitewashed.

One thing more there was, a little wooden
gate. It had been put there when the children
were little, and had remained ever since at the
top of the stairs. Why ? It may have been mere
routine. It may have been romance. The Owner
was a practical man, and the little gate was in
the way ; it -was true he never had to shut and
open it on his way to bed, and but rarely even
saw it. Did he leave it there from a weak senti-
ment or from a culpable neglect ? He was not a
sentimental man ; on the other hand, he was not
negligent. There is a great deal to be said on
both sides, and it is too late to discuss that now.

Heaven send us such a house, or a house of
some kind ; but Heaven send us also the liberty
to furnish it as we choose. For this it was that
made the Owner's joy : he had done what he
liked in his own surroundings, and I very much
doubt whether the people who live in Queen
Anne houses or go in for timber fronts can say
the same.

On the Illness of my Muse ^ *o

HPHE other day I noticed that my Muse, who
had long been ailing, silent and morose,
was showing signs of actual illness.

Now, though it is by no means one of my
habits to coddle the dogs, cats and other familiars
of my household, yet my Muse had so pitiful an
appearance that I determined to send for the
doctor, but not before I had seen her to bed with
a hot bottle, a good supper, and such other com-
forts as the Muses are accustomed to value. All
that could be done for the poor girl was done
thoroughly; a fine fire was lit in her bedroom,
and a great number of newspapers such as she is
given to reading for her recreation were bought
at a neighbouring shop. When she had drunk her
wine and read in their entirety the Daily Tele-
graph, the Morning Post, the Standard, the Daily
Mail, the Daily Express, the Times, the Daily
News, and even the Advertiser, I was glad to see
her sink into a profound slumber.

I will confess that the jealousy which is easily

On Nothing

aroused among servants when one of their num-
ber is treated with any special courtesy gave me
some concern, and I was at the pains of explain-
ing to the household not only the grave indisposi-
tion from which the Muse suffered, but also the
obligation I was under to her on account of her
virtues: which were, her long and faithful ser-
vice, her willingness, and the excess of work
which she had recently been compelled to per-
form. Her fellow-servants, to my astonishment
and pleasure, entered at once into the spirit of
my apology : the still-room maid offered to sit up
with her all night, or at least until the trained
nurse should arrive, and the groom of the cham-
bers, with a good will that I confess was truly
surprising in one of his proud nature, volunteered
to go himself and order straw for the street from
a neighbouring stable.

The cause of this affection which the Muse had
aroused in the whole household I subsequently
discovered to lie in her own amiable and unselfish
temper. She had upon two occasions inspired
the knife-boy to verses which had subsequently
appeared in the Spectator, and with weekly regu-
larity she would lend her aid to the cook in the
composition of those technical reviews by which
(as it seemed) that domestic increased her ample
wages.

On the Illness of my Muse

The Muse had slept for a fall six hours when
the doctor arrived — a specialist in these matters
and one who has before now been called in (I am
proud to say) by such great persons as Mr.
Hichens, Mr. Churchill, and Mr. Roosevelt when
their Muses have been out of sorts. Indeed, he
is that doctor who operated for aphasia upon the
Muse of the late Mr. Rossetti just before his
demise. His fees are high, but I was willing
enough to pay, and certainly would never have
consented — as have, I regret to say, so many of
my unworthy contemporaries — to employ a veteri-
nary surgeon upon such an occasion.

The great specialist approached with a deter-
mined air the couch where the patient lay, awoke
her according to the ancient formula, and pro-
ceeded to question her upon her symptoms. He
soon discovered their gravity, and I could see by
his manner that he was anxious to an extreme.
The Muse had grown so weak as to be unable to
dictate even a little blank verse, and the indis-
position had so far affected her mind that she had
no memory of Parnassus, but deliriously main-
tained that she had been born in the home
counties — nay, in the neighbourhood of Uxbridge.
Her every phrase was a deplorable commonplace,
and, on the physician applying a stethoscope and
begging her to attempt some verse, she could

On Nothing

give us nothing better than a sonnet upon the
expansion of the Empire. Her weakness was
such that she could do no more than awake, and
that feebly, while she professed herself totally
unable to arise, to expand, to soar, to haunt, or to
perform any of those exercises which are proper
to her profession.

When his examination was concluded the
doctor took me aside and asked me upon what
letters the patient had recently fed. I told him
upon the daily Press, some of the reviews, the
telegrams from the latest seat of war, and occa-
sionally a debate in Parliament. At this he
shook his head and asked whether too much had
not recently been asked of her. I admitted that
she had done a very considerable amount of work
for so young a Muse in the past year, though its
quality was doubtful, and I hastened to add that
I was the less to blame as she had wasted not a
little of her powers upon others without asking
my leave ; notably upon the knife-boy and the
cook.

The doctor was then good enough to write out
a prescription in Latin and to add such general
recommendations as are commonly of more value
than physic. She was to keep her bed, to be
allowed no modern literature of any kind, unless
Milton and Swift may be admitted as moderns,

On the Illness of my Muse

and even these authors and their predecessors
were to be admitted in very sparing quantities. If
any signs of inversion, archaism, or neologistic
tendencies appeared he was to be summoned at
once ; but of these (he added) he had little fear.
He did not doubt that in a few weeks we
should have her up and about again, but he
warned me against letting her begin work too
soon.

" I would not," he said, " permit her to under-
take any effort until she can inspire within one
day of twelve hours at least eighteen quatrains,
and those lucid, grammatical, and moving. As
for single lines, tags, fine phrases, and the rest,
they are no sign whatever of returning health, if
anything of the contrary."

He also begged that she might not be allowed
any Greek or Latin for ten days, but I reassured
him upon the matter by telling him that she was
totally unacquainted with those languages — at
which he expressed some pleasure but even more
astonishment.

At last he told me that he was compelled to
be gone ; the season had been very hard, nor had
he known so general a breakdown among the
Muses of his various clients.

I thought it polite as I took him to the door
to ask after some of his more distinguished

On Nothing

patients ; he was glad to say that the Archbishop
of Armagh's was very vigorous indeed, in spite
of the age of her illustrious master. He had
rarely known a more inventive or courageous
female, but when, as I handed him into his
carriage, I asked after that of Mr. Kipling, his
face became suddenly grave ; and he asked me,
" Have you not heard ? "

" No," said I ; but I had a fatal presentiment
of what was to follow, and indeed I was almost
prepared for it when he answered in solemn
tones :

"She is dead."

On a Dog and a Man also ^ ^>

' T"HERE lives in the middle of the Weald upon
the northern edge of a small wood where a
steep brow of orchard pasture goes down to a
little river, a Recluse who is of middle age and
possessed of all the ordinary accomplishments ;
that is, French and English literature are familiar
to him, he can himself compose, he has read his
classical Latin and can easily decipher such
Greek as he has been taught in youth. He is
unmarried, he is by birth a gentleman, he
enjoys an income sufficient to give him food and
wine, and has for companion a dog who, by the
standard of dogs, is somewhat more elderly than
himself.

This dog is called Argus, not that he has a
hundred eyes nor even two, indeed he has but
one ; for the other, or right eye, he lost the
sight of long ago from luxury and lack of
exercise. This dog Argus is neither small nor
large ; he is brown in colour and covered —
though now but partially — with curly hair. In

On Nothing

this he resembles many other dogs, but he differs
from most of his breed in a further character,
which is that by long association with a Recluse
he has acquired a human manner that is unholy.
He is fond of affected poses. When he sleeps it
is with that abandonment of fatigue only natur-
ally to be found in mankind. He watches sun-
sets and listens mournfully to music. Cooked
food is dearer to him than raw, and he will eat
nuts — a monstrous thing in a dog and proof of
corruption.

Nevertheless, or, rather, on account of all this,
the dog Argus is exceedingly dear to his master,
and of both I had the other day a singular
revelation when I set out at evening to call upon
my friend.

The sun had set, but the air was still clear
and it was light enough to have shot a bat (had
there been bats about and had one had a gun)
when I knocked at the cottage door and opened
it. Right within, one comes to the first of the
three rooms which the Recluse possesses, and
there I found him tenderly nursing the dog
Argus, who lay groaning in the arm-chair and
putting on all the airs of a Christian man at the
point of death.

The Recluse did not even greet me, but asked
me only in a hurried way how I thought the dog

On a Dog and a Man also

Argus looked. I answered gravely and in a low
tone so as not to disturb the sufferer, that as I
had not seen him since Tuesday, when he was,
for an elderly dog, in the best of health, he
certainly presented a sad contrast, but that
perhaps he was better than he had been some
few hours before, and that the Recluse himself
would be the best judge of that.

My friend was greatly relieved at what I said,
and told me that he thought the dog was better,
compared at least with that same morning ; then,
whether you believe it or not, he took him by the
left leg just above the paw and held it for a little
time as though he were feeling a pulse, and said,
"He came back less than twenty-four hours
ago ! " It seemed that the dog Argus, for the
first time in fourteen years, had run away, and
that for the first time in perhaps twenty or thirty
years the emotion of loss had entered into the
life of the Recluse, and that he had felt some-
thing outside books and outside the contempla-
tion of the landscape about his hermitage.

In a short time the dog fell into a slumber, as
was shown by a number of grunts and yaps
which proved his sleep, for the dog Argus is of
that kind which hunts in dreams. His master
covered him reverently rather than gently with an
Indian cloth and, still leaving him in the arm-

4 49

On Nothing

chair, sat down upon a common wooden chair
close by and gazed pitifully at the fire. For my
part I stood up and wondered at them both,
and wondered also at that in man by which
he must attach himself to something, even if
it be but a dog, a politician, or an ungrateful
child.

When he had gazed at the fire a little while
the Recluse began to talk, and I listened to him
talking :

" Even if they had not dug up so much earth
to prove it I should have known," said he, " that
the Odyssey was written not at the beginning of
a civilisation nor in the splendour of it, but
towards its close. I do not say this from the
evening light that shines across its pages, for that
is common to all profound work, but I say it
because of the animals, and especially because of
the dog, who was the only one to know his master
when that master came home a beggar to his own
land, before his youth was restored to him, and
before he got back his women and his kingship by
the bending of his bow, and before he hanged
the housemaids and killed all those who had
despised him."

" But how," said I (for I am younger than he),
" can the animals in the poem show you that the
poem belongs to a decline ? "

On a Dog and a Man also

"Why/* said he, " because at the end of a
great civilisation the air gets empty, the light
goes out of the sky, the gods depart, and men in
their loneliness put out a groping hand, catching
at the friendship of, and trying to understand,
whatever lives and suffers as they do. You will
find it never fail that where a passionate regard
for the animals about us, or even a great tender-
ness for them, is to be found there is also to be
found decay in the State."

" I hope not," said I. " Moreover, it cannot be
true, for in the Thirteenth Century, which was
certainly the healthiest time we ever had, animals
were understood ; and I will prove it to you in
several carvings."

He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head,
saying, " In the rough and in general it is true ;
and the reason is the reason I have given you,
that when decay begins, whether of a man or of
a State, there comes with it an appalling and a
torturing loneliness in which our energies de-
cline into a strong affection for whatever is
constantly our companion and for whatever is
certainly present upon earth. For we have lost
the sky."

"Then if the senses are so powerful in a de-
cline of the State there should come at the
same time," said I, "a quick forgetfulness of the

On Nothing

human dead and an easy change of human
friendship ? "

" There does," he answered, and to that there
was no more to be said.

"1 know it by my own experience," he con-
tinued. "When, yesterday, at sunset, I looked
for my dog Argus and could not find him, I went
out into the wood and called him : the darkness
came and I found no trace of him. I did not
hear him barking far off as I have heard him
before when he was younger and went hunting for
a while, and three times that night I came back
out of the wild into the warmth of my house,
making sure he would have returned, but he was
never there. The third time I had gone a mile
out to the gamekeeper's to give him money if
Argus should be found, and I asked him as many
questions and as foolish as a woman would ask.
Then I sat up right into the night, thinking that
every movement of the wind outside or of the
drip of water was the little pad of his step
coming up the flagstones to the door. I was even
in the mood when men see unreal things, and
twice I thought I saw him passing quickly
between my chair and the passage to the further
room. But these things are proper to the night
and the strongest thing I suffered for him was in
the morning.

On a Dog and a Man also

"It was, as you know, very bitterly cold for
several days. They found things dead in the
hedgerows, and there was perhaps no running
water between here and the Downs. There was
no shelter from the snow. There was no cover
for my friend at all. And when I was up at dawn
with the faint light about, a driving wind full
of sleet filled all the air. Then I made certain
that the dog Argus was dead, and what was
worse that I should not find his body : that
the old dog had got caught in some snare or
that his strength had failed him through the
cold, as it fails us human beings also upon such
nights, striking at the heart.

"Though I was certain that I would not see
him again yet I went on foolishly and aimlessly
enough, plunging through the snow from one
spinney to another and hoping that I might hear
a whine. I heard none : and if the little trail
he had made in his departure might have been
seen in the evening, long before that morning
the drift would have covered it.

"I had eaten nothing and yet it was near
noon when I returned, pushing forward to the
cottage against the pressure of the storm, when
I found there, miserably crouched, trembling,
half dead, in the lee of a little thick yew beside
my door, the dog Argus ; and as I came his tail

On Nothing

just wagged and he just moved his ears, but he
had not the strength to come near me, his master.

ovpy \ikv p' o y' €<rqv€ kcu ovara K<£/?/?aA.€v afi<fxa 1
cunrov 8' ovk€t } €7T€tTa Svvq<raro olo avaKTOS

" I carried him in and put him here, feeding
him by force, and I have restored him."

All this the Recluse said to me with as deep
and as restrained emotion as though he had been
speaking of the most sacred things, as indeed,
for him, these things were sacred.

It was therefore a mere inadvertence in me,
and an untrained habit of thinking aloud, which
made me say :

"Good Heavens, what will you do when the
dog Argus dies ? "

At once I wished I had not said it, for I could*
see that the Recluse could not bear the words.
I looked therefore a little awkwardly beyond
him and was pleased to see the dog Argus lazily
opening his one eye and surveying me with torpor
and with contempt. He was certainly less moved
than his master.

Then in my heart I prayed that of these two
(unless The God would make them both immortal
and catch them up into whatever place is better
than the Weald, or unless he would grant them

On a Dog and a Man also

one death together upon one day) that the dog
Argus might survive my friend, and that the
Recluse might be the first to dissolve that long
companionship. For of this I am certain, that
the dog would suffer less; for men love their
dependents much more than do their dependents
them ; and this is especially true of brutes ; for
men are nearer to the gods.

On Tea < ^> < ^> *^- <^ ^^

HEN I was a boy-

What a phrase ! What memories ! O !
Noctes Coenasque Deum ! Why, then, is there
something in man that wholly perishes? It is

-against sound religion to believe it, but the world
would lead one to imagine it. The Hills are
there. I see them as I write. They are the
cloud or wall that dignified my sixteenth year.
And the river is there, and flows by that same
meadow beyond my door ; from above Coldwatham

. the same vast horizon opens westward in waves
of receding crests more changeable and more
immense than is even our sea. The same sunsets
at times bring it all in splendour, for whatever
herds the western clouds together in our stormy
evenings is as stable and as vigorous as the
County itself. If, therefore, there is something
gone, it is I that have lost it.

Certainly something is diminished (the Priests
and the tradition of the West forbid me to say
that the soul can perish), certainly something is

On Nothing

diminished — what? Well, I do not know its
name, nor has anyone known it face to face or
apprehended it in this life, but the sense and
influence — alas ! especially the memory of It, lies
in the words "When I was a boy," and if I
write those words again in any document what-
soever, even in a lawyer's letter, without admit-
ting at once a full-blooded and galloping paren-
thesis, may the Seven Devils of Sense take away
the last remnant of the joy they lend me.

When I was a boy there was nothing all about
the village or the woods that had not its living
god, and all these gods were good. Oh ! How
the County and its Air shone from within ; what
meaning lay in unexpected glimpses of far
horizons ; what a friend one was with the clouds !

Well, all I can say to the Theologians is this :

"I will grant you that the Soul does not
decay : you know more of such flimsy things than
I do. But you, on your side, must grant me that
there is Something which does not enter into
your systems. That has perished, and I mean to
mourn it all the days of my life. Pray do not
interfere with that peculiar ritual/ '

When I was a boy I knew Nature as a child
knows its nurse, and Tea I denounced for a drug.
I found to support this fine instinct many argu-
ments, all of which are still sound, though not

On Tea

one of them would prevent me now from drink-
ing my twentieth cup. It was introduced late
and during a corrupt period. It was an exotic.
It was a sham exhilarant to which fatal reactions
could not but attach. It was no part of the Diet
of the Natural Man. The two nations that alone
consume it — the English and the Chinese — are
become, by its baneful influence on the imagina-
tion, the most easily deceived in the world.
Their politics are a mass of bombastic illusions.
Also it dries their skins. It tans the liver,
hardens the coats of the stomach, makes the
brain feverishly active, rots the nerve-springs;
all that is still true. Nevertheless I now drink
it, and shall drink it; for of all the effects of Age
none is more profound than this : that it leads
men to the worship of some one spirit less erect
than the Angels. A care, an egotism, an irrit-
ability with regard to details, an anxious craving,
a consummate satisfaction in the performance of
the due rites, an ecstasy of habit, all proclaim
the senile heresy, the material Religion. I con-
fess to Tea.

All is arranged in this Cult with the precision
of an ancient creed. The matter of the Sacri-
fice must come from China. He that would
drink Indian Tea would smoke hay. The Pot
must be of metal, and the metal must be a white

(

On Nothing

metal, not gold or iron. Who has not known
the acidity and paucity of Tea from a silver-gilt
or golden spout ? The Pot must first be warmed
by pouring in a little boiling water (the word
boiling should always be underlined) ; then the
water is poured away and a few words are said.
Then the Tea is put in and unrolls and spreads
in the steam. Then, in due order, on these
expanding leaves Boiling Water is largely poured
and the god arises, worthy of continual but evil
praise and of the thanks of the vicious, a Deity
for the moment deceitfully kindly to men.
Under his influence the whole mind receives a
sharp vision of power. It is a phantasm and a
cheat. Men can do wonders through wine;
through Tea they only think themselves great
and clear — but that is enough if one has bound
oneself to that strange idol and learnt the magic
phrase on His Pedestal, AP12TON MEN TI, for
of all the illusions and dreams men cherish none
is so grandiose as the illusion of conscious power
within.

Well, then, it fades. ... I begin to see that
this cannot continue ... of Tea it came, incon-
secutive and empty ; with the influence of Tea
dissolving, let these words also dissolve. ... I
60

On Tea

could wish it had been Opium, or Haschisch, or
even Gin ; you would have had something more
soaring for your money. . . . In vino Veritas. In
Aqua satietas. In . . . What is the Latin for Tea?
What ! Is there no Latin word for Tea ? Upon
my soul, if I had known that I would have let the
vulgar stuff alone.

On Them ^ ^ ^ ^y ^

T DO not like Them. It is no good asking me
-*• why, though I have plenty of reasons. I do
not like Them. There would be no particular
point in saying I do not like Them if it were not
that so many people doted on Them, and when
one hears Them praised, it goads one to express-
ing one's hatred and fear of Them.

I know very well that They can do one harm,
and that They have occult powers. All the
world has known that for a hundred thousand
years, more or less, and every attempt has been
made to propitiate Them. James I. would drown
Their mistress or burn her, but They were
spared. Men would mummify Them in Egypt,
and worship the mummies ; men would carve
Them in stone in Cyprus, and Crete and Asia
Minor, or (more remarkable still) artists, espe-
cially in the Western Empire, would leave Them
out altogether; so much was Their influence
dreaded. Well, I yield so far as not to print
Their name, and only to call Them "They",
but I hate Them, and I'm not afraid to say so.

On Nothing

If you will take a little list of the chief crimes
that living beings can commit you will find that
They commit them all. And They are cruel;
cruelty is even in Their tread and expression.
They are hatefully cruel. I saw one of Them
catch a mouse the other day (the cat is now out
of the bag), and it was a very much more sicken-
ing sight, I fancy, than ordinary murder. You
may imagine that They catch mice to eat them.
It is not so. They catch mice to torture them.
And what is worse, They will teach this to Their
children — Their children who are naturally inno-
cent and fat, and full of goodness, are deliber-
ately and systematically corrupted by Them;
there is diabolism in it.

Other beings (I include mankind) will be glut-
tonous, but gluttonous spasmodically, or with a
method, or shamefacedly, or, in some way or
another that qualifies the vice ; not so They.
They are gluttonous always and upon all occasions,
and in every place and for ever. It was only
last Vigil of All Fools' Day when, myself fast-
ing, I filled up the saucer seven times with milk
and seven times it was emptied, and there went
up the most peevish, querulous, vicious complaint
and demand for an eighth. They will eat some
part of the food of all that are in the house.
Now even a child, the most gluttonous one would
64

On Them

think of all living creatures, would not do that.
It makes a selection, They do not. They will
drink beer. This is not a theory ; I know it ; I
have seen it with my own eyes. They will eat
special foods ; They will even eat dry bread.
Here again I have personal evidence of the fact ;
They will eat the dog's biscuits, but never upon
any occasion will They eat anything that has
been poisoned, so utterly lacking are They in
simplicity and humility, and so abominably well
filled with cunning by whatever demon first
brought their race into existence.

They also, alone of all creation, love hateful
noises. Some beings indeed (and I count Man
among them) cannot help the voice with which
they have been endowed, but they know that it
is offensive, and are at pains to make it better ;
others (such as the peacock or the elephant) also
know that their cry is unpleasant. They there-
fore use it sparingly. Others again, the dove,
the nightingale, the thrush, know that their
voices are very pleasant, and entertain us with
them all day and all night long ; but They know
that Their voices are the most hideous of all the
sounds in the world, and, knowing this, They
perpetually insist upon thrusting those voices
upon us, saying, as it were, " I am giving myself
pain, but I am giving you more pain, and there-

5 65

On Nothing

fore I shall go on." And They choose for the
place where this pain shall be given, exact and
elevated situations, very close to our ears. Is
there any need for me to point out that in every
city they will begin their wicked jar just at the
time when its inhabitants must sleep? In
London you will not hear it till after midnight ;
in the county towns it begins at ten ; in remote
villages as early as nine.

Their Master also protects them. They have
a charmed life. I have seen one thrown from a
great height into a London street, which when
It reached it It walked quietly away with the
dignity of the Lost World to which It belonged.

If one had the time one could watch Them
day after day, and never see Them do a single
kind or good thing, or be moved by a single
virtuous impulse. They have no gesture for the
expression of admiration, love, reverence or
ecstasy. They have but one method of express-
ing content, and They reserve that for moments
of physical repletion. The tail, which is in all
other animals the signal for joy or for defence, or
for mere usefulness, or for a noble anger, is with
Them agitated only to express a sullen discon-
tent.

All that They do is venomous, and all that
They think is evil, and when I take mine away
66

On Them

(as I mean to do next week— in a basket), I shall
first read in a book of statistics what is the
wickedest part of London, and I shall leave It
there, for I know of no one even among my
neighbours quite so vile as to deserve such a
gift.

On Railways and Things <^ ^ <^

jDAILWAYS have changed the arrangement
and distribution of crowds and solitude, but
have done nothing to disturb the essential con-
trast between them.

The more behindhand of my friends, among
whom I count the weary men of the towns, are
ceaselessly bewailing the effect of railways and
the spoiling of the country ; nor do I fail, when I
hear such complaints, to point out their error,
courteously to hint at their sheep-like qualities,
and with all the delicacy imaginable to let them
understand they are no better than machines
repeating worn-out formulae through the nose.
The railways and those slow lumbering things the
steamboats have not spoilt our solitudes, on the
contrary they have intensified the quiet of
the older haunts, they have created new sanctu-
aries, and (crowning blessing) they make it easy
for us to reach our refuges.

For in the first place you will notice that new
lines of travel are like canals cut through the

On Nothing

stagnant marsh of an old civilisation, draining it
of populace and worry, and concentrating upon
themselves the odious pressure of humanity.

You know (to adopt the easy or conversational
style) that you and I belong to a happy minority.
We are the sons of the hunters and the wander-
ing singers, and from our boyhood nothing ever
gave us greater pleasure than to stand under
lonely skies in forest clearings, or to find a beach
looking westward at evening over unfrequented
seas. But the great mass of men love companion-
ship so much that nothing seems of any worth
compared with it. Human communion is their
meat and drink, and so they use the railways to
make bigger and bigger hives for themselves.

Now take the true modern citizen, the usurer.
How does the usurer suck the extremest pleasure
out of his holiday ? He takes the train prefer-
ably at a very central station near the Strand,
and (if he can choose his time) on a foggy and
dirty day ; he picks out an express that will take
him with the greatest speed through the Garden
of Eden, nor does he begin to feel the full savour
of relaxation till a row of abominable villas
appears on the southern slope of what were once
the downs ; these villas stand like the skirmishers
of a foul army deployed : he is immediately
whirled into Brighton and is at peace. There he
70

On Railways and Things

has his wish for three days ; there he can never
see anything but houses, or, if he has to walk
along the sea, he can rest his eye on herds of
unhappy people and huge advertisements, and
he can hear the newspaper boys telling lies
(perhaps special lies he has paid for) at the top of
their voices ; he can note as evening draws on
the pleasant glare of gas upon the street mud
and there pass him the familiar surroundings of
servility, abject poverty, drunkenness, misery,
and vice. He has his music-hall on the Saturday
evening with the sharp, peculiar finish of the
London accent in the patriotic song, he has the
London paper on Sunday to tell him that his
nastiest little Colonial War was a crusade, and on
Monday morning he has the familiar feeling that
follows his excesses of the previous day. . . . Are
you not glad that such men and their lower
fellows swarm by hundreds of thousands into the
"resorts"? Do you not bless the railways that
take them so quickly from one Hell to another.

Never let me hear you say that the railways
spoil a countryside ; they do, it is true, spoil this
or that particular place — as, for example, Crewe,
Brighton, Stratford-on-Avon — but for this dis-
advantage they give us I know not how many
delights. What is more English than the country
railway station ? I defy the eighteenth century

On Nothing

to produce anything more English, more full of
home and rest and the nature of the country,
than my junction. Twenty-seven trains a day
stop at it or start from it; it serves even the
expresses. Smith's monopoly has a bookstall
there ; you can get cheap Kipling and Harms-
worth to any extent, and yet it is a theme for
English idylls. The one-eyed porter whom I
have known from childhood; the station-master
who ranges us all in ranks, beginning with the
Duke and ending with a sad, frayed and literary
man ; the little chaise in which the two old
ladies from Barlton drive up to get their paper
of an evening, the servant from the inn, the
newsboy whose mother keeps a sweetshop — they
are all my village friends. The glorious Sussex
accent, whose only vowel is the broad "a", grows
but more rich and emphatic from the necessity
of impressing itself upon foreign intruders. The
smoke also of the train as it skirts the Downs is
part and parcel of what has become (thanks to the
trains) our encloistered country life ; the smoke
of the trains is a little smudge of human activity
which permits us to match our incomparable
seclusion with the hurly-burly from which we
have fled. Upon my soul, when I climb up the
Beacon to read my book on the warm turf, the
sight of an engine coming through the cutting is

On Railways and Things

an emphasis of my selfish enjoyment. I say
u There goes the Brighton train ", but the image
of Brighton, with its Anglo-Saxons and its Vision
of Empire, does not oppress me ; it is a far-off
thing ; its life ebbs and flows along that belt of
iron to distances that do not regard me.

Consider this also with regard to my railway :
it brings me what I want in order to be perfect
in my isolation. Those books discussing Prob-
lems: whether or not there is such an idea as
right ; the inconvenience of being married ; the
worry of being Atheist and yet living upon a
clerical endowment, — these fine discussions come
from a library in a box by train and I can torture
myself for a shilling, whereas, before the railways,
I should have had to fall back on the Gentleman s
Magazine and the County History. In the way of
newspapers it provides me with just the com-
panionship necessary to a hermitage. Often and
often, after getting through one paper, I stroll
down to the junction and buy fifteen others, and
so enjoy the fruits of many minds.

Thanks to my railway I can sit in the garden
of an evening and read my paper as I smoke my
pipe, and say, " Ah ! That's Buggin's work. I
remember him well ; he worked for Rhodes. . . .
Hullo ! Here's Simpson at it again ; since when
did they buy him ? . . ." And so forth. I lead my

On Nothing

pastoral life, happy in the general world about
me, and I serve, as sauce to such healthy meat,
the piquant wickedness of the town ; nor do I
ever note a cowardice, a He, a bribery, or a breach
of trust, a surrender in the field, or a new Peer-
age, but I remember that my newspaper could
not add these refining influences to my life but
for the railway which I set out to praise at the
beginning of this and intend to praise manfully
to the end.

Yet another good we owe to railways occurs to
me. They keep the small towns going.

Don't pester me with « economics" on that
point; I know more economics than you, and I
say that but for the railways the small towns
would have gone to pieces. There never yet
was a civilisation growing richer and improving
its high roads in which the small towns did not
dwindle. The village supplied the local market
with bodily necessaries ; the intellectual life, the
civic necessities had to go into the large towns.
It happened in the second and third centuries in
Italy ; it happened in France between Henri
IV and the Revolution; it was happening here
before 1830.

Take those little paradises Ludlow and Leo-
minster; consider Arundel, and please your
memory with the admirable slopes of Whit-

On Railways and Things

church ; grow contented in a vision of Ledbury,
of Rye, or of Abingdon, or of Beccles with its
big church over the river, or of Newport in the
Isle of Wight, or of King's Lynn, or of Lyming-
ton — you would not have any of these but for the
railway, and there are 1800 such in England —
one for every tolerable man.

Valognes in the Cotentin, Bourg - d'Oysan
down in the Dauphine* in its vast theatre of
upright hills, St. Julien in the Limousin, Aubus-
son-in-the-hole, Puy (who does not connect
beauty with the word ?), Mansle in the Charente
country — they had all been half dead for over a
century when the railway came to them and
made them jolly, little, trim, decent, self-con-
tained, worthy, satisfactory, genial, comforting
and human TroAiTeiae, with clergy, upper class,
middle class, poor, soldiers, yesterday's news, a
college, anti-Congo men, fools, strong riders, old
maids, and all that makes a state. In England
the railway brought in that beneficent class, the
gentlemen ; in France, that still more beneficent
class, the Haute Bourgeoisie.

I know what you are going to say ; you are
going to say that there were squires before the
railways in England. Pray have you considered
how many squires there were to go round ? About
half a dozen squires to every town, that is (say)

On Nothing

four gentlemen, and of those four gentlemen
let us say two took some interest in the place.
It wasn't good enough . . . and heaven help the
country towns now if they had to depend on the
great houses ! There would be a smart dog-cart
once a day with a small (vicious and servile)
groom in it, an actor, a foreign money-lender, a
popular novelist, or a newspaper owner jumping
out to make his purchases and driving back again
to his host's within the hour. No, no; what
makes the country town is the Army, the Navy,
the Church, and the Law — especially the retired
ones.

Then think of the way in which the railways
keep a good man's influence in a place and a bad
man's out of it. Your good man loves a country
town, but he must think, and read, and meet
people, so in the last century he regretfully took
a town house and had his little house in the
country as well. Now he lives in the country and
runs up to town when he likes.

He is always a permanent influence in the little
city — especially if he has but ,£400 a year, which
is the normal income of a retired gentleman
(yes, it is so, and if you think it is too small an
estimate, come with me some day and make an
inquisitorial tour of my town). As for the vulgar
and cowardly man, he hates small towns (fancy a
76

On Railways and Things

South African financier in a small town !), well,
the railway takes him away. Of old he might
have had to stay there or starve, now he goes to
London and runs a rag, or goes into Parliament,
or goes to dances dressed up in imitation of a
soldier ; or he goes to Texas and gets hanged —
it's all one to me. He's out of my town.

And as the railways have increased the local
refinement and virtue, so they have ennobled and
given body to the local dignitary. What would
the Bishop of Caen (he calls himself Bishop of
Lisieux and Bayeux, but that is archaeological
pedantry); what, I say, would the Bishop of Caen
be without his railway ? A Phantom or a Paris
magnate. What the Mayor of High Wycombe ?
Ah ! what indeed ! But 1 cannot waste any more
of this time of mine in discussing one aspect of
the railway ; what further I have to say on the
subject shall be presented in due course in my
book on The Small Town of Christendom.* I will
close this series of observations with a little list
of benefits the railway gives you, many of which
would not have occurred to you but for my in-
genuity, some of which you may have thought of
at some moment or other, and yet would never

* The Small Town of Christendom : an Analytical
Study. With an Introduction by Joseph Reinach.
Ulmo et Cie. £25 nett

On Nothing

have retained but for my patient labour in
this.

The railway gives you seclusion. If you are
in an express alone you are in the only spot in
Western Europe where you can be certain of
two or three hours to yourself. At home in the
dead of night you may be wakened by a police-
man or a sleep-walker or a dog. The heaths are
populous. You cannot climb to the very top
of Helvellyn to read your own poetry to yourself
without the fear of a tourist. But in the corner
of a third-class going north or west you can
be sure of your own company ; the best, the most
sympathetic, the most brilliant in the world.

The railway gives you sharp change. And
what we need in change is surely keenness. For
instance, if one wanted to go sailing in the old
days, one left London, had a bleak drive in the
country, got nearer and nearer the sea, felt the
cold and wet and discomfort growing on one,
and after half a day or a day's gradual introduc-
tion to the thing, one would at last have got
on deck, wet and wretched, and half the fun
over. Nowadays what happens? Why, the other
day, a rich man was sitting in London with
a poor friend ; they were discussing what to do
in three spare days they had. They said " let us
sail." They left London in a nice warm, com-

On Railways and Things

fortable, rich -padded, swelly carriage at four,
and before dark they were letting everything go,
putting on the oilies, driving through the open
in front of it under a treble-reefed storm jib,
praying hard for their lives in last Monday's gale,
and wishing to God they had stayed at home —
all in the four hours. That is what you may call
piquant, it braces and refreshes a man.

For the rest I cannot detail the innumerable
minor advantages of railways ; the mild excite-
ment which is an antidote to gambling ; the
shaking which (in moderation) is good for livers ;
the meeting familiarly with every kind of man
and talking politics to him ; the delight in rapid
motion ; the luncheon-baskets ; the porters ; the
solid guard ; the strenuous engine-driver (note
this next time you travel — it is an accurate
observation). And of what other kind of modern
thing can it be said that more than half pay
dividends ? Thinking of these things, what sane
and humorous man would ever suggest that a
part of life, so fertile in manifold and human
pleasure, should ever be bought by the dull
clique who call themselves "the State", and
should yield under such a scheme yet more, yet
larger, yet securer salaries to the younger sons.

On Conversations in Trains -^ -^

T MIGHT have added in this list I have just
made of the advantages of Railways, that
Railways let one mix with one's fellow-men and
hear their continual conversation. Now if you
will think of it, Railways are the only institutions
that give us that advantage. In other places we
avoid all save those who resemble us, and many
men become in middle age like cabinet ministers,
quite ignorant of their fellow-citizens. But in
Trains, if one travels much, one hears every kind
of man talking to every other and one perceives
all England.

It is on this account that I have always been
at pains to note what I heard in this way, especi-
ally the least expected, most startling, and there-
fore most revealing dialogues, and as soon as I
could to write them down, for in this way one
can grow to know men.

Thus I have somewhere preserved a hot dis-
cussion among some miners in Derbyshire (voters,
good people, voters remember) whether the
United States were bound to us as a colony €€ like
6 81

On Nothing

Egypt." And I once heard also a debate as to
whether the word were Horizon or Horizon; this
ended in a fight, and the Horizon man pushed
the Horizon man out at Skipton, and wouldn't
let him get into the carriage again.

Then again I once heard two frightfully rich
men near Birmingham arguing why England was
the richest and the Happiest Country in the
world. Neither of these men was a gentleman
but they argued politely though firmly, for they
differed profoundly. One of them, who was
almost too rich to walk, said it was because we
minded our own affairs, and respected property
and were law-abiding. This (he said) was the
cause of our prosperity and of the futile envy
with which foreigners regarded the homes of our
working men. Not so the other: he thought
that it was the Plain English sense of Duty that
did the trick : he showed how this was ingrained
in us and appeared in our Schoolboys and our
Police : he contrasted it with Ireland, and he
asked what else had made our Criminal Trials the
model of the world ? All this also I wrote down.

.Then also once on a long ride (yes, "ride".
Why not?) through Lincolnshire I heard two
men of the smaller commercial or salaried kind
at issue. The first, who had a rather peevish
face, was looking gloomily out of window and was
82

On Conversations in Trains

saying, " Denmark has it : Greece has it — why
shouldn't we have it ? Eh ? America has it and
so's Germany — why shouldn't we have it ? "
Then after a pause he added, " Even France has
it — why haven t we got it?" He spoke as
though he wouldn't stand it much longer, and as
though France were the last straw.

The other man was excitable and had an
enormous newspaper in his hand, and he an-
swered in a high voice, "'Cause we're too sensible,
that's why ! 'Cause we know what we're about,
we do."

The other man said, " Ho ! Do we?"

The second man answered, " Yes : we do.
What made England ? "

" Gord," said the first man.

This brought the second man up all standing
and nearly carried away his fore-bob-stay. He
answered slowly —

" Well . . . yes . . . in a manner of speak-
ing. But what I meant to say was like this, that
what made England was Free Trade ! " Here
he slapped one hand on to the other with a noise
like that of a pistol, and added heavily : « And
what's more, I can prove it."

The first man, who was now entrenched in
his position, said again, " Ho ! Can you ? " and
sneered.

On Nothing

The second man then proved it, getting more
and more excited. When he had done, all the
first man did was to say, " You talk foolishness."

Then there was a long silence : very strained.
At last the Free Trader pulled out a pipe and
filled it at leisure, with a light sort of womanish
tobacco, and just as he struck a match the
Protectionist shouted out, " No you don't ! This
ain't a smoking compartment. I object ! " The
Free Trader said, " O ! that's how it is, is it ? "
The Protectionist answered in a lower voice and
surly, " Yes : that's how."

They sat avoiding each other's eyes till we got
to Grantham. I had no idea that feeling could
run so high, yet neither of them had a real grip
on the Theory of International Exchange.

But by far the most extraordinary conversation
and perhaps the most illuminating I ever heard,
was in a train going to the West Country and
stopping first at Swindon.

It passed between two men who sat in corners
facing each other.

The one was stout, tall, and dressed in a tweed
suit. He had a gold watch-chain with a little
ornament on it representing a pair of compasses
and a square. His beard was brown and soft.

8 4

On Conversations in Trains

His eyes were very sodden. When he got in he
first wrapped a rug round and round his legs,
then he took off his top hat and put on a cloth
cap, then he sat down.

The other also wore a tweed suit and was also
stout, but he was not so tall. His watch-chain
also was of gold (but of a different pattern,
paler, and with no ornament hung on it). His
eyes also were sodden. He had no rug. He
also took off his hat but put no cap upon his hea-J.
I noticed that he was rather bald, and in the
middle of his baldness was a kind of little knob.
For the purposes of this record, therefore, I
shall give him the name " Bald," while I shall
call the other man " Cap."

I have forgotten, by the way, to tell you that
Bald had a very large nose, at the end of which a
great number of little veins had congested and
turned quite blue.

Cap (shuts up Levy's paper, " The Daily Tele-
graph/' and opens Harmsworth's "Daily Mail. 11
Shuts that up and looks Jixedly at Bald) : I ask
your pardon . . . but isn't your name Binder ?

Bald (his eyes still quite sodden) : That is my
name. Binder's my name. (He coughs to show
breeding,) Why ! (his eyes getting a trifle less
sodden) if you aren't Mr. Mowle ! Well, Mr.
Mowle, sir, how are you ?

On Nothing

Cap (with some dignity) : Very well, thank you,
Mr. Binder. How, how's Mrs. Binder and the
kids ? All blooming ?

Bald : Why, yes, thank you, Mr. Mowle, but
Mrs. Binder still has those attacks (shaking his
head). Abdominal (continuing to shake his head).
Gastric. Something cruel.

Cap : They do suffer cruel, as you say, do
women, Mr. Binder (shaking his head too — but
more slightly). This indigestion — ah !

Bald (more brightly) : Not married yet, Mr.
Mowle ?

Cap (contentedly and rather stolidly) : No, Mr.
Binder. Nor not inclined to neither. (Draws a
great breath.) I'm a single man, Mr. Binder, and
intend so to adhere. (A pause to think.) That's
what I call (a further pause to get the right phrase)
"single blessedness." Yes, (another deep breath)
I find life worth living, Mr. Binder.

Bald (with great cunning) : That depends
upon the liver. (Roars ivith laughter.)

Cap (laughing a good deal too, but not so much as
Bald): Ar! That was young Cobbler's joke in
times gone by.

Bald (politely) : Ever see young Cobbler
now, Mr. Mowle ?

Cap (with importance) : Why yes, Mr. Binder ;
I met him at the Thersites' Lodge down Brixham
86

On Conversations in Trains

way — only the other day. Wonderful brilliant
he was . . . well, there . . . (his tone changes) he
was sitting next to me — (thoughtfully)— sls might
be here — (putting Harmsworth* s paper down to
represent Young Cobbler) — and here like, would
be Lord Haltingtowres.

Bald (his manner suddenly becoming very seri-
ous) : He's a fine man, he is ! One of those men
I respect.

Cap (with still greater seriousness) : You may
say that, Mr. Binder. No respecter of persons —
talks to me or you or any of them just the same.

Bald (vaguely) : Yes, they're a fine lot !
(Suddenly) So's Charlie Beresford !

Cap (with more enthusiasm than he had yet shown) :
I say ditto to that, Mr. Binder ! (Thinking for a
few moments of the characteristics of Lord Charles
Beresford.) It's pluck — that's what it is — regular
British pluck (Grimly) That's the kind of man
— no favouritism.

Bald : Ar ! it's a case of " Well done, Con-
dor ! "

Cap : Ar ! you're right there, Mr. Binder.

Bald (suddenly pulling a large flask out oj his
pocket and speaking very rapidly) : Well, here's
yours, Mr. Mowle. (He drinks oid of it a quantity
of neat whisky, and having drunk it rubs the top oj his
flask with his sleeve and hands it over politely to Cap.)

On Nothing

Cap (having drunk a lot of neat whisky also,
rubbed his sleeve over it, screwed on the Utile top and
giving that long gasp which the occasion demands) :
Yes, you're right there — " Well done, Condor."

At this point the train began to go slowly, and
just as it stopped at the station I ' heard Cap
begin again, asking Bald on what occasion and
for what' services Lord Charles Beresford had
been given his title.

Full of the marvels of this conversation I got
out, went into the waiting-room and wrote it all
down. 1 think I have it accurately word for
word.

But there happened to me what always happens
after all literary effort ; the enthusiasm vanished,
the common day was before me. I went out to
do my work in the place and to meet quite
ordinary people and to forget, perhaps, (so strong
is Time) the fantastic beings in the train. In a
word, to quote Mr. Binyon's admirable lines :

44 The world whose wrong
Mocks holy beauty and our desire returned."

On the Return of the Dead ^ *cy

f T"HE reason the Dead do not return nowadays
is the boredom of it. •

In the old time they would come casually, as
suited them, without fuss and thinly, as it were,
which is their nature ; but when such visits were
doubted even by those who received them and
when new and false names were given them the
Dead did not find it worth while. It was always
a trouble ; they did it really more for our sakes
than for theirs and they would be recognised or
stay where they were.

I am not certain that they might not have
changed with the times and come frankly and posi-
tively, as some urged them to do, had it not been
for Rabelais' failure towards the end of the Boer
war. Rabelais (it will be remembered) appeared in
London at the Very beginning of the season in
1902. Everybody knows one part of the story or
another, but if I put down the gist of it here I
shall be of service, for very few people have got
it quite right all through, and yet that story alone
89

On Nothing

can explain why one cannot get the dead to come
back at all now even in the old doubtful way they
did in the '80's and early '90's of the last century.

There is a place in heaven where a group of
writers have put up a colonnade on a little hill
looking south over the plains. There are thrones
there with the names of the owners on them.
It is a sort of Club.

Rabelais was quarrelling with some fool who
had missed fire with a medium and was saying
that the modern world wanted positive unmistak-
able appearances: he said he ought to know,
because he had begun the modern world. Lucian
said it would fail just as much as any other way ;
Rabelais hotly said it wouldn't. He said he
would come to London and lecture at the London
School of Economics and establish a good solid
objective relationship between the two worlds.
Lucian said it would end badly. Rabelais, who
had been drinking, lost his temper and did at
once what he had only been boasting he would
do. He materialised at some expense, and he
announced his lecture. Then the trouble began,
and I am honestly of opinion that if we had
treated the experiment more decently we should
not have this recent reluctance on the part of
the Dead to pay us reasonable attention.

In the first place, when it was announced that
90

On the Return of the Dead

Rabelais had returned to life and was about to
deliver a lecture at the London School of
Economics, Mrs. Whirtle, who was a learned
woman, with a well-deserved reputation in the
field of objective psychology, called it a rumour
and discredited it (in a public lecture) on these
three grounds :

(a) That Rabelais being dead so long ago
would not come back to life now.

(b) That even if he did come back to life it
was quite out of his habit to give lectures.

(c) That even if he had come back to live
and did mean to lecture, he would never lecture
at the London School of Economics, which was
engaged upon matters principally formulated
since Rabelais' day and with which, moreover,
Rabelais' " essentially synthetical " mind would
find a difficulty in grappling.

All Mrs. Whirtle's audience agreed with one
or more of these propositions except Professor
Giblet, who accepted all three saving and ex-
cepting the term "synthetical" as applied to
Rabelais' mind. e ' For," said he, "you must not
be so deceived by an early use of the Inducto-
Deductive method as to believe that a sixteenth-
century man could be, in any true sense, syn-
thetical." And this judgment the Professor
emphasized by raising his voice suddenly by

On Nothing

one octave. His position and that of Mrs.
Whirtle were based upon that thorough summary
of Rabelais' style in Mr. Effort's book on French
literature : each held a sincere position, never-
theless this cold water thrown on the very begin-
ning of the experiment did harm.

The attitude of the governing class did harm
also. Lady Jane Bird saw the announcement on
the placards of the evening papers as she went
out to call on a friend. At tea-time a man called
Wantage- Verneyson, who was well dressed, said
that he knew all about Rabelais, and a group of
people began to ask questions together : Lady
Jane herself did so. Mr. Wantage- Verneyson is
(or rather was, alas !) the second cousin of the
Duke of Durham (he is — or rather was, alas ! —
the son of Lord and Lady James Verneyson, now
dead), and he said that Rabelais was written by
Urquhart a long time ago ; this was quite de-
plorable and did infinite harm. He also said that
every educated man had read Rabelais, and that
he had done so. He said it was a protest against
Rome and all that sort of thing. He added that
the language was difficult to understand. He
further remarked that it was full of footnotes,
but that he thought these had been put in later
by scholars. Cross-questioned on this he ad-
mitted that he did not see what scholars could
92

On the Return of the Dead

want with Rabelais. On hearing this and the
rest of his information several ladies and a young
man of genial expression began to doubt in their
turn.

A Hack in Grub Street whom Painful Labour
had driven to Despair and Mysticism read the
announcement with curiosity rather than amaze-
ment, fully believing that the Great Dead, visit-
ing as they do the souls, may also come back
rarely to the material cities of men. One thing,
however, troubled him, and that was how
Rabelais, who had slept so long in peace beneath
the Fig Tree of the Cemetery of St. Paul, could
be risen now when his grave was weighed upon
by No. 32 of the street of the same name. How-
soever, he would have guessed that the alchemy
of that immeasurable mind had in some way got
rid of the difficulty, and really the Hack must be
forgiven for his faith, since one learned enough
to know so much about sites, history and litera-
ture, is learned enough to doubt the senses and
to accept the Impossible ; unfortunately the feet
was vouched for in eight newspapers of which
he knew too much and was not accepted in the
only sheet he trusted. So he doubted too.

John Bowles, of Lombard Street, read the
placards and wrought himself up into a fury
saying, "In what other country would these

On Nothing

cursed Boers be allowed to come and lecture
openly like this? It is enough to make one
excuse the people who break up their meetings."
He was a little consoled, however, by the thought
that his country was so magnanimous, and in
the calmer mood of self-satisfaction went so far
as to subscribe £5 to a French newspaper which
was being founded to propagate English opinions
on the Continent. He may be neglected.

Peter Grierson, attorney, was so hurried and
overwrought with the work he had been engaged
on that morning (the lending of £1323 to a
widow at 5 J per cent., [which heaven knows is
reasonable !] on security of a number of shares
in the London and North- Western Railway) that
he misread the placard and thought it ran
"Rabelais lecture at the London School Eco-
nomics " ; disturbed for a moment at the thought
of so much paper wasted in time of war for so
paltry an announcement, he soon forgot about
the whole business and went off to "The Hol-
born," where he had his lunch comfortably stand-
ing up at the buffet, and then went and worked
at dominoes and cigars for two hours.

Sir Judson Pennefather, Cabinet Minister and
Secretary of State for Public Worship, Literature
and the Fine Arts

But what have I to do with all these absurd

On the Return of the Dead

people upon whom the news of Rabelais' return
fell with such varied effect ? What have you and
I to do with men and women who do not, cannot,
could not, will not, ought not, have not, did,
and by all the thirsty Demons that serve the
lamps of the cavern of the Sibyl, shall not count
in the scheme of things as worth one little paring
of Rabelais' little finger nail? What are they
that they should interfere with the great mirific
and most assuaging and comfortable feast of wit
to which I am now about to introduce you ! — for
know that I take you now into the lecture-hall
and put you at the feet of the past-master of all
arts and divinations (not to say crafts and homo-
logisings and integrativeness), the Teacher of wise
men, the comfort of an afflicted world, the up-
lifter of fools, the energiser of the lethargic, the
doctor of the gouty, the guide of youth, the
companion of middle age, the vade mecum of
the old, the pleasant introducer of inevitable
death, yea, the general solace of mankind. Oh !
what are you not now about to hear ! If any-
where there are rivers in pleasant meadows, cool
heights in summer, lovely ladies discoursing upon
smooth lawns, or music skilfully befingered by
dainty artists in the shade of orange groves,
if there is any left of that wine of Chinon from
behind the Grille at four francs a bottle (and

On Nothing

so there is, I know, for I drank it at the last
Reveillon by St. Gervais) — I say if any of these
comforters of the living anywhere grace the
earth, you shall find my master Rabelais giving
you the very innermost and animating spirit of
all these good things, their utter flavour and
their saving power in the quintessential words of
his incontestably regalian lips. So here, then,
you may hear the old wisdom given to our
wretched generation for one happy hour of just
living and we shall learn, surely in this case at
least, that the return of the Dead was admitted and
the Great Spirits were received and honoured.

But alas ! No. (which is not a nominativus pen-
dens, still less an anacoluthon but a mere inter-
jection). Contrariwise, in the place of such a
sunrise of the mind, what do you think we were
given? The sight of an old man in a fine red
gown and with a University cap on his head
hurried along by two policemen in the Strand
and followed by a mob of boys and ruffians, some
of whom took him for Mr. Kruger, while others
thought he was but a harmless mummer. And
the magistrate (who had obtained his position by
a job) said these simple words : " I do not know
who you are in reality nor what foreign name
96

On the Return of the Dead

you mask under your buffoonery, but I do know on
the evidence of these intelligent officers, evidence
upon which I fully rely and which you have made
no attempt to contradict, you have disgraced
yourself and the hall of your kind hosts and
employers by the use of language which I shall
not characterise save by telling you that it would
be comprehensible only in a citizen of the nation
to which you have the misfortune to belong.
Luckily you were not allowed to proceed for more
than a moment with your vile harangue which (if
I understand rightly) was in praise of wine. You
will go to prison for twelve months. I shall not
give you the option of a fine : but I can pro-
mise you that if you prefer to serve with the
gallant K. O. Fighting Scouts your request will
be favourably entertained by the proper author-
ities."

Long before this little speech was over Rabelais
had disappeared, and was once more with the
immortals cursing and swearing that he would
not do it again for 6,375,409,702 sequins, or there-
abouts, no, nor for another half-dozen thrown in
as a makeweight.

There is the whole story.

I do not say that Rabelais was not over-hasty
both in his appearance and his departure, but I
do say that if the Physicists (and notably Mrs.

7 97

On Nothing

Whirtle) had shown more imagination, the gov-
erning class a wider reading, and the magistracy
a trifle more sympathy with the difference of tone
between the sixteenth century and our own time,
the deplorable misunderstanding now separating
the dead and the living would never have arisen ;
for I am convinced that the Failure of Rabelais'
attempt has been the chief cause of it.

On the Approach of an Awful Doom ^>

]V l\ Y dear little Anglo-Saxons, Celt-Iberians
and Teutonico-Latin oddities —The time
has come to convey, impart and make known to
you the dreadful conclusions and horrible prog-
nostications that flow, happen, deduce, derive
and are drawn from the truly abominable con-
ditions of the social medium in which you and I
and all poor devils are most fatally and surely
bound to draw out our miserable existence.

Note, I say " existence " and not " existences."
Why do I say " existence ", and not " existences " ?
Why, with a fine handsome plural ready to hand,
do I wind you up and turn you off, so to speak,
with a piffling little singular not fit for a half-
starved newspaper fellow, let alone a fine, full-
fledged, intellectual and well-read vegetarian and
teetotaller who writes in the reviews ? Eh ?
Why do I say "existence" ? — speaking of many,
several and various persons as though they had
but one mystic, combined and corporate person-
ality such as Rousseau (a fig for the Genevese !)

&$9ft£&|

On Nothing

portrayed in his Contrat Social (which you have
never read), and such as Hobbes, in his Leviathan
(which some of you have heard of), ought to have
premised but did not, having the mind of a lame,
halting and ill-furnished clockmaker, and a blight
on him !

Why now "existence " and not <l existences " ?
You may wonder ; you may ask yourselves one to
another mutually round the tea-table putting it
as a problem or riddle. You may make a game
of it, or use it for gambling, or say it suddenly as
a catch for your acquaintances when they come
up from the suburbs. It is a very pretty question
and would have been excellently debated by
Thomas Aquinas in the Jacobins of St. Jacques,
near the Parloir aux Bourgeois, by the gate
of the University ; by Albertus Magnus in the
Cordeliers, hard by the College of Bourgoyne ;
by Pic de la Mirandole, who lived I care not a
rap where and debated I know not from Adam
how or when ; by Lord Bacon, who took more
bribes in a day than you and I could compass
in a dozen years ; by Spinoza, a good worker of
glass lenses, but a philosopher whom I have never
read nor will; by Coleridge when he was not
talking about himself nor taking some filthy
drug; by John Pilkington Smith, of Norwood,
Drysalter, who has, I hear, been lately horribly

On the Approach of an Awful Doom

bitten by the metaphysic ; and by a crowd of
others.

But that's all by the way. Let them debate
that will, for it leads nowhere unless indeed there
be sharp revelation, positive declaration and very
certain affirmation to go upon by way of Basis or
First Principle whence to deduce some sure con-
clusion and irrefragable truth; for thus the
intellect walks, as it were, along a high road,
whereas by all other ways it is lurching and
stumbling and boggling and tumbling in I know
not what mists and brambles of the great bare,
murky twilight and marshy hillside of philosophy,
where I also wandered when I was a fool and
unoccupied and lacking exercise for the mind,
but from whence, by the grace of St. Anthony of
Miranella and other patrons of mine, I have very
happily extricated myself. And here I am in
the parlour of the "Bugle" at Yarmouth, by a
Christian fire, having but lately come off the sea
and writing this for the edification and confirma-
tion of honest souls.

What, then, of the question, Quid de quuerendo ?
Quantum? Qualiter? Ubi? Cur? Quid? Quando?
Quomodo ? Quum ? Sive an non ?

Ah ! There you have it. For note you, all
these interrogative categories must be met, faced,
resolved and answered exactly — or you have no

On Nothing

more knowledge of the matter than the Times
has of economics or the King of the Belgians of
thorough-Bass. Yea, if you miss, overlook, neg-
lect, or shirk by reason of fatigue or indolence,
so much as one tittle of these several aspects
of a question you might as well leave it alto-
gether alone and give up analysis for selling
stock, as did the Professor of Verbalism in the
University of Adelaide to the vast solace and
enrichment of his family.

For by the neglect of but one of these final
and fundamental approaches to the full know-
ledge of a question the world has been irrepar-
ably, irretrievably and permanently robbed of
the certain reply to> and left ever in the most
disastrous doubt upon, this most important and
necessary matter — namely, whether real existence
can be predicated of matter.

For Anaxagoras of Syracuse, that was tutor
to the Tyrant Machion, being in search upon
this question for a matter of seventy-two years,
four months, three days and a few odd hours and
minutes, did, in extreme old age, as he was
walking by the shore of the sea, hit, as it were in
a flash, upon six of the seven answers, and was
able in one moment, after so much delay and
vexatious argument for and against with himself,
to resolve the problem upon the points of how,
102

On the Approach of an Awful Doom

why, when, where, how much, and in what, matter
might or might not be real, and was upon the
very nick of settling the last little point — namely,
sive an non (that is, whether it were real or no) —
when, as luck would have it, or rather, as his
own beastly appetite and senile greed would
have it, he broke off sharp at hearing the dinner-
gong or bell, or horn, or whatever it was — for upon
these matters the King was indifferent (de minimis
non curat rex), and so am I — and was poisoned even
as he sat at table by the agents of Pyrrhus.

By this accident, by this mere failure upon one
of the Seven Answers, it has been since that day
never properly decided whether or no this true
existence was or was not predicable of matter;
and some believing matter to be there have
treated it pompously and given it reverence and
adored it in a thousand merry ways, but others
being confident it was not there have starved and
fallen off edges and banged their heads against
corners and come plump against high walls ; nor
can either party convince the other, nor can the
doubts of either be laid to rest, nor shall it from
now to the Day of Doom be established whether
there is a Matter or is none ; though many
learned men have given up their lives to it,
including Professor Britton, who so despaired of
an issue that he drowned himself in the Cam
103

On Nothing

only last Wednesday. But what care I for him
or any other Don ?

So there we are and an answer must be found,
but upon my soul I forget to what it hangs,
though I know well there was some question
propounded at the beginning of this for which
I cared a trifle at the time of asking it and you
I hope not at all. Let it go the way of all
questions, I beg of you, for I am very little
inclined to seek and hunt through all the heap
that I have been tearing through this last hour
with Pegasus curvetting and prancing and flap-
ping his wings to the danger of my seat and of
the cities and fields below me.

Come, come, there's enough for one bout, and
too much for some. No good ever came of argu-
ment and dialectic, for these breed only angry
gestures and gusty disputes (de gustibus 7ion dis-
putandum) and the ruin of friendships and the
very fruitful pullulation of Dictionaries, text-
books and wicked men, not to speak of Intel-
lectuals, Newspapers, Libraries, Debating-clubs,
bankruptcies, madness, Petitiones elenchi and ills
innumerable.

I say live and let live ; and now I think of it

there was something at the beginning and title

of this that dealt with a warning to ward you off

a danger of some kind that terrified me not a

104

On the Approacli of an Awful Doom

little when I sat down to write, and that was, if
I remember right, that a friend had told me how
he had read in a book that the damnable Brute
Capital was about to swallow us all up and make
slaves of us and that there was no way out of it,
seeing that it was fixed, settled and grounded in
economics, not to speak of the procession of the
Equinox, the Horoscope of Trimegistus, and
Old Moore s Almanack. Oh! Run, Run! The
Rich are upon us ! Help ! Their hot breath is
on our necks ! What jaws ! What jaws !

W r ell, what must be must be, and what will be
will be, and if the Rich are upon us with great
open jaws and having power to enslave all by
the very fatal process of unalterable laws and
at the bidding of Blind Fate as she is expounded
by her prophets who live on milk and news-
papers and do woundily talk Jew Socialism
all day long ; yet is it proved by the same
intellectual certitude and irrefragable method
that we shall not be caught before the year 1938
at the earliest and with luck we may run ten
years more : why then let us make the best of
the time we have, and sail, ride, travel, write,
drink, sing and all be friends together ; and do you
go about doing good to the utmost of your power,
as I heartily hope you will, though from your faces
I doubt it hugely. A blessing I wish you all.
105

On a Rich Man who Suffered ^^

/^NE cannot do a greater service now, when
^^ a dangerous confusion of thought threatens
us with an estrangement of classes, than to dis-
tinguish in all we write between Capitalism —
the result of a blind economic development — and
the persons and motives of those who happen to
possess the bulk of the means of Production.

Capitalism may or may not have been a Source
of Evil to Modern Communities — it may have
been a necessary and even a beneficent phase in
that struggle upward from the Brute which
marks our progress from Gospel Times until the
present day— but whether it has been a good or
a bad phase in Economic Evolution, it is not
Scientific and it is not English to confuse the
system with the living human beings attached to
it, and to contrast " Rich " and " Poor," insisting
on the supposed luxury and callousness of the one
or the humiliations and sufferings of the other.

To expose the folly — nay, the wickedness— of
that attitude I have but to take some very real and
107

On Nothing

very human case of a rich man — a very rich man
— who suffered and suffered deeply merely as a
man : one whose suffering wealth did not and
could not alleviate.

One very striking example of this human bond
I am able to lay before you, because the gentle-
man in question has, with fine human sympathy,
permitted his story to be quoted.

The only stipulation he made with me was
first that I should conceal real names and
secondly that I should write the whole in as
journalistic and popular a method as possible, so
that his very legitimate grievance in the matter
I am about to describe should be as widely
known as possible and also in order to spread as
widely as possible the lesson it contains that the
rich also are men.

To change all names etc., a purely mechan-
ical task, I easily achieved. Whether I have
been equally successful in my second object of
catching the breezy and happy style of true
journalism it is for my readers to judge. I can
only assure them that my intentions are pure.

I have promised my friend to set down the
whole matter as it occurred.

"The Press," he said to me, "is the only

108 .

On a Rich Man who Suffered

vehicle left by which one can bring pressure to
bear upon public opinion. I hope you can do
something for me. . . . You write, I believe ", he
added, " for the papers ? "

I said I did.

"Well/' he answered, "you fellows that
write for the newspapers have a great advan-
tage . . . !"

At this he sighed deeply, and asked me to
come and have lunch with him at his club, which
is called "The Ragamuffins" for fun, and is full
of jolly fellows. There I ate boiled mutton and
greens, washed down with an excellent glass, or
maybe a glass and a half, of Belgian wine — a
wine called Chateau Bollard.

I noticed in the room Mr. Cantor, Mr. Charles,
Sir John Ebbsmith, Mr. May, Mr. Ficks, "Joe"
Hesketh, Matthew Fircombe, Lord Boxgrove,
old Tommy Lawson, "Bill", Mr. Compton, Mr.
Annerley, Jeremy (the trainer), Mr. Mannering,
his son, Mr. William Mannering, and his nephew
Mr. " Kite " Mannering, Lord Nore, Pilbury,
little Jack BQwdon, Baxter ("Horrible" Baxter)
Bayney, Mr. Claversgill, the solemn old Duke of
Bascourt (a Dane), Ephraim T. Seeber, Algernon
Gutt, Feverthorpe (whom that old wit Core used
to call " Featherthorpe "), and many others with
whose names I will not weary the reader, for he
109

On Nothing

would think me too reminiscent and digressive
were 1 to add to the list " Cocky " Billings, " Fat
Harry ", Mr. Muntzer, Mr. Eartham, dear, cour-
teous, old-world Squire Howie, and that prime
favourite, Lord Mann. " Sambo " Courthorpe,
Ring, the Coffee-cooler, and Harry Sark, with all
the Forfarshire lot, also fell under my eye, as did
Maxwell, Mr. Gam

However, such an introduction may prove
overlong for the complaint I have to publish. I
have said enough to show the position my friend
holds. Many of my readers on reading this list
will guess at once the true name of the club, and
may also come near that of my distinguished
friend, but I am bound in honour to disguise it
under the veil of a pseudonym or nom de guerre ;
I will call him Mr. Quail.

Mr. Quail, then, was off to shoot grouse on a
moor he had taken in Mull for the season ; the
house and estate are well known to all of us ; I
will disguise the moor under the pseudonym or
nom de guerre of " Othello ". He was awaited at
" Othello" on the evening of the eleventh; for
on the one hand there is an Act most strictly
observed that not a grouse may be shot until the
dawn of August 12 th, and on the other a day
passed at "Othello" with any other occupation
but that of shooting would be hell.

On a Rich Man who Suffered

Mr. Quail, therefore, proposed to travel to
" Othello " by way of Glasgow, taking the 9-47
at St. Pancras on the evening of the 10th — last
Monday — and engaging a bed on that train.

It is essential, if a full, Christian and sane
view is to be had of this relation, that the reader
should note the following details : —

Mr. Quail had engaged the bed. He had sent
his cheque for it a week before and held the
receipt signed "T. Macgregor, Superinten-
dent".

True, there was a notice printed very small on
the back of the receipt saying the company
would not be responsible in any case of disap-
pointment, overcrowding, accident, delay, rob-
bery, murder, or the Act of God ; but my friend
Mr. Quail very properly paid no attention to that
rubbish, knowing well enough (he is a J. P.) that
a man cannot sign himself out of his common-
law rights.

In order to leave ample time for the train, my
friend Mr. Quail ordered dinner at eight — a light
meal, for his wife had gone to the Engadine some
weeks before. At nine precisely he was in his
carriage with his coachman on the box to drive
his horses, his man Mole also, and Piggy the
little dog in with him. He knows it was nine,
because he asked the butler what time it was as

On Nothing

he left the dining-room, and the butler answered
" Five minutes to nine, my Lord " ; moreover,
the clock in the dining-room, the one on the
stairs and his own watch, all corroborated the
butler's statement.

He arrived at St. Pancras. " If," as he sarcas-
tically wrote to the company, "your otvn clocks
are to be trusted/' at 9.21.

So far so good. He had twenty-six minutes
to spare. On his carriage driving up to the
station he was annoyed to discover an enormous
seething mob through which it was impossible to
penetrate, swirling round the booking office and
behaving with a total lack of discipline which
made the confusion ten thousand times worse
than it need have been.

"I wish," said Mr. Quail to me later, with
some heat, "I wish I could have put some of
those great hulking brutes into the ranks for a
few months ! Believe me, conscription would
work wonders ! " Mr. Quail himself holds a com-
mission in the Yeomanry, and knows what he is
talking about. But that is neither here nor
there. I only mention it to show what an effect
this anarchic mob produced upon a man of Mr.
Quail's trained experience.

His man Mole had purchased the tickets in the
course of the day ; unfortunately, on being asked

On a Rich Man who Suffered

for them he confessed in some confusion to having
mislaid them.

Mr. Quail was too well bred to make a scene.
He quietly despatched his man Mole to the book-
ing office with orders to get new tickets while he
waited for him at an appointed place near the
door. He had not been there five minutes, he
had barely seen his man struggle through the
press towards the booking office, when a hand
was laid upon his shoulder and a policeman told
him in an insolent and surly tone to "move out of
it." Mr. Quail remonstrated, and the policeman
— who, I am assured, was only a railway servant
in disguise — bodily and physically forced him from
the doorway.

To this piece of brutality Mr. Quail ascribes all
his subsequent misfortunes. Mr. Quail was on the
point of giving his card, when he found himself
caught in an eddy of common people who bore
him off his feet ; nor did he regain them, in spite
of his struggles, until he was tightly wedged
against the wall at the further end of the room.

Mr. Quail glanced at his watch, and found it to
be twenty minutes to ten. There were but seven
minutes left before his train would start, and his
appointment with his man, Mole, was hopelessly
missed unless he took the most immediate steps
to recover it.

8 113

On Nothing

Mr. Quail is a man of resource ; he has served
in South Africa, and is a director of several
companies. He noticed that porters pushing
heavy trollies and crying " By your leave " had
some chance of forging through the brawling
welter of people. He hailed one such, and
stretching, as best he could, from his wretched
^x } begged him to reach the door and tell his man
Mole where he was. At the same time — as the
occasion was most urgent (for it was now 9.44) —
he held out half a sovereign. The porter took it
respectfully enough, but to Mr. Quail's horror the
menial had no sooner grasped the coin than he
made off in the opposite direction, pushing his
trolley indolently before him and crying "By
your leave" in a tone that mingled insolence
with a coarse exultation.

Mr. Quail, now desperate, fought and struggled
to be free — there were but two minutes left — and
he so far succeeded as to break through the
human barrier immediately in front of him. It
may be he used some necessary violence in this
attempt ; at any rate a woman of the most offen-
sive appearance raised piercing shrieks and swore
that she was being murdered.

The policeman (to whom I have before alluded)
came jostling through the throng, seized Mr.
Quail by the collar, and crying " What! Again? "

114

On a Rich Man who Suffered

treated him in a manner which (in the opinion of
Mr. Quail's solicitor) would (had Mr. Quail re-
tained his number) have warranted a criminal
prosecution.

Meanwhile Mr. Quail's man Mole was anxiously
looking for him, first at the refreshment bar, and
later at the train itself. Here he was startled to
hear the Guard say "Going?" and before he
could reply he was (according to his own state-
ment) thrust into the train which immediately
departed, and did not stop till Peterborough ;
there the faithful fellow assures us he alit, re-
turning home in the early hours of the morning.

Mr. Quail himself was released with a torn coat
and collar, his eye-glasses smashed, his watch-
chain broken, and smarting under a warning
from the policeman not to be caught doing it
again.

He went home in a cab to find every single
servant out of the house, junketing at some
music-hall or other, and several bottles of wine,
with a dozen glasses, standing ready for them
against their return, on his own study table.

The unhappy story need not be pursued. Like
every misfortune it bred a crop of others, some
so grievous that none would expose them to the
public eye, and one consequence remote indeed
but clearly traceable to that evening nearly dis-

On Nothing

solved a union of seventeen years. I do not
believe that any one of those who are for ever
presenting to us the miseries of the lower
classes, would have met a disaster of this sort
with the dignity and the manliness of my friend,
and I am further confident that the recital of his
suffering here given will not have been useless
in the great debate now engaged as to the
function of wealth in our community.

116

On a Child who Died ^ ^ <^

•yHERE was once a little Whig. ...

Ugh ! The oiliness, the public theft, the
cowardice, the welter of sin ! One cannot conceive
the product save under shelter and in the midst
of an universal corruption.

Well, then, there was once a little Tory. But
stay ; that is not a pleasant thought. . . .

Well, then there was once a little boy whose
name was Joseph, and now I have launched him,
I beg you to follow most precisely all that he
said, did and was, for it contains a moral. But
I would have you bear me witness that I have
withdrawn all harsh terms, and have called him
neither Whig nor Tory. Nevertheless 1 will not
deny that had he grown to maturity he would
inevitably have been a politician. As you will
be delighted to find at the end of his short
biography, he did not reach that goal. He never
sat upon either of the front benches. He never
went through the bitter business of choosing his
party and then ratting when he found he had

117

On Nothing

made a mistake. He never so much as got his
hand into the public pocket. Nevertheless read
his story and mark it well. It is of immense
purport to the State.

When little Joseph was born, his father (who
could sketch remarkably well and had rowed
some years before in his College boat) was con-
gratulated very warmly by his friends. One
lady wrote to him : " Your son cannot fail to add
distinction to an already famous name" — for
little Joseph's father's uncle had been an Under
Secretary of State. Then another, the family
doctor, said heartily, "Well, well, all doing excel-
lently; another Duggleton " (for little Joseph's
father's family were Duggletons) " and one that
will keep the old flag flying."

Little Joseph's father s aunt whose husband
had been the Under Secretary, wrote and said
she was longing to see the last Duggleton, and
hinted that a Duggleton the more was sheer
gain to This England which Our Fathers Made.
His father put his name down that very day for
the Club and met there Baron Urscher, who
promised every support "if God should spare
him to the time when he might welcome another
Duggleton to these old rooms." The baron then
118

On a Child who Died

recalled the names of Charlie Fox and Beau
Rimmel, that was to say, Brummel. He said an
abusive word or two about Mr. Gladstone, who
was then alive, and went away.

Little Joseph for many long weeks continued
to seem much like others, and if he had then
died (as some cousins hoped he would, and as,
indeed, there seemed to be a good chance on the
day that he swallowed the pebble at Bourne-
mouth) I should have no more to write about.
There would be an end of little Joseph so far as
you and I are concerned ; and as for the family
of Duggleton, why any one but the man who
does Society Notes in the Evening Yankee should
write about them I can't conceive.

Well, but little Joseph did not die — not just
then, anyhow. He lived to learn to speak, and
to talk, and to put out his tongue at visitors, let
alone interrupting his parents with unpleasing
remarks and telling lies. It was early observed
that he did all these things with a je-ne-scais-quoy
and a verve quite different from the manner of
his little playmates. When one day he moulded
out, flattened and unshaped the waxen nose of
a doll of his, it was apparent to all that it had
been very skilfully done, and showed a taste for
modelling, and the admiration this excited was
doubled when it was discovered that he had
119

On Nothing

called the doll " Aunt Garry ". He took also to
drawing things with a pencil as early as eight
years old, and for this talent his father's house
was very suitable, for Mrs. Duggleton had nice
Louis XV furniture, all white and gold, and a
quaint new brown-paper medium on her walls.
Colour, oddly enough, little Joseph could not
pretend to ; but he had a remarkably fine ear, and
was often heard, before he was ten years old,
singing some set of words or other over and over
again very loudly upon the staircase to a few
single notes.

It seems incredible, but it is certainly true,
that he even composed verses at the age of eleven,
wherein "land" and " strand", "more" and
" shore" would frequently recur, the latter being
commonly associated with England, to which, his
beloved country, the intelligent child would add
the epithet "old".

He was, a short time after this, discovered
playing upon words and would pun upon " rain "
and "reign", as also upon "Wales" the country
(or rather province, for no patriot would admit a
Divided Crown) and "Whales" — the vast Oceanic
or Thalassic mammals that swim in Arctic waters.

He asked questions that showed a surprising
intelligence and at the same time betrayed a
charming simplicity and purity of mind. Thus

On a Child who Died

he would cross-examine upon their recent move-
ments ladies who came to call, proving them
very frequently to have lied, for he was puzzled
like most children by the duplicity of the gay
world. Or again, he would ask guests at the
dinner table how old they were and whether
they liked his father and mother, and this in a
loud and shrill way that provoked at once the
attention and amusement of the select coterie
(for coterie it was) that gathered beneath his
father's roof.

As is so often the case with highly strung
natures, he was morbidly sensitive in his self-
respect. Upon one occasion he had invented
some boyish nickname or other for an elderly
matron who was present in his mother's drawing-
room, and when that lady most forcibly urged his
parent to chastise him he fled to his room and
wrote a short note in pencil forgiving his dear
mamma her intimacy with his enemies and an-
nouncing his determination to put an end to his
life. His mother on discovering this note pinned
to her chair gave way to very natural alarm and
rushed upstairs to her darling, with whom she
remonstrated in terms deservedly severe, pointing
out the folly and wickedness of self-destruction
and urging that such thoughts were unfit for one of
his tender years, for he was then barely thirteen.

On Nothing

This incident and many others I could quote
made a profound impression upon the Honourable
Mr. and Mrs. Duggleton, who, by the time of
their son's adolescence, were convinced that
Providence had entrusted them with a vessel of
no ordinary fineness. They discussed the ques-
tion of his schooling with the utmost care, and at
the age of fifteen sent "little Joseph", as they
still affectionately called him, to the care of the
Rev. James Filbury, who kept a small but ex-
ceedingly expensive school upon the banks of the
River Thames.

The three years that he spent at this estab-
lishment were among the happiest in the life of
his father's private secretary, and are still remem-
bered by many intimate friends of the family.

He was twice upon the point of securing the
prize for Biblical studies and did indeed take that
for French and arithmetic. Mr. Filbury assured
his father that he had the very highest hopes of
his career at the University. " Joseph," he wrote,
" is a fine, highly tempered spirit, one to whom
continual application is difficult, but who is cap-
able of high flights of imagination not often
reached by our sturdy English boyhood. ... I
regret that 1 cannot see my way to reducing the
charge for meat at breakfast. Joseph's health is
excellent, and his scholarship, though by no
122

On a Child who Died

means ripe, shows promise of that . . ." and so
forth.

I have no space to give the letter in full ; it
betrays in every line the effect this gifted youth
had produced upon one well acquainted with the
marks of future greatness; — for Mr. Filbury had
been the tutor and was still the friend of the
Duke of Buxton, the sometime form-master of
the present Bishop of Lewes and the cousin of
the late Joshua Lambkin of Oxford.

Little Joseph's entry into college life abun-
dantly fulfilled the expectations held of him.
The head of his college wrote to his great-aunt
(the wife of the Under Secretary of State) ". . .
he has something in him of what men of Old
called prophecy and we term genius . . ." ; old
Dr. Biddlecup the Dean asked the boy to dinner,
and afterwards assured his father that little
Joseph was the image of William Pitt, whom he
falsely pretended to have seen in childhood, and
to whom the Duggletons were related through
Mrs. Duggleton's grandmother, whose sister had
married the first cousin of the Saviour of Europe.

Dr. Biddlecup was an old man and may not
have been accurate in his historical pretensions,
but the main truth of what he said was certain,
for Joseph resembled the great statesman at once
in his physical appearance, for he was sallow

123

On Nothing

and had a tumed-up nose : in his gifts : in his
oratory which was ever remarkable at the social
clubs and wines — and alas! in his fondness for
port.

Indeed, little Joseph had to pay the price of
concentrating in himself the genius of three gen-
erations, he suffered more than one of the tempta-
tions that assault men of vigorous imagination.
He kept late hours, drank — perhaps not always
to excess but always over-frequently — and gam-
bled, if not beyond his means, at least with a
feverish energy that was ruinous to his health.
He fell desperately ill in the fortnight before his
schools, but he was granted an aegrotat, a degree
equivalent in his case to a First Class in Honours,
and he was asked by one or other of the Colleges
to compete for a Fellowship ; it was, however,
given to another candidate.

After this failure he went home, and on his
father's advice, attempted political work ; but the
hurry and noise of an election disgusted him,
and it is feared that his cynical and highly
epigrammatic speeches were another cause of
his defeat.

Sir William Mackle, who had watched the boy

with the tenderest interest and listened to his

fancied experiences with a father's patience,

ordered complete rest and change, and recom-

124

On a Child who Died

mended the South of France ; he was sent
thither with a worthless friend or rather depend-
ent, who permitted the lad to gamble and even to
borrow money, and it was this friend to whom
Sir William (in his letter to the Honourable Mr.
Duggleton acknowledging receipt of his cheque)
attributed the tragedy that followed.

" Had he not," wrote the distinguished physi-
cian, "permitted our poor Joseph to borrow
money of him ; had he resolutely refused to drink
wine at dinner ; had he locked Joseph up in his
room every evening at the opening hour of the
Casino, we should not have to deplore the loss of
one of England's noblest." Nor did the false
friend make things easier for the bereaved father
by suggesting ere twelve short months had elapsed
that the sums Joseph had borrowed of him should
be repaid.

Joseph, one fatal night, somewhat heated by
wine, had heard a Frenchman say to an Italian at
his elbow certain very outrageous things about
one Mazzini. The pair were discussing a local
bookmaker, but the boy, whose passion for Italian
unity is now well known, imagined that the
Philosopher and Statesman was in question ; he
fell into such a passion and attacked these offensive
foreigners with such violence as to bring on an
attack from which he did not recover : his grave

125

On Xocr»?rtg

m.^r wh^zttm* zh*± a - "Ifftie ct the llonte Resorto

He Lef*: wcne it^j *&«?rt paems in the manner
et* 5eLeZ«*y. &>settz and Swmborne, and a few in
an m&rndzal style that would surely have
devek-ped wi:h ase. These hare since heen
gathered into a roamse and go (ar to prove the
troth of hi> Other's despairing cry : *'* Joseph/'
the p or man 5*:»bbed as he knelt by the insani-
tary curtained bed on which the body lay,
**' Joseph would have done for the name of
Duggleton in literature what my Uncle did for it
in politics."

His portrait may be found in Annah of the
Rutlandshire Gentry, a book recently published
privately by subscriptions of two guineas, pay-
able to the gentleman who produced that hand-
some volume.

126

On a Lost Manuscript *^ *^ ^

T F this page does not appal you, nothing will.

If these first words do not fill you with an
uneasy presentiment of doom, indeed, indeed
you have been hitherto blessed in an ignorance
of woe.

It is lost ! What is lost ? The revelation this
page was to afford. The essay which was to have
stood here upon page 127 of my book: the
noblest of them all.

The words you so eagerly expected, the full
exposition which was to have brought you such
relief, is not here.

It was lost just after I wrote it. It can never
be re-written ; it is gone.

Much depended upon it ; it would have led
you to a great and to a rapidly acquired fortune ;
but you must not ask for it. You must turn your
mind away. It cannot be re-written, and all
that can take its place is a sort of dirge for
departed and irrecoverable things.

"Lugete o Veneres Cupidinesque," which sig-

127

On Nothing

nifies " Mourn oh ! you pleasant people, you
spirits that attend the happiness of mankind":
"et quantum est hominum venustiorum," which
signifies "and you such mortals as are chiefly
attached to delightful things." Passer, etc.,
which signifies my little, careful, tidy bit of
writing, mortuus est, is lost. I lost it in a cab.

It was a noble and accomplished thing. Pliny
would have loved it who said : " Ea est stomachi
mei natura ut nil nisi merum atque totum velit,"
which signifies "such is the character of my
taste that it will tolerate nothing but what is
absolute and full." ... It is no use grumbling
about the Latin. The nature of great disasters
calls out for that foundational tongue. They roll
as it were (do the great disasters of our time)
right down the emptiness of the centuries until
they strike the walls of Rome and provoke these
sonorous echoes worthy of mighty things.

It was to have stood here instead of this, its
poor apologist. It was to have filled these lines,
this space, this very page. It is not here. You
all know how, coming eagerly to a house to
see someone dearly loved, you find in their place
on entering a sister or a friend who makes
excuses for them ; you all know how the mind
grows blank at the news and all nature around
one shrivels. It is a worse emptiness than to be
12$

On a Lost Manuscript

alone. So it is with me when I consider this as
I write it, and then think of That Other which
should have taken its place ; for what I am writ-
ing now is like a little wizened figure dressed in
mourning and weeping before a deserted shrine,
but That Other which I have lost would have
been like an Emperor returned from a triumph
and seated upon a throne.

Indeed, indeed it was admirable ! If you ask
me where I wrote it, it was in Constantine, upon
the Rock of Cirta, where the storms come bowl-
ing at you from Mount Atlas and where you feel
yourself part of the sky. At least it was there
in Cirta that I blocked out the thing, for efforts
of that magnitude are not completed in one
place or day. It was in Cirta that I carved it
into form and gave it a general life, upon the
17th of January, 1905, sitting where long ago
Massinissa had come riding in through the only
gate of the city, sitting his horse without stirrups
or bridle. Beside me, as I wrote, an Arab looked
carefully at every word and shook his head be-
cause he could not understand the language ; but
the Muses understood and Apollo, which were its
authors almost as much as I. How graceful it
was and yet how firm ! How generous and yet
how particular ! How easy, how superb, and yet
how stuffed with dignity ! There ran through it,
9 129

On Nothing

half-perceived and essential, a sort of broken
rhythm that never descended to rhetoric, but
seemed to enliven and lift up the order of the
words until they were filled with something
approaching music ; and with all this the mean-
ing was fixed and new, the order lucid, the
adjectives choice, the verbs strong, the substan-
tives meaty and full of sap. It combined (if I may
say so with modesty) all that Milton desired to
achieve, with all that Bacon did in the modelling
of English. . . . And it is gone. It will never
be seen or read or known at all. It has utterly
disappeared nor is it even preserved in any
human memory — no, not in my own.

I kept it for a year, closely filing, polishing,
and emending it until one would have thought it
final, and even then I continued to develop and
to mould it. It grew like a young tree in the
corner of a fruitful field and gave an enduring
pleasure. It never left me by night or by day ;
it crossed the Pyrenees with me seven times and
the Mediterranean twice; It rode horses with
me and was become a part of my habit every-
where. In trying to ford the Sousseyou I held it
high out of the water, saving it alone, and once
by a camp fire I woke and read it in the moun-
tains before dawn. My companions slept on either
side of me. The great brands of pine glowed
130

On a Lost Manuscript

and gave me light ; there was a complete silence
in the forest except for the noise of water, and
in the midst of such spells I was so entranced by
the beauty of the thing that when I had done
my reading I took a dead coal from the fire and
wrote at the foot of the paper : " There is not a
word which the most exuberant could presume
to add, nor one which the most fastidious
would dare to erase." All that glory has
vanished.

I know very well what the cabman did. He
looked through the trap-door in the top of the
roof to see if I had left anything behind. It was
in Vigo Street, at the corner, that the fate struck.
He looked and saw a sheet or two of paper —
something of no value. He crumpled it up and
threw it away, and it joined the company which
men have not been thought worthy to know. It
went to join Calvus and the dreadful books of the
Sibyl, and those charred leaves which were found
on the floor where Chatterton lay dead.

I went three times to Scotland Yard, allowing
long intervals and torturing myself with hope.
Three times my hands thought to hold it, and
three times they closed on nothingness. A police-
man then told me that cabmen very rarely
brought him written things, but rather sticks,
gloves, rings, purses, parcels, umbrellas, and the

131

On Nothing

crushed hats of drunken men, not often verse or
prose ; and I abandoned my quest.

There are some reading this who may think me
a trifle too fond and may doubt the great glory to
which I testify here. They will remember how
singularly the things we no longer possess rise
upon the imagination and enlarge themselves,
and they will quote that pathetic error whereby
the dead become much dearer to us when we can
no longer smile into their faces or do them the
good we desire. They will suggest (most tenderly)
that loss and the enchantment of memory have
lent a thought too much of radiance and of
harmony to what was certainly a noble creation
of the mind, but still human and shot with error.

To such a criticism I cannot reply. I have no
longer, alas ! the best of replies, the Thing Itself,
the Achievement : and not having that I have
nothing. I am without weapons. Who shall con-
vince of personality, of beauty, or of holiness,
unless they be seen and felt? So it is with
letters, and if I am not believed — or even if I am
— it is of little moment, for the beloved object is
rapt away.

Its matter — if one can say that anything so
manifold and exalted had a mere subject — its
matter was the effect of the piercing of the Suez
Canal upon coastwise trade in the Mediterranean,

132

On a Lost Manuscript

but it is profane to bring before the general gaze
a title which can tell the world nothing of the
iridescence and vitality it has lost.

I will not console myself with the uncertain
guess that things perished are in some way re-
coverable beyond the stars, nor hope to see and
read again the artistry and the result whose loss
I have mourned in these lines ; but if, as the
wisest men imagine, there is a place of repose fo r
whatever most deserves it among the shades, there
either I or others worthier may read what will
never be read by living eyes or praised by living
lips again. It may be so. But the loss alone is
certain.

133

On a Man who was Protected by
Another Man *^ ^ ^y

HPHERE was once a man called Mahmoud. He
had other names, such as Ali, Akbar, and
Shmaeil, and so forth, with which I will not
trouble you, because in very short stories it is im-
portant not to confuse the mind. I have been
assured of this by many authorities, some of whom
make a great deal of money by short stories, and
all of whom know a great deal about the way in
which they ought to be written.

Now I come to think of it, I very much doubt
whether this is a short story at all, for it has no
plot so far and I do not see any plot developing.
No matter. The thing is to say what one has to
say humbly but fully. Providence will look after
the rest.

So, as I was saying, there was a man called
Mahmoud. He lived in a country entirely made
of sand. There were hills which on the maps
were called mountains, but when you came to
look at them they were only a lot more sand, and

135

On Nothing

there was nothing about them except an aspect
of sand heaped up. You may say, " How, then,
did Mahmoud build a house ? " He did not. He
lived in a tent. "But," you continue, "what did
he do about drinking ? " Well, it was Mahmoud's
habit to go to a place where he knew that by
scratching a little he would find bad water, and
there he would scratch a little and find it, and,
being an abstemious man, he needed but a drop.

The sun in Mahmoud's country was extremely
hot. It stood right up above one's head and
looked like the little thing that you get in the
focus of a burning glass. The sun made it almost
impossible to move, except in the early morning or
at evening, and even during the night it was not
particularly cool. It never rained in this place.

There were no rivers and no trees. There was
no grass, and the only animal was a camel. The
camel was content to eat a kind of scrub that
grew here and there on the sand, and it drank
the little water Mahmoud could afford it, and
was permanently happy. So was Mahmoud.
Beneath him the sand sloped down until it met
the sea, which was tepid on account of the great
heat, and in which were a lot of fish, pearls,
and other things. Every now and then Mah-
moud would force a son or domestic of his to go
down and hoick out a pearl, and this pearl he
136

On a Man who was Protected

would exchange for something that he abso-
lutely needed, such as a new tent or a new camel,
and then he went on living the way he had been
living before.

Now, one day there came to this part of the
world a man called Smith. He was dressed as
you and I are, in trousers and a coat and boots,
and he had a billycock hat on. He had a foolish,
anxious face. He did not keep his word parti-
cularly ; and he was exceedingly fond of money.
He had spent most of his life accumulating all
sorts of wealth in a great bag, and he landed
with this bag in Mahmoud's country, and Mah-
moud was as polite to him as the heat would
allow. Then Mahmoud said to him :

" You appear to be a very rich man."

And Smith said :

"I am," and opened his bag and showed a
great quantity of things. So Mahmoud was
pleased and astonished, and fussed a good deal
considering the climate, and got quite a quantity
of pearls out of the sea, and gave them to Smith,
who let him have a gun, but a bad one ; and he,
Smith, retained a good rifle. Then Smith sat
down and waited for about six months, living on
the provisions he had brought in his bag, until
Mahmoud said to him :

" What have you come to do here ? "

i37

On Nothing

And Smith said :

"Why, to tell you the honest truth, I have
come to protect you."

So Mahmoud thought a long time, smoking a
pipe, because he did not understand a word of
what Smith had said. Then Mahmoud said :

"All right, protect away," and after that there
was a silence for about another six months, and
nothing had happened.

Mahmoud did not mind being protected,
because it made no difference to him, and after
a certain time he had got all he wanted out of
Smith, and was tired of bothering about the
pearls. So he and Smith just lived side by side
doing nothing in particular, except that Smith
went on protecting and that Mahmoud went on
being protected. But while Mahmoud was per-
fectly content to be protected till Doomsday,
being an easy-going kind of fellow, Smith was
more and more put out. He was a trifle irritable
by nature. The climate did not suit him. He
drank beer and whisky and other things quite
dangerous under such a sun, and he came out all
over like the measles. He tried to pass the time
riding on a camel. At first he thought it great
sport, but after a little he got tired of that also.
He began to write poetry, all about Mahmoud,
and as Mahmoud could not read it did not much

138

On a Man who was Protected

matter. Then he wrote poetry about himself,
making out Mahmoud to be excessively fond of
him, and this poetry he read to himself, and it
calmed him ; but as Mahmoud did not know
about this poetry, Smith got bored with it, and,
his irritation increasing, he wrote more poetry,
showing Mahmoud to be a villain and a serf, and
showing himself, Smith, to be under a divine
mission.

Now, just when things had come to this un-
pleasant state Mahmoud got up and shook him-
self and began skipping and dancing outside the
door of his tent and running round and round it
very fast, and waving his hands in the air, and
shouting incongruous things.

Smith was exceedingly annoyed by this. He
had never gone on like that himself, and he did
not see why Mahmoud should. But Mahmoud
had lived there a good deal longer than Smith
had, and he knew that it was absolutely neces-
sary. There were stories of people in the past
who had felt inclined to go on like this and had
restrained themselves with terrible consequences.
So Mahmoud went on worse than ever, running
as fast as he could out into the sand, shouting,
leaping into the air, and then running back
again as fast as he could, and firing, off his gun
and calling upon his god.

139

On Nothing

Smith, whose nerves were at the last stretch,
asked Mahmoud savagely what he was about.
To this Mahmoud gave no reply, save to twirl
round rapidly upon one foot and to fall down
foaming at the mouth. Smith, therefore, losing
all patience, said to Mahmoud :

"If you do not stop I will shoot you by way of
protecting you against yourself."

Mahmoud did not know what the word pro-
tected meant, but he understood the word shoot,
and shouting with joy, he blew off Smith's hat
with his gun, and said :

" A fight ! a fight ! "

For he loved fighting when he was in this
mood, while Smith detested it.

Smith, however, remembered that he had come
there to protect Mahmoud ; he set his teeth,
aimed with his rifle, fired at Mahmoud, and
missed.

Mahmoud was so surprised at this that he ran
at Smith, and rolled him over and over on the
ground. Then they unclenched, both very much
out of breath, and Smith said :

" Will you or will you not be protected ? "

Mahmoud said he should be delighted. More-
over, he said that he had given his word that he
would be protected, and that he was not a man to
break his word.

140

On a Man who was Protected

After that he took Smith by the hand and
shook it up and down for about five minutes,
until Smith was grievously put out.

When they were friends again, Smith said to
Mahmoud :

" Will you not go down into the sea and get me
some more pearls ? "

" No," said Mahmoud, " I am always very
exhausted after these attacks."

Then Smith sat down by the seashore and
began to cry, thinking of his home and of the
green trees and of the North, and he wrote
another poem about the burden that he had
borne, and of what a great man he was and how he
went all over the world protecting people, and
how brave he was, and how Mahmoud also was
very brave, but how he was much braver than
Mahmoud. Then he said :

" Mahmoud, I am going away back to my distant
home, unless you will get me more pearls."

But Mahmoud said :

" I cannot get you any more pearls because it
is too hot, and if only you will stop you can go
on doing some protecting, which, upon my soul,
I do like better than anything in the world."

And even as he said .this he began jumping
about and shouting strange things and waving
his gun, and Smith at once went away.
141

On Nothing

Then Mahmoud sat down sadly by the sea,
and thought of how Smith had protected him,
and how now all that was passed and the old
monotonous life would begin again. But Smith
went home, and all his neighbours asked how it
was that he protected so well, and he wrote a
book to enlighten them, called How I Protected
Mahmoud. Then all his neighbours read this
book and went out in a great boat to do some-
thing of the same kind. And Smith could not
refrain from smiling.

Mahmoud, however, by his lonely shore, re-
gretted more and more this episode in his dull
life, and he wept when he remembered the
fantastic Smith, who had such an enormous
number of things in his bag and who had pro-
tected him ; and he also wrote a poem, which is
rather difficult to understand in connection with
the business, but which to him exactly described
it. And the poem went like this ; having no
metre and no rhyming, and being sung to three
notes and a quarter in a kind of wail :

" When the jackal and the lion meet it is full
moon ; it is full moon and the gazelles are
abroad."

" Why are the gazelles abroad when the jackal
and the lion meet : when it is full moon in the
desert and there is no wind ? "
142

On a Man who was Protected

"There is no wind because the gazelles are
abroad, the moon is at the full, and the lion and
the jackal are together."

" Where is he that protected me and where is
the great battle and the shouts and the feasting
afterwards, and where is that bag ? "

" But we dwell in the desert always, and men
do not visit us, and the lion and the jackal have
met, and it is full moon, O gazelles ! "

Mahmoud was so pleased with this song that
he wrote it down, a thing he only did with one
song out of several thousands, for he wrote with
difficulty, but I think it a most ridiculous song,
and I far prefer Smith's, though you would never
know it had to do with the same business.

143

On National Debts (which are Imaginaries
and True Nothings of State) ^ ^*

/ \NE day Peter and Paul — I knew them both,
^ the dear fellows : Peter perhaps a trifle
wild, Paul a little priggish, but that is no matter
— one day, I say, Peter and Paul (who lived to-
gether in rooms off Southampton Row, Blooms-
bury, a very delightful spot) were talking over
their mutual affairs.

"My dear Paul," said Peter, "I wish I could
persuade you to this expenditure. It will be to
our mutual advantage. Come now, you have ten
thousand a year of your own and I with great
difficulty earn a hundred; it is surprising that
you should make the fuss you do. Besides which
you well know that this feeding off packing-cases
is irksome ; we really need a table and it will but
cost ten pounds."

To all this Paul listened doubtfully, pursing
up his lips, joining the tips of his fingers, cross-
ing his legs and playing the solemn fool gener-
ally.

10 145

On Nothing

"Peter," said he, "I mislike this scheme of
yours. It is a heavy outlay for a single moment.
It would disturb our credit, and yours especially,
for your share would come to five pounds and
you would have to put off paying the Press-Cut-
ting agency to which you foolishly subscribe.
No ; there is an infinitely better way than this
crude idea of paying cash down in common. I
will lend the whole sum of ten pounds to our
common stock and we will each pay one pound
a year as interest to myself for the loan. I for
my part will not shirk my duty in the matter
of this interest and I sincerely trust you will not
shirk yours."

Peter was so delighted with this arrangement
that his gratitude knew no bounds. He would
frequently compliment himself in private on the
advantage of living with Paul, and when he
went out to see his friends it was with the jovial
air of the Man with the Bottomless Purse, for he
did not feel the pound a year he had to pay, and
Paul always seemed willing to undertake similar
expenses on similar terms. He purchased a bronze
over-mantel, he fitted the rooms with electric
light, he bought (for the common use) a large
prize dog for £56, and he was for ever bringing
in made dishes, bottles of wine and what not,
all paid for by this lending of his. The interest
146

On National Debts

increased to £20 and then to £30 a year, but
Paul was so rigorously honest, prompt and exact
in paying himself the interest that Peter could
not bear to be behindhand or to seem less punc-
tual and upright than his friend. But so high a
proportion of his small income going in interest
left poor Peter but a meagre margin for himself
and he had to dine at Lockhart's and get his
clothes ready made, which (to a refined and
sensitive soul such as his) was a grievous trial.

Some little time after a Fishmonger who had
attained to Cabinet rank was married to the
daughter of a Levantine and London was in
consequence illuminated. Paul said to Peter in
his jovial way, " It is imperative that we should
show no meanness upon this occasion. We are
known for the most flourishing and well-to-do
pair of bachelors in the neighbourhood, and I
have not hesitated (for I know I had your
consent beforehand) to go to Messrs. Brock and
order an immense quantity of fireworks for the
balcony on this auspicious occasion. Not a word.
The loan is mine and very freely do I make it
to our Mutual Position."

So that night there was an illumination at
their flat, and the centre-piece was a vast
combination of roses, thistles, shamrocks, leeks,
kangaroos, beavers, schamboks, and other

147

On Nothing

national emblems, and beneath it the motto,
" United we stand, divided we fall : Peter and
Paul," in flaming letters two feet high.

Peter was after this permanently reduced to
living upon rice and to mending his own clothes ;
but he could easily see how fair the arrangement
was, and He was not the man to grumble at a
free contract. Moreover, he was expecting a
rise in salary from the editor of the Hoot, in
which paper he wrote "Woman's World", and
signed it "Emily".

At the close of the year Peter had some
difficulty in meeting the interest, though Paul
had, with true business probity, paid his on
the very day it fell due. Peter therefore ap-
proached Paul with some little diffidence and
hesitation, saying :

" Paul : I trust you will excuse me, but I beg
you will be so very good as to see your way, if
possible, to granting me an extension of time in
the matter of paying my interest."

Paul, who was above everything regular and
methodical, replied :

"Hum, chrm, chrum, chrm. Well, my dear
Peter, it would not be generous to press you,
but I trust you will remember that this money
has not been spent upon my private enjoyment.
It has gone for the glory of our Mutual Position ;
148

On National Debts

pray do not forget that, Peter; and remember
also that if you have to pay interest, so have I,
so have I. We are all in the same boat, Peter,
sink or swim ; sink or swim. . . ." Then his
face brightened, he patted Peter genially on the
shoulder and added: "Do not think me harsh,
Peter. It is necessary that I should keep to a
strict, business-like way of doing things, for I
have a large property to manage ; but you may
be sure that my friendship for you is of more
value to me than a few paltry sovereigns. I
will lend you the sum you owe to the interest
on the Common Debt, and though in strict right
you alone should pay the interest on this new
loan I will call half of it my own and you shall
pay but £l a year on it for ever."

Peter's eyes swam with tears at Paul's gener-
osity, and he thanked his stars that his lot had
been cast with such a man. But when Paul
came again with a grave face and said to him,
" Peter, my boy, we must insure at once against
burglars : the underwriters demand a hundred
pounds," his heart broke, and he could not
endure the thought of further payments. Paul,
however, with the quiet good sense that char-
acterised him, pointed out the necessity of the
payment and, eyeing Peter with compassion for
a moment, told him that he had long been feel-
149

On Nothing

ing that he (Peter) had been unfairly taxed.
"It is a principle" (said Paul) "that taxation
should fall upon men in proportion to their
ability to pay it. I am determined that, what-
ever happens, you shall in future pay but a third
of the interest that may accrue upon further
loans." It was in vain that Peter pointed out
that, in his case, even a thirtieth would mean
starvation ; Paul was firm and carried his point.

The wretched Peter was now but skin and
bone, and his earning power, small as it had ever
been, was considerably lessened. Paul began to
fear very seriously for his invested funds : he
therefore kept up Peter's spirits as best he could
with such advice as the following : —

" Dear Peter, do not repine ; your lot is indeed
hard, but it has its silver lining. You are the
member of a partnership famous among all other
bachelor-residences for its display of fireworks
and its fine furniture. So valuable is the room
in which you live that the insurance alone is the
wonder and envy of our neighbours. Consider
also how firm and stable these loans make our
comradeship. They give me a stake in the
rooms and furnish a ready market for the spare
capital of our little community. The interest
WE pay upon the fund is an evidence of our
social rank, and all London stares with astonish-
150

On National Debts

ment at the flat of Peter and Paul, which can
without an effort buy such gorgeous furniture at
a moment's notice."

But, alas ! these well-meant words were of no
avail. On a beautiful spring day, when all the
world seemed to be holding him to the joys of
living, Peter passed quietly away in his little
truckle bed, unattended even by a doctor,
whose fees would have necessitated a loan the
interest of which he could never have paid.

Paul, on the death of Peter, gave way at first
to bitter recrimination. "Is this the way," he
said, " that you repay years of unstinted gener-
osity ? Nay, is this the way you meet your sacred
obligations ? You promised upon a thousand
occasions to pay your share of the interest for
ever, and now like a defaulter you abandon your
post and destroy half the revenue of our firm by
one intempestive and thoughtless act ! Had
you but possessed a little property which,
properly secured, would continue to meet
the claims you had incurred, I had not blamed
you. But a man who earns all that he possesses
has no right to pledge himself to perpetual pay-
ment unless he is prepared to live for ever ! "

Nobler thoughts, however, succeeded this out-
burst, and Paul threw himself upon the bed of
his Departed Friend and moaned. "Who now

151

On Nothing

will pay me an income in return for my invest-
ments? All my fortune is sunk in this flat,
though I myself pay the interest never so regu-
larly, it will not increase my fortune by one
farthing ! I shall as I live consume a fund which
will never be replenished, and within a short
time I shall be compelled to work for my living !

Maddened by this last reflection, he dashed
into the street, hurried northward through-the-
now- rapidly -gathering -darkness, and drowned
himself in the Regent's Canal, just where it runs
by the Zoological Gardens, under the bridge that
leads to the cages of the larger pachyderms.

Thus miserably perished Peter and Paul, the
one in the thirtieth, the other in the forty-
seventh year of his age, both victims to their
ignorance of Mrs. Fawcett's Political Economy for
the Young, the Nicomachean Ethics, Bastiat's Eco-
nomic Harmonies, The Fourth Council of Ixiteran on
Unfruitful Loans and Usury, The Speeches of Sir
Michael Hicks-Beach and Mr. Brodrick (now Lord
Midleton), The Sermons of St. Thomas Aquinas,
under the head " Usuria/' Mr. W. S. Lillys First
Principles in Politics, and other works too numerous
to mention.

152

On Lords ^^ *^ *^ ^^ *^

" &AEPE miratus sum" I have often wondered
why men were blamed for seeking to know
men of title. That a man should be blamed for
the acceptance of, or uniformity with, ideals not
his own is right enough ; but a man who simply
reveres a Lord does nothing so grave : and why
he should not revere such a being passes my
comprehension.

The institution of Lords has for its object the
creation of a high and reverend class; well, a
man looks up to them with awe or expresses his
reverence and forthwith finds himself accused !
Get rid of Lords by all means, if you think there
should be none, but do not come pestering me
with a rule that no Lord shall be considered
while you are making them by the bushel for
the special purpose of being considered — ad con-
siderandum as Quintillian has it in his highly
Quintillianarian essay on I forget what.

I have heard it said that what is blamed in
snobs, snobinibus quid reatumst, is not the matter

153

On Nothing

but the manner of their worship. Those who
will have it so maintain that we should pay to
rank a certain discreet respect which must not
be marred by crude expression. They compare
snobbishness to immodesty, and profess that the
pleasure of acquaintance with the great should
be so enjoyed that the great themselves are but
half-conscious of the homage offered them : this
is rather a subtle and finicky critique of what
is in honest minds a natural restraint.

I knew a man once — Chatterley was his name,
Shropshire his county, and racing his occupation
— who said that a snob was blamed for the offence
he gave to Lords themselves. Thus we do well
(said this man Chatterley) to admire beautiful
women, but who would rush into a room and
exclaim loudly at the ladies it contained? So
(said this man Chatterley) is it with Lords, whom
we should never forget, but whom we should not
disturb by violent affection or by too persistent a
pursuit.

Then there was a nasty drunken chap down
Wapping way who had seen better days ; he
had views on dozens of things and they were
often worth listening to, and one of his fads was
to be for ever preaching that the whole social
position of an aristocracy resided in a veil of
illusion, and that hands laid too violently on this

iS4

On Lords

veil would tear it. It was only by a sort of
hypnotism, he said, that we regarded Lords as
separate from ourselves. It was a dream, and a
rough movement would wake one out of it.
Snobbishness (he said) did violence to this sacred
film of faith and might shatter it, and hence (he
pointed out) was especially hated by Lords them-
selves. It was interesting to hear as a theory
and delivered in those surroundings, but it is
exploded'at once by the first experience of High
Life and its solid realities.

There is yet another view that to seek after
acquaintance with men of position in some way
hurts one's own soul, and that to strain towards
our superiors, to mingle our society with their
own, is unworthy, because it is destructive of
something peculiar to ourselves. But surely there
is implanted in man an instinct which leads him
to all his noblest efforts and which is, indeed, the
motive force of religion, the instinct by which
he will ever seek to attain what he sees to be
superior to him and more worthy than the things
of his common experience. It seems to be
proper, therefore, that no man should struggle
against the very natural attraction which radiates
from superior rank, and I will boldly affirm that
he does his country a good service who submits
to this force.

155

On Nothing

The just appetite for rank gives rise to two
kinds of duty, one or the other of which each of us
in his sphere is bound to regard. There is first for
much the greater part of men the duty of showing
respect and deference to men of title, by which
I do not mean only Lords absolute (which are
Barons, Viscounts, Earls, Marquises and Dukes),
but also Lords in gross, that is the whole body of
lords, including lords by courtesy, ladies, their
wives and mothers, honourables and cousins —
especially heirs of Lords, and to some extent
Baronets as well. Secondly, there is the duty
of those few within whose power it Jies to
become Lords, Lords to become, lest the aris-
tocratic element in our Constitution should de-
cline. The most obvious way of doing one's duty
in this regard if one is wealthy is to purchase
a peerage, or a Baronetcy at the least, and
when I consider how very numerous are the
fortunes to which a sum of twenty or thirty thou-
sand pounds is not really a sacrifice, and how few
of their possessors exercise a tenacious effort to
acquire rank by the disbursement of money, I
cannot but fear for the future of the country.
It is no small sign of our times that we should
read so continually of large bequests to public
charities made by men who have had every
opportunity for entering the Upper House but

156

On Lords

who preferred to remain unnoted in the North
of England and to leave their posterity no more
dignified than they were themselves.

There is a yet more restricted class to whom it
is open to become Lords by sheer merit. The
one by gallant conduct in the field, another by
a pretty talent for verse, a third by scientific
research. And if any of my readers happen to
be a man ofthis kind and yet hesitate to under-
take the effort required of him, I would point
out that our Constitution in its wisdom adds
certain very material advantages to a peerage of
this kind. It is no excuse for a man of military
or scientific eminence to say that his income
would not enable him to maintain such a dignity.
Parliament is always ready to vote a sufficient
grant of money, and even were it not so, it is
quite possible to be a Lord and yet to be but
poorly provided with the perishable goods of this
world, as is very clearly seen in the case of no
fewer than eighty-two Barons, fourteen Earls,
and three dukes, a list of whom I had prepared
for printing in these directions but have most
unfortunately mislaid.

Again, even if one's private means be small,
and if Parliament by some neglect omit to endow
one's new splendour, the common sense of England
will come to the help of any man so situated if he

157

On Nothing

is worth his salt. He will with the greatest ease
obtain positions of responsibility and emolument,
notably upon the directorate of public companies,
and can often, if he finds his salary insufficient,
persuade his fellow-directors to increase it,
whether by threatening them with exposure or
by some other less drastic and more convivial
means.

If after reading these lines there is anyone
who still doubts the attitude that an honest man
should take upon this matter, it is enough to
point out in conclusion how Providence itself
appears to have designed the whole hierarchy of
Lords with a view to tempting man higher and
ever higher. Thus, if some reader of this happens
to be a baron, he might think perhaps that it
is not worth a further effort to receive another
grade of distinction. He would be wrong, for
such an advance gives a courtesy title to his
daughters; one more step and the same benefit
accrues to his sons. After that there is indeed a
hiatus, nor have I ever been able to see what
advantage is held out to the viscount who desires
to become a marquis — unless, indeed, it be mar-
quises that become viscounts. Anyhow, it is the
latter title which is the less English and the less
manly and which I am glad to hear it is proposed
to abolish by a short, one-clause bill in the next
158

On Lords

Session of Parliament. Above these, the dukes
in the titles of their wives and the mode in which
they are addressed stand alone. There is, there-
fore, no stage in a man's upward progress upon
this ancient and glorious ladder where he will
not find some great reward for the toil of ascend-
ing. In view of these things, I for my part hope,
in common with many another, that the foolish
pledge given some years ago when the Liberal
Party was in opposition, that it would create no
more Lords, will be revised now that it has to
consider the responsibilities of office ; a revision
for which there is ample precedent in the case of
other pledges which were as rashly made but of
which a reconsideration has been found necessary
in practice.

Note. — I find I am wrong upon Viscounts, but as I did
not discover this until my book was in the press I cannot
correct it. The remainder of the matter: is accurate enough,
and may be relied on by the student.

159

On Jingoes : In the Shape of a Warning

The sad and lamentable history of Jack Bull, son of
the late John Bull, India Merchant, wherein it will be
seen how this prosperous merchant left an heir that
ran riot with 'Squires, trainbands, Black men, and
Soldiers, and squandered all his substance, so that at
last he came to selling penny tokens in front of the
Royal Exchange in Threadneedle Street, and is now
very miserably writing for the papers.

JOHN BULL, whom I knew very well, drove
a great trade in tea, cotton goods, and bom-
bazine, as also in hardware, all manner of cutlery,
good and bad, and especially sea-coal, and was
very highly respected in the City of London, of
which he was twice Sheriff and once Lord Mayor.
When he went abroad some begged of him, and
to these he would give a million or so at a time
openly in the street, so that a crowd would gather
and cry, " Lord ! what a generous fellow is this
Mr. Bull ! " Some, again, of better station would
pluck his sleeve and take him aside into Broad
Street Corner or Mansion House Court, and say,
"Mr. Bull, a word in your ear. I have more
ii 161

On Nothing

paper about than I care for in these hard times,
and I could pay you handsomely for a short
loan." These always found Mr. Bull willing
and ready, sure and silent, and, withal, cheaper
at a discount than any other. For buying cloth
all came to Bull ; and for buying other wares his
house was preferred to those of Frog and Hans
and the rest, because he was courteous and
ready, always to be found in his office (which was
near the Wool-pack in Leaden Hall Street, next
to Mr. Marlow's, the Methpdist preacher), and
moreover he was very attentive to little things.
This last habit he would call the soul of business.
In such fashion Mr. Bull had accumulated a
sum of five hundred thousand million pounds, or
thereabouts, and when he died the neighbours
said this and that spiteful thing about his son
Jack whom he had trained up to the business,
making out that they knew more than they cared to
say, that Jack was not John, that they had heard of
Pride going before a fall, and so much tittle-tattle
as jealousy will breed. But they were very much
disappointed in their malice, for this same Jack
went sturdily to work and trod in his father's
steps, so that his wealth increased even beyond
what he had inherited, and he had at last more
risks upon the sea in one way and another than
any other merchant in the City. And if you
162

On Jingoes

would know how Jack (who was, to tell the truth,
more flighty and ill-informed than his father)
came to go so wisely, it was thus : Old John had
left him a few directions writ up in pencil on the
mantelpiece, which ran in this way : —

1 . Never go into an adventure unless the feel-
. ing of your neighbours be with you.

2. Spend no more than you earn — nay, put by
every year.

3. Put out no money for show in your business
but only for use, save only on the occasion of the
Lord Mayor's Show, your taking of an office, or
on the occasion of public holidays, as, when the
King's wife or daughter lies in.

4. Live and let live, for be sure your business
can only thrive on the condition that others do
also.

5. Vex no man at your door; buy and sell
freely.

6. Do not associate with Drunkards, Brawlers
and Poets ; and God's blessing be with you.

Now when Jack was grown to about thirty years
old, he came, most unfortunately, upon a certain
Sir John Snipe, Bart., that was a very scandalous
young squire of Oxfordshire, and one that had
published five lyrics and a play (enough to warn
any Bull against him), who spoke to him some-
what in this fashion : —

163

On Nothing

" La ! Jack, what a pity you and I should live
so separate ! I'll be bound you're the best fellow
in the world, the very backbone of the country.
To be sure there's a silly old-fashioned lot of
Lumpkins in our part that will have it you're
no gentleman, but I say, ' Gentle is as Gentle
does,' and fair play's a jewel. I will enter your
counting-house as soon as drink to you, as I do
here."

Whereat Jack cried —

" God 'a' mercy, a very kind gentleman ! Be
welcome to my house. Pray take it as your own.
I think you may count me one of you ? Eh ? Be
seated. Come, how can I serve you ? " : and at
last he had this Jackanapes taking a handsome
salary for doing nothing.

When Jack's friends would reproach him and
say, "Oh, Jack, Jack, beware this fine gentle-
man ; he will be your ruin," Jack would answer,
"A plague on all levellers," or again, "What if
he be a gentleman? So that he have talent
'tis all I seek," or yet further, "Well, gentle or
simple, thank God he's an honest Englishman."
Whereat Jack added to the firm, Isaacs of Ham-
burg, Larochelle of Canada, Warramugga of Van
Dieman's Land, Smuts Bieken of the Cape of
Good Hope, and the Maharajah of Mahound of
the East Indies that was a plaguey devilish-look-
164

On Jingoes

ing black fellow, pock-marked, and with a terrible
great paunch to him.

So things went all to the dogs with poor Jack,
that would hear no sense or reason from his
father's old friends, but was always seen arm in
arm with Sir John Snipe, Warra Mugga, the
Maharajah and the rest ; drinking at the sign of
the "Beerage," gambling and dicing at "The
.Tape," or playing fisticuffs at the "Lord Nelson,"
till at last he quarrelled with all the world but
his boon companions and, what was worse, boasted
that his father's brother's son, rich Jonathan
Spare, was of the company. So if he met some
dirty dog or other in the street -he would cry,
" Come and sup to-night, you shall meet Cousin
Jonathan ! " and when no Jonathan was there
he would make a thousand excuses saying,
"Excuse Jonathan, I pray you, he has married
a damned Irish wife that keeps him at home " ;
or, "What! Jonathan not come? Oh! we'll
wait awhile. He never fails, for we are like
brothers ! " and so on ; till his companions came
to think at last that he had never met or known
Jonathan ; which was indeed the case.

About this time he began to think himself too
fine a gentleman to live over the shop as his
father had done, and so asked Sir John Snipe
where he might go that was more genteel ; for

165

On Nothing

he still had too much sense to ask any of those
other outlandish fellows' advice in such a matter.
At last, on Snipe's bespeaking, he went to
Wimbledon, which is a vastly smart suburb, and
there, God knows, he fell into a thousand absurd
tricks so that many thought he was off his head.

He hired a singing man to stand before his
door day and night singing vulgar songs out of
the street in praise of Dick Turpin and Molly
Nog, only forcing him to put in his name of Jack
Bull in the place of the Murderer or Oyster
Wench therein celebrated.

He would drink rum with common soldiers in
the public-houses and then ask them in to dinner
to meet gentlemen, saying "These are heroes
and gentlemen, which are the two first kinds
of men," and they would smoke great pipes of
tobacco in his very dining-room to the general
disgust.

He would run out and cruelly beat small boys
unaware, and when he had nigh killed them he
would come back and sit up half the night
writing an account of how he had fought Tom
Mauler of Bermondsey and beaten him in a
hundred and two rounds, which (he would add)
no man living but he could do.

He would hang out of his window a great flag
with a challenge on it "to all the people of
1 66

On Jingoes

Wimbledon assembled, or to any of them singly/'
and then he would be seen, at his front gate
waving a great red flag and gnawing a bone like
a dog, saying that he loved Force only, and
would fight all and any.

When he received any print, newspaper, book
or pamphlet that praised any but himself, he
would throw it into the fire in a kind of frenzy,
calling God to witness that he was the only
person of consequence in the world, that it was
a horrible shame that he was so neglected, and
Lord knows what other rubbish.

In this spirit he quarrelled with all his fellow-
underwriters and friends and comrades, and that
in the most insolent way. For knowing well that
Mr. Frog had a shrew of a wife, he wrote to him
daily asking " if he had had a domestic broil of
late, and how his poor head felt since it was
bandaged." To Mr. Hans, who lived in a small
way and loved gardening, he sent an express
"begging him to mind his cabbages and leave
gentlemen to their greater affairs." To Niccolini
of Savoy, the little swarthy merchant, he sent
indeed a more polite note, but as he said in it
"that he would be very willing to give him
charity and help him as he could" and as he
added " for my father it was that put you up in
business" (which was a monstrous lie, for Frog
167

On Nothing

had done this) he did but offend. Then to Mr.
William Eagle, that was a strutting, arrogant
fellow, but willing to be a friend, he wrote every
Monday to say that the house of Bull was lost
unless Mr. Eagle would very kindly protect it
and every Thursday to challenge him to mortal
combat, so that Mr. Eagle (who, to tell the truth,
was no great wit, but something of a dullard and
moreover suffering from a gathering in the ear,
a withered arm, and poor blood) gave up his
friendship and business with Bull and took to
making up sermons and speeches for orators.

He would have no retainers but two, whose
common names were Hocus and Pocus, but as he
hated the use of common names and as no one
had heard of Hocus* lineage (nor did he himself
know it) he called him, Hocus, "Freedom" as
being a high-sounding and moral name for a foot-
man and Pocus (whose name was of an ordinary
decent kind) he called " Glory" as being a good
counterweight to Freedom ; both these were
names in his opinion very decent and well suited
for a gentleman's servants.

Now Freedom and Glory got together in the
apple closet and put it to each other that, as
their master was evidently mad it would be a
thousand pities to take no advantage of it, and
they agreed that whatever bit of jobbing Hocus
168

On Jingoes

Freedom should do, Pocus Glory should approve ;
and contrariwise about. But they kept up a
sham quarrel to mask this ; thus Hocus was for
Chapel, Pocus for Church, and it was agreed
Hocus should denounce Pocus for drinking Port.

The first fruit of their conspiracy was that
Hocus recommended his brother and sister, his
two aunts and nieces and four nephews, his own
six children, his dog, his conventicle-minister,
his laundress, his secretary, a friend of whom he
had once borrowed five pounds, and a blind
beggar whom he favoured, to various posts about
the house and to certain pensions, and these Jack
Bull (though his fortune was already dwindling)
at once accepted.

Thereupon Pocus loudly reproached Hocus in the
servants' hall, saying that the compact had only
stood for things in reason, whereat Hocus took off
his coat and offered to "Take him on," and Pocus,
thinking better of it, managed for his share to
place in the household such relatives as he could,
namely, Cohen to whom he was in debt, Bern-
stein his brother-in-law and all his family of five
except little Hugh that blacked the boots for the
Priest, and so was already well provided for.

In this way poor Jack's fortune went to rack
and ruin. The clerks in his office in the City
(whom he now never saw) would telegraph to
169

On Nothing

him every making-up day that there was loss
that had to be met, but to these he always sent
the same reply, namely, " Sell stock and scrip to
the amount" ; and as that phrase was costly, he
made a code- word, to wit, "Prosperity," stand
for it. Till one day they sent word "There is
nothing left." Then he bethought him how to
live on credit, but this plan was very much ham-
pered by his habit of turning in a passion on all
those who did not continually praise him. Did
an honest man look in and say, " Jack, there is a
goat eating your cabbages," he would fly into a
rage and say, " You lie, Pro-Boer, my cabbages
are sacred, and Jove would strike the goat dead
that dared to eat them," or if a poor fellow should
touch his hat in the street and say, " Pardon, sir,
your buttons are awry," he would answer, " Off,
villain ! Zounds, knave ! Know you not that my
Divine buttons are the model of things ? " and so
forth, until he fell into a perfect lunacy.

But of how he came to selling tokens of little
leaden soldiers at a penny in front of the Ex-
change, and of how at last he even fell to writing
for the papers, I will not tell you ; for, imprimis,
it has not happened yet, nor do I think it will,
and in the second place I am tired of writing.

170

On a Winged Horse and the Exile who
Rode Him ^> ^> ^> ^> ^>

T T so happened that one day I was riding my
^ horse Monster in the Berkshire Hills right up
above that White Horse which was dug they say
by this man and by that man, but no one knows
by whom ; for I was seeing England, a delightful
pastime, but a somewhat anxious one if one is
riding a horse. For if one is alone one can sleep
where one chooses and walk at one's ease, and
eat what God sends one and spend what one has;
but when one is responsible for any other being
(especially a horse) there come in a thousand
farradiddles, for of everything that walks on
earth, man (not woman— I use the word in the
restricted sense) is the freest and the most un-
happy.

Well, then, I was riding my horse and explor-
ing the Island of England, going eastward of a
summer afternoon, and I had so ridden along the
ridge of the hills for some miles when I came,
as chance would have it, upon a very extra-
ordinary being.

171

On Nothing

He was a man like myself, but his horse, which
was grazing by his side, and from time to time
snorting in a proud manner, was quite unlike my
own. This horse had all the strength of the
horses of Normandy, all the lightness, grace, and
subtlety of the horses of Barbary, all the con-
scious value of the horses that race for rich men,
all the humour of old horses that have seen the
world and will be disturbed by nothing, and all
the valour of young horses who have their
troubles before them, and race round in paddocks
attempting to defeat the passing trains. I say
all these things were in the horse, and expressed
by various movements of his body, but the list of
these qualities is but a hint of the way in which
he bore himself; for it was quite clearly apparent
as I came nearer and nearer to this strange pair
that the horse before me was very different (as
perhaps was the man) from the beings that in-
habit this island.

While he was different in all qualities that I
have mentioned — or rather in their combination
— he also differed physically from most horses
that we know, in this, that from his sides and
clapt along them in repose was growing a pair of
very fin© sedate and noble wings. So habited,
with such an expression and with such gestures
of his limbs, he browsed upon the grass of Berk-
172

On a Winged Horse

shire, which, if you except the grass of Sussex
and the grass perhaps of Hampshire, is the
sweetest grass in the world. I speak of the chalk-
grass ; as for the grass of the valleys, I would
not eat it in a salad, let alone give it to a beast.

The man who was the companion rather than
the master of this charming animal sat upon a
lump of turf singing gently to himself and look-
ing over the plain of Central England, the plain
of the Upper Thames, which men may see from
these hills. He looked at it with a mixture of
curiosity, of memory, and of desire which was
very interesting but also a little pathetic to
watch. And as he looked at it he went on
crooning his little song until he saw me, when
with great courtesy he ceased and asked me in
the English language whether I did not desire
companionship.

I answered him that certainly I did, though
not more than was commonly the case with me,
for I told him that I had had companionship in
several towns and inns during the past few days,
and that I had had but a few hours' bout of
silence and of loneliness.

"Which period/' I added, "is not more than
sufficient for a man of my years, though I confess
that in early youth I should have found it in-
tolerable."

173

On Nothing

When I had said this he nodded gravely, and
I in my turn began to wonder of what age he
might be, for his eyes and his whole manner
were young, but there was a certain knowledge
and gravity in his expression and in the posture
of his body which in another might have betrayed
middle age. He wore no hat, but a great
quantity of his own hair, which was blown about
by the light summer wind upon these heights.
As he did not reply to me, I asked him a further
question, and said :

" I see you are gazing upon the plain. Have
you interests or memories in that view ? I ask
you without compunction so delicate a question
because it is as open to you to lie as it was to me
when I lied to them only yesterday morning, a
little beyond Wayland's Cave, telling them that
I had come to make sure of the spot where
St. George conquered the Dragon, though, in
truth, I had come for no such purpose, and tell-
ing them that my name was so-and-so, whereas it
was nothing of the kind."

He brightened up at this, and said : " You are
quite right in telling me that I am free to lie if I
choose, and I would be very happy to lie to you
if there were any purpose in so doing, but there
is none. I gaze upon this plain with the
memories that are common to all men when

174

On a Winged Horse

they gaze upon a landscape in which they have
had a part in the years recently gone by. That
is, the plain fills me with a sort of longing, and
yet I cannot say that the plain has treated me
unjustly. I have no complaint against it. God
bless the plain ! " After thinking a few moments,
he added : " I am fond of Wantage ; Wallingford
has done me no harm; Oxford gave me many
companions; I was not drowned at Dorchester
beyond the Little Hills ; and the best of men
gave me a true farewell in Faringdon yonder.
Moreover, Cumnor is my friend. Nevertheless, I
like to indulge in a sort of sadness when I look
over this plain."

I then asked him whither he would go next.

He answered: "My horse flies, and I am
therefore not bound to any particular track or
goal, especially in these light airs of summer
when all the heaven is open to me."

As he said this I looked at his mount and
noticed that when he shook his skin as horses will
do in the hot weather to rid themselves of flies,
he also passed a little tremor through his wings,
which were large and goose-grey, and, spreading
gently under that effort, seemed to give him
coolness.

"You have," said I, "a remarkable horse."

At this word he brightened up as men do when

175

On Nothing

something is spoken of that interests them nearly,
and he answered : " Indeed, I have ! and I am
very glad you like him. There is no such other
horse to my knowledge in England, though I
have heard that some still linger in Ireland and
in France, and that a few foals of the breed have
been dropped of late years in Italy, but I have
not seen them.

"How did you come by this horse?" said I;
" if it is not trespassing upon your courtesy to ask
you so delicate a question."

" Not at all ; not at all," he answered. " This
kind of horse runs wild upon the heaths of
morning and can be caught only by Exiles : and
I am one. . . . Moreover, if you had come three
or four years later than you have I should have
been able to give you an answer in rhyme, but I
am sorry to say that a pestilent stricture of the
imagination, or rather, of the compositive faculty
so constrains me that I have not yet finished the
poem I have been writing with regard to the dis-
covery and service of this beast."

" I have great sympathy with you," I answered,
"I have been at the ballade of Val-es-Dunes
since the year 1897 and I have not yet completed
it."

"Well, then," he said, "you will be patient
with me when I tell you that I have but three
176

On a Winged Horse

verses completed." Whereupon without further
invitation he sang in a loud and clear voice the
following verse :

If 8 ten years ago to-day you turned me out of doors

To cut my feet on flinty lands and stumble down the shores.

And I thought about the all in all. . . .

"The ' all in all/" I said, "is weak."
He was immensely pleased with this, and,
standing up, seized me by the hand. " I know
you now," he said, "for a man*who does indeed
write verse. I have done everything I could with
those three syllables, and by the grace of Heaven
I shall get them right in time. Anyhow, they
are the stop-gap of the moment, and with your
leave I shall reserve them, for I do not wish to put
words like s tumty turn ' into the middle of my
verse."

I bowed to him, and he proceeded :

And I thought about the all in all, and more than I could

tell;
But I caught a horse to ride upon and rode him very well.
He had flame behind the eyes of him and wings upon his

side —

And I ride ; and I ride !

"Of how many verses do you intend this
metrical composition to be ? " said I, with great
interest.

"I have sketched out thirteen," said he firmly,
" but I confess that the next ten are so embryonic
12 177

On Nothing

in this year 1907 that I cannot sing them in
public." He hesitated a moment, then added :
" They have many fine single lines, but there is
as yet no composition or unity about them." And
as he recited the words " composition " and
" unity" he waved his hand about like a man
sketching a cartoon.

"Give me, then," said I, "at any rate the last
two. For I had rapidly calculated how many
would remain of his scheme.

He was indeed pleased to be so challenged,
and continued to sing :

And once atop of Lamboume Down, towards the hill of

Clere,
1 saw the host of Heaven in rank and Michael with his

spear
And Turpin, out of Oascony, and Charlemagne the lord,
And Roland of the Marches with his hand upon his sword
For fear he should have need of it ; — and forty more

beside /
And I ride ; and I ride !
For you that took the all in all . . .

" That again is weak," I murmured.
" You are quite right," he said gravely, " I will
rub it out." Then he went on :

For you that took the all in all, the things you left were

three :
A loud Voice for singing, and keen Eyes to see,

And a spouting Well of Joy within that never yet was

dried !
And 1 ride !

178

On a Winged Horse

He sang this last in so fierce and so exultant
a manner that I was impressed more than I
cared to say, but not more than I cared to show.
As for him, he cared little whether I was im-
pressed or not; he was exalted and detached
from the world.

There were no stirrups upon the beast. He
vaulted upon it, and said as he did so :

" You have put me into the mood, and I must
get away ! "

And though the words were abrupt, he did
speak them with such a grace that I will always
remember them !

He then touched the flanks of his horse with
his heels (on which there were no spurs) and at
once beating the air powerfully twice or thrice
with its wings it spurned the turf of Berkshire
and made out southward and upward into the
sunlit air, a pleasing and a glorious sight.

In a very little while they had dwindled to
a point of light and were soon mixed with the
sky. But I went on more lonely along the crest
of the hills, very human, riding my horse Monster,
a mortal horse— I had almost written a human
horse. My mind was full of silence.

* * * * #

Some of those to whom I have related this
179

On Nothing

adventure criticise it by the method of questions
and of cross-examination proving that it could
not have happened precisely where it did ; show-
ing that I left the vale so late in the afternoon
that I could not have found this man and his
mount at the hour 1 say 1 did, and making all
manner of comments upon the exact way in
which the feathers (which they say are those of a
bird) grew out of the hide of the horse, and so
forth. There are no witnesses of the matter,
and I go lonely, for many people will not belie ve>
and those who do believe believe too much.

180

On a Man and His Burden *o *o

/^~\NCE there was a Man who lived in a House
^-^ at the Corner of a Wood with an excellent
landscape upon every side, a village about one
mile off, and a pleasant stream flowing over chalk
and full of trout, for which he used to fish.

This man was perfectly happy for some little
time, fishing for the trout, contemplating the
shapes of clouds in the sky, and singing all the
songs he could remember in turn under the high
wood, till one day he found, to his annoyance,
that there was strapped to his back a Burden.

However, he was by nature of a merry mood,
and began thinking of all the things he had read
about Burdens. He remembered an uncle of his
called Jonas (ridiculous name) who had pointed
out that Burdens, especially if borne in youth,
strengthen the upper deltoid muscle, expand the
chest, and give to the whole figure an erect and
graceful poise. He remembered also reading in
a book upon "Country Sports" that the bearing
of heavy weights is an excellent training for all
other forms of exercise, and produces a manly
181

On Nothing

and resolute carriage, very useful in golf, cricket
and Colonial wars. He could not forget his
mother's frequent remark that a Burden nobly
endured gave firmness, and at the same time
elasticity, to the character, and altogether he
went about his way taking it as kindly as he
could; but I will not deny that it annoyed him.

In a few days he discovered that during sleep,
when he lay down, the Burden annoyed him
somewhat less than at other times, though the
memory of it never completely left him. He
would therefore sleep for a very considerable
number of hours every day, sometimes retiring
to rest as early as nine o'clock, nor rising till
noon of the next day. He discovered also that
rapid and loud conversation, adventure, wine,
beer, the theatre, cards, travel, and so forth
made him forget his Burden for the time being,
and he indulged himself perhaps to excess in all
these things. But when the memory of his
Burden would return to him after each indul-
gence, whether working in his garden, or fishing
for trout, or on a lonely walk, he began re-
luctantly to admit that, on the whole, he felt
uncertainty and doubt as to whether the Burden
was really good for him.

In this unpleasing attitude of mind he had the
good fortune one day to meet with an excellent
182

On a Man and His Burden

Divine who inhabited a neighbouring parish, and
was possessed of no less a sum than £29,000.
This Ecclesiastic, seeing his whilom jocund Face
fretted with the Marks of Care, put a hand
gently upon his shoulder and said :

" My young friend, I easily perceive that you
are put out by this Burden which you bear upon
your shoulders. I am indeed surprised that one
so intelligent should take such a matter so ill.
What ! Do you not know that burdens are the
common lot of humanity ? I myself, though you
may little suspect it, bear a burden far heavier
than yours, though, true, it is invisible, and not
strapped on to my shoulders by gross material
thongs of leather, as is yours. The worthy
Squire of our parish bears one too ; and with
what manliness ! what ease ! what abnegation !
Believe me, these other Burdens of which you
never hear, and which no man can perceive, are
for that very reason the heaviest and the most
trying. Come, play the man ! Little by little
you will find that the patient sustenance of this
Burden will make you something greater,
stronger, nobler than you were, and you will
notice as you grow older that those who are most
favoured by the Unseen bear the heaviest of
such impediments."

With these last words recited in a solemn, and,

i«3

On Nothing

as it were, an inspired voice, the Hierarch lifted
an immense stone from the roadway, and placing
it on the top of the Burden, so as considerably
to add to its weight, went on his way.

The irritation of the Man was already consider-
able when his family called upon him — his mother,
that is, his younger sister, his cousin Jane, and
her husband — and after they had eaten some of
his food and drunk some of his beer they all sat
out in the garden with him and talked to him
somewhat in this manner :

"We really cannot pity you much, for ever
since you were a child whatever evil has hap-
pened to you has been your own doing, and
probably this is no different from the rest. . . .
What can have possessed you to get putting upon
your back an ugly, useless, and. dangerous great
Burden ! You have no idea how utterly out of
fashion you seem, stumbling about the roads like
a clodhopper, and going up and downstairs as
though you were on the treadmill. . . . For the
Lord's sake, at least have the decency to stay at
home and not to disgrace the family with your
miserable appearance ! "

Having said so much they rose, and adding to
his burden a number of leaden weights they had
brought with them, went on their way and left
him to his own thoughts.
184

On a Man and His Burden

You may well imagine that by this time the
irritation of the Man had gone almost past bear-
ing. He would quarrel with his best friends, and
they, in revenge, would put something more on
to the burden, till he felt he would break down.
It haunted his dreams and filled most of his
waking thoughts, and did all those things which
burdens have been discovered to do since the
beginning of time, until at last, though very re-
luctantly, he determined to be rid of it.

Upon hearing of this resolution his friends and
acquaintances raised a most fearful hubbub; some
talked of sending for the police, others of restrain-
ing him by force, and others again of putting
him into an asylum, but he broke away from
them all, and, making for the open road, went
out to see if he could not rid himself of this
abominable strain.

Of himself he could not, for the Burden was
so cunningly strapped on that his hands could
not reach it, and there was magic about it, and
a spell ; but he thought somewhere there must
be someone who could tell him how to cast it
away.

In the very first ale-house he came to he dis-
covered what is common to such places, namely,
a batch of politicians, who laughed at him very
loudly for not knowing how to get rid of bur-

185

On Nothing

dens. "It is done/' they said, "by the very
simple method of paying one of us to get on top
and undo the straps." This the man said he
would be very willing to do, whereat the poli-
ticians, having fought somewhat among them-
selves for the money, desisted at last in favour of
the most vulgar, who climbed on to the top of
the man's burden, and remained there, viewing
the landscape and commenting in general terms
upon the nature of public affairs, and when the
man complained a little, the politician did but
cuff him sharply on the side of the head to teach
him better manners.

Yet a little further on he met with a Scientist,
who told him in English Greek a clear and simple
method of getting rid of the burden, and, since
the Man did not seem to understand, he lost his
temper, and said, "Come, let me do it," and
climbed up by the side of the Politician. Once
there the Scientist confessed that the problem
was not so easy as he had imagined.

"But," said he, "now that I am here, you may
as well carry me, for it will be no great additional
weight, and meanwhile I will spend most of my
time in trying to set you free."

And the third man he met was a Philosopher
with quiet eyes ; a person whose very gestures
were profound. Taking by the hand the Man,
186

On a Man and His Burden

now fevered and despairing, he looked at him
with a mixture of comprehension and charity,
and he said :

" My poor fellow, your eyes are very wild and
staring and bloodshot. How little you under-
stand the world ! " Then he smiled gently, and
said, " Will you never learn ? "

And without another word he climbed up on
the top of the burden and seated himself by the
side of the other two.

After this the man went mad.

The last time I saw him he was wandering
down the road with his burden very much in-
creased. He was bearing not only these original
three, but some Kings and Tax-gatherers and
Schoolmasters, several Fortune-tellers, and an
Old Admiral. He was blind, and they were
goading him. But as he passed me he smiled
and gibbered a little, and told me it was in the
nature of things, and went on downward stum-
bling.

This Parable I think, as I re-read it, demands a Key,
lest it prove a stumbling-block to the muddle-headed and a
perplexity to the foolish. Here then is the Key : —

The Man is a Man. His Burden is that Burden
which men often feel themselves to be bearing as they
advance from youth to manhood. The Relatives (his
mother, his sister, his cousins, etc.) area Man 1 s Relatives

187

On Nothing

and the little weights they add to the Burden are the little
additional weights a Mans Relatives commonly add to
his burden. The Parson represents a Parson, and the
Politician, the Philosopher, the Scientist, the Kings,
the Tax-Gatherers and the Old Admiral, stand sever-
ally for an Old Admiral, Tax-Gatherers, Politicians,
Philosophers, Scientists and Kings.

The Politicians who fight for the Money represent
Politicians, and the Money they struggle for is the
Money for which Politicians do ceaselessly jostle and
barge one another. The Most Vulgar in whose favour
the others desist , represents the Most Vulgar who, among
Politicians, invariably obtains the largest share of what-
ever public money is going.

The Madness of the Man at the end, stands for the
Madness which does as a fact often fall upon Men late in
life if their Burdens are sufficiently increased.

I trust that with this Key the Parable will be clear to all.

188

On a Fisherman and the Quest of Peace

T N that part of the Thames where the river
begins to feel its life before it knows its name
the counties play with it upon either side. It is
not yet a boundary. The parishes upon the
northern bank are sometimes as truly Wiltshire
as those to the south. The men upon the farms
that look at each other over the water are close
neighbours ; they use the same words and the
way they build their houses is the same. Between
them runs the beginning of the Thames.

From the surface of the water the whole pros-
pect is sky, bounded by reeds ; but sitting up in
one's canoe one sees between the reeds distant
hills to the southward, or, on the north, trees in
groups, and now and then the roofs of a village ;
more often the lonely group of a steading with a
church close by.

Floating down this stream quite silently, but

rather swiftly upon a summer's day, I saw on the

bank to my right a very pleasant man. He was

perhaps a hundred yards or two hundred ahead

189

On Nothing

of me when I first caught sight of him, and per-
ceived that he was a clergyman of the Church of
England. He was fishing.

He was dressed in black, even his hat was
black (though it was of straw), but his collar was
of such a kind as his ancestors had worn, turned
down and surrounded by a soft white tie. His
face was clear and ruddy, his eyes honest, his
hair already grey, and he was gazing intently
upon the float ; for I will not conceal it that he
was fishing in that ancient manner with a float
shaped like a sea-buoy and stuck through with a
quill. So fish the yeomen to this day in Northern
France and in Holland. Upon such immutable
customs does an ancient State repose, which, if
they are disturbed, there is danger of its dis-
solution.

As I so looked at him and rapidly approached
him I took care not to disturb the water with my
paddle, but to let the boat glide far from his side,
until in the pleasure of watching him, I got fast
upon the further reeds. There she held and I,
knowing that the effort of getting her off would
seriously stir the water, lay still. Nor did I
speak to him, though he pleased me so much,
because a friend of mine in Lambourne had once
told me that of all things in Nature what a fish
most fears is the voice of a man.
190

On a Fisherman and the Quest of Peace

He, however, first spoke to me in a sort of
easy tone that could frighten no fish. He said
"Hullo!"

I answered him in a very subdued voice, for I
have no art where fishes are concerned, "Hullo ! "

Then he asked me, after a good long time,
whether his watch was right, and as he asked
me he pulled out his, which was a large, thick,
golden watch, and looked at it with anxiety and
dread. He asked me this, I think, because I
must have had the look of a tired man fresh from
the towns, and with the London time upon him,
and yet I had been for weeks in no town larger
than Cricklade : moreover, I had no watch. Since,
none the less, it is one's duty to uplift, sustain,
and comfort all one's fellows I told him that his
watch was but half a minute fast, and he put it
back with a greater content than he had taken
it out ; and, indeed, anyone who blames me for
what I did in so assuring him of the time should
remember that I had other means than a watch
for judging it. The sunlight was already full of
old kindness, the midges were active, the shadow
of the reeds on the river was of a particular
colour, the haze of a particular warmth ; no one
who had passed many days and nights together
sleeping out and living out under this rare
summer could mistake the hour.
191

On Nothing

In a little while I asked him whether he had
caught any fish. He said he had not actually
caught any, but that he would have caught
several but for accidents, which he explained to
me in technical language. Then he asked me
in his turn where I was going to that evening.
I said I had no object before me, that I would
sleep when I felt sleepy, and wake when I felt
wakeful, and that I would so drift down Thames
till I came to anything unpleasant, when it was
my design to leave my canoe at once, to tie it up
to a post, and to go off to another place, " for,"
I told him, " I am here to think about Peace, and
to see if She can be found." When I said this
his face became moody, and, as though such
portentous thoughts required action to balance
them, he strained his line, lifted his float smartly
from the water (so that I saw the hook flying
through the air with a quarter of a worm upon
it), and brought it down far up the stream. Then
he let it go slowly down again as the water
carried it, and instead of watching it with his
steady and experienced eyes he looked up at me
and asked me if, as yet, I had come upon any
clue to Peace, that I expected to find Her be-
tween Cricklade and Bablock Hythe. I answered
that I did not exactly expect to find Her, that I
had come out to think about Her, and to find out
192

On a Fisherman and the Quest of Peace

whether She could be found. I told him that
often and often as I wandered over the earth I
had clearly seen Her, as once in Auvergne by
Pont-Gibaud, once in Terneuzen, several times
in Hazlemere, Hampstead, Clapham, and other
suburbs, and more often than I could tell in the
Weald : " but seeing Her," said I, " is one thing
and holding Her is another. I hardly propose to
follow all Her ways, but I do propose to consider
Her nature until I know so much as to be able to
discover Her at last whenever I have need, for
I am convinced by this time that nothing else
is worth the effort of a man . . . and I think I
shall achieve my object somewhere between here
and Bablock Hythe."

He told me without interest that there was
nothing attractive in the pursuit or in its real-
isation.

I answered with equal promptitude that the
whole of attraction was summed up in it : that to
nothing else did we move by nature, and to
nothing else were we drawn but to Peace. I
said that a completion and a fulfilment were
vaguely demanded by a man even in very early
youth, that in manhood the desire for them
became a passion and in early middle age so
overmastering and natural a necessity that all
who turned aside from it and attempted to forget

13 x 93

On Nothing

it were justly despised by their fellows and were
some of them money-makers, some of them
sybarites, but all of them perverted men, whose
hard eyes, weak mouths, and fear of every trial
sufficiently proved the curse that was upon them.
I told him as heatedly as one can speak lying
back in a canoe to a man beyond a little river
that he, being older than I, should know that
everything in a full man tended towards some
place where expression is permanent and secure ;
and then I told him that since I had only seen
such a place far off as it were, but never lived
in, I had set forth to see if I might think out
the way to it, "and I hope/' I said, "to finish
the problem not so far down as Bablock Hythe,
but nearer by, towards New Bridge or even
higher, by Kelmscott."

He asked me, after a little space, during
which he took off the remnant of the worm and
replaced it by a large new one, whether when
I said "- Peace" I did not really mean "Har-
mony."

At this phrase a suspicion rose in my mind;
it seemed to me that I knew the school that had
bred him, and that he and I should be ac-
quainted. So I was appeased and told him I did
not mean Harmony, for Harmony suggested that
we had to suit ourselves to the things around us
194

On a Fisherman and the Quest of Peace

or to get suited to them. I told him what I was
after was no such German Business, but some-
thing which was Fruition and more than Fruition
— full power to create and at the same time to
enjoy, a co-existence of new delight and of
memory, of growth, and yet of foreknowledge
and an increasing reverence that should be in-
creasingly upstanding, and high hatred as well
as high love justified ; for surely this Peace is not
a lessening into which we sink, but an enlarge-
ment which we merit and into which we rise
and enter — "and this," I ended, "I am deter-
mined to obtain before I get to Bablock Hythe."

He shook his head determinedly and said my
quest was hopeless.

"Sir," said I, "are you acquainted with the
Use of Sarum ?"

"1 have read it," he said, "but I do not
remember it well." Then, indeed, indeed I
knew that he was of my own University and of
my own college, and my heart warmed to him as
I continued :

"It is in Latin; but, after all, that was the
custom of the time."

"Latin," he answered, "was in the Middle
Ages a universal tongue."

"Do you know," said I, "that passage which
begins ' Illam Pacem ' ?"

195

On Nothing

At this moment the float, which I had almost
forgotten but which he in the course of our
speeches had more and more remembered, began
to bob up and down violently, and, if I may so
express myself, the Philosopher in him was sud-
denly swamped by the Fisherman. He struck
with the zeal and accuracy of a conqueror ; he
did something dexterous with his rod, flourished
the line and landed a magnificent— ah ! There
the whole story fails, for what on earth was the
fish?

Had it been a pike or a trout I could have told
it, for I am well acquainted with both ; but this
fish was to me as a human being is to a politician:
this fish was to me unknown. ...

196

On a Hermit whom I knew <^y <^y

T N a valley of the Apennines, a little [before it
A was day, I went down by the side of a torrent
wondering where I should find repose ; for it was
now some hours since I had given up all hope of
discovering a place for proper human rest and for
the passing of the night, but at least I hoped to
light upon a dry bed of sand under some over-
hanging rock, or possibly of pine needles beneath
closely woven trees, where one might get sleep
until the rising of the sun.

As I still trudged, half expectant and half
careless, a man came up behind me, walking
quickly as do mountain men : for throughout the
world (I cannot tell why) I have noticed that the
men of the mountains walk quickly and in a
sprightly manner, arching the foot, and with a
light and general gait as though the hills were
waves and as though they were in thought
springing upon the crests of them. This is true
of all mountaineers. They are but few.

This man, I say, came up behind me and asked
197

On Nothing

me whether 1 were going towards a certain town
of which he gave me the name, but as I had not
so much as heard of this town I told him I knew
nothing of it. 1 had no map, for there was no
good map of that district, and a bad map is
worse than none. I knew the names of no towns
except the large towns on the coast. So I said
to him :

" I cannot tell anything about this town, I am
not making towards it. But I desire to reach
the sea coast, which I know to be many hours
away, and 1 had hoped to sleep overnight under
some roof or at least in some cavern, and to
start with the early morning ; but here I am, at
the end of the night, without repose and won-
dering whether I can go on."

He answered me :

" It is four hours to the sea coast, but before
you reach it you will find a lane branching to the
right, and if you will go up it (for it climbs the
hill) you will find a hermitage. Now by the
time you are there the hermit will be risen."

" Will he be at his prayers ? " said I.

"He says no prayers to my knowledge," said
my companion lightly; "for he is not a hermit
of that kind. Hermits are many and prayers are
few. But you will find him bustling about, and
he is a very hospitable man. Now as it so hap-
198

On a Hermit whom I knew

pens that the road to the sea coast bends here
round along the foot of the hills, you will, in his
company, perceive the port below you and the
populace and the high road, and yet you will be
saving a good hour in distance of time, and will
have ample rest before reaching your vessel, if
it is a vessel indeed that you intend to take."

When he had said these things I thanked him
and gave him a bit of sausage and went along
my way, for as he had walked faster than me
before our meeting and while I was still in the
dumps, so now I walked faster than him, having
received good news.

All happened just as he had described. The
dawn broke behind me over the noble but sedate
peaks of the Apennines ; it first defined the
heights against the growing colours of the sun,
it next produced a general warmth and geniality
in the air about me ; it last displayed the down-
ward opening of the valley, and, very far off, a
plain that sloped towards the sea.

Invigorated by the new presence of the day
I went forward more rapidly, and came at last
to a place where a sculptured panel made out of
marble, very clever and modern, and representing
a mystery, marked the division between two
ways ; and I took the lane to my right as my
companion of the night hours had advised me.
199

On Nothing

For perhaps a mile or a little more the lane
rose continually between rough walls intercepted
by high banks of thorn, with here and there a
vineyard, and as it rose one had between the
breaches of the wall glimpses of an ever-growing
sea : for, as one rose, the sea became a broader
and a broader belt, and the very distant islands,
which at first had been but little clouds along
the horizon, stood out and became parts of the
landscape, and, as it were, framed all the bay.

Then at last, when I had come to the height
of the hill, to where it turned a corner and ran
level along the escarpment of the cliffs that
dominated the sea plain, I saw below me a con-
siderable stretch of country, between the fall of
the ground and the distant shore, and under the
daylight which was now full and clear one could
perceive that all this plain was packed with an
intense cultivation, with houses, happiness and
men.

Far off, a little to the northward, lay the mass
of a town ; and stretching out into the Mediter-
ranean with a gesture of command and of desire
were the new arms of the harbour.

To see such things filled me with a complete

content. I know not whether it be the effect

of long vigil, or whether it be the effect of

contrast between the darkness and the light, but

200

On a Hermit whom I knew

certainly to come out of a lonely night spent on
the mountains, down with the sunlight into the
civilisation of the plain, is, for any man that cares
to undergo the suffering and the consolation, as
good as any experience that life affords. Hardly
had I so conceived the view before me when
I became aware, upon my right, of a sort of
cavern, or rather a little and carefully minded
shrine, from which a greeting proceeded.

I turned round and saw there a man of no
great age and yet of a venerable appearance.
He was perhaps fifty-five years old, or possibly a
little less, but he had let his grey-white hair
grow longish and his beard was very ample and
fine. It was he that had addressed me. He sat
dressed in a long gown in a modern and rather
luxurious chair at a low long table of chestnut
wood, on which he had placed a few books, which
I saw were in several languages and two of them
not only in English, but having upon them the
mark of an English circulating library which did
business in the great town at our feet. There
was also upon the table a breakfast ready of
white bread and honey, a large brown coffee-pot,
two white cups, and some goat's milk in a bowl
of silver. This meal he asked me to share.

" It is my custom," he said, " when I see a
traveller coming up my mountain road to get out
201

On Nothing

a cup and a plate for him, or, if it is midday, a
glass. At evening, however, no one ever comes."

"Why not?" said I.

"Because," he answered, "this lane goes but
a few yards further round the edge of the cliff,
and there it ends in a precipice ; the little plat-
form where we are is all but the end of the way.
Indeed, I chose it upon that account, seeing,
when I first came here, that from its height and
isolation it was well fitted for my retreat."

I asked him how long ago that was, and he
said nearly twenty years. For all that time, he
added, he had lived there, going down into the
plain but once or twice in a season and having
for his rare companions those who brought him
food and the peasants on such days as they toiled
up to work at their plots towards the summit ;
also, from time to time, a chance traveller like
myself. But these, he said, made but poor com-
panions, for they were usually such as had missed
their way at the turning and arrived at that high
place of his out of breath and angry. I assured
him that this was not my case, for a man had
told me in the night how to find his hermitage
and I had come of set purpose to see him. At
this he smiled.

We were now seated together at table eating
and talking so, when I asked him whether he had
202

On a Hermit whom I knew

a reputation for sanctity and whether the people
brought him food. He answered with a little
hesitation that he had a reputation, he thought,
for necromancy rather than anything else, and
that upon this account it was not always easy to
persuade a messenger to bring him the books in
French and English which he ordered from below,
though these were innocent enough, being, as
a rule, novels written by women or academicians,
records of travel, the classics of the Eighteenth
Century, or the biographies of aged statesmen.
As for food, the people of the place did indeed
bring it to him, but not, as in an idyll, for
courtesy ; contrariwise, they demanded heavy
payment, and his chief difficulty was with bread ;
for stale bread was intolerable to him. In the
matter of religion he would not say that he had
none, but rather that he had several religions ;
only at this season of the year, when everything
was fresh, pleasant and entertaining, he did not
make use of any of them, but laid them all
aside. As this last saying of his had no meaning
for me I turned to another matter and said to
him :

"In any solitude contemplation is the chief
business of the soul. How, then, do you, who
say you practise no rites, fill up your loneliness
here ? "

203

On Nothing

In answer to this question he became more
animated, spoke with a sort of laugh in his
voice, and seemed as though he were young again
and as though my question had aroused a whole
lifetime of good memories.

"My contemplation/' he said, not without
large gestures, " is this wide and prosperous plain
below : the great city with its harbour and cease-
less traffic of ships, the roads, the houses build-
ing, the fields yielding every year to husbandry,
the perpetual activities of men. I watch my
kind and I glory in them, too far off to be dis-
turbed by the friction of individuals, yet near
enough to have a daily companionship in the
spectacle of so much life. The mornings, when
they are all at labour, I am inspired by their
energy ; in the noons and afternoons I feel a
part of their patient and vigorous endurance ;
and when the sun broadens near the rim of the
sea at evening, and all work ceases, I am filled
with their repose. The lights along the harbour
front in the twilight and on into the darkness
remind me of them when I can no longer see
their crowds and movements, and so does the
music which they love to play in their recreation
after the fatigues of the day, and the distant
songs which they sing far into the night.

* * * * *

204

On a Hermit whom I knew

" I was about thirty years of age, and had seen
(in a career of diplomacy) many places and men ;
I had a fortune quite insufficient for a life among
my equals. My youth had been, therefore,
anxious, humiliated, and worn when, upon a
feverish and unhappy holiday taken from the
capital of this State, I came by accident to the
cave and platform which you see. It was one of
those days in which the air exhales revelation,
and I clearly saw that happiness inhabited the
mountain corner. I determined to remain for
ever in so rare a companionship, and from that
day she has never abandoned me. For a little
while I kept a touch with the world by purchasing
those newspapers in which I was reported shot
by brigands or devoured by wild beasts, but the
amusement soon wearied me, and now I have
forgotten the very names of my companions/'

We were silent then until 1 said : "But some
day you will die here all alone."

"And why not?" he answered calmly. "It
will be a nuisance for those who find me, but I
shall be indifferent altogether."

" That is blasphemy," says I.

"So says the priest of St. Anthony," he imme-
diately replied — but whether as a reproach, an
argument, or a mere commentary I could not
discover.

205

On Nothing

In a little while he advised me to go down to
the plain before the heat should incommode my
journey. I left him, therefore, reading a book of
Jane Austen's, and I have never seen him since.

Of the many strange men I have met in my
travels he was one of the most strange and not
the least fortunate. Every word I have written
about him is true.

206

On an Unknown Country ^> ^ o

'"PEN years ago, I think, or perhaps a little less
or perhaps a little more, I came in the
Euston Road — that thoroughfare of Empire —
upon a young man a little younger than myself
whom I knew, though I did not know him very
well. It was drizzling and the second-hand book-
sellers (who are rare in this thoroughfare) were
beginning to put out the waterproof covers over
their wares. This disturbed my acquaintance,
because he was engaged upon buying a cheap
book that should really satisfy him.

Now this was difficult, for he had no hobby, and
the book which should satisfy him must be one that
should describe or summon up, or, it is better to
say, hint at — or, the theologians would say, reveal,
or the Platonists would say recall — the Unknown
Country, which he thought was his very home.

I had known his habit of seeking such books

for two years, and had half wondered at it and

half sympathised. It was an appetite partly

satisfied by almost any work that brought to him

207

On Nothing

the vision of a place in the mind which he had
always intensely desired, but to which, as he had
then long guessed, and as he is now quite certain,
no human paths directly lead. He would buy
with avidity travels to the moon and to the
planets, from the most worthless to the best. He
loved Utopias and did not disregard even so
prosaic a category as books of real travel, so long
as by exaggeration or by a glamour in the style
they gave him a full draught of that drug which
he desired. Whether this satisfaction the young
man sought was a satisfaction in illusion (I have
used the word " drug " with hesitation), or whether
it was, as he persistently maintained, the satisfac-
tion of a memory, or whether it was, as I am
often tempted to think, the satisfaction of a thirst
which will ultimately be quenched in every
human soul I cannot tell. Whatever it was, he
sought it with more than the appetite with which
a hungry man seeks food. He sought it with
something that was not hunger but passion.

That evening he found a book.

It is well known that men purchase with diffi-
culty second-hand books upon the stalls, and that
in some mysterious way the sellers of these books
are content to provide a kind of library for the
poorer and more eager of the public, and a
library admirable in this, that it is accessible upon
208

On an Unknown Country

every shelf and exposes a man to no control,
except that he must not steal, and even in this it
is nothing but the force of public law that inter-
feres. My friend therefore would in the natural
course of things have dipped into the book and
left it there ; but a better luck persuaded him.
Whether it was the beginning of the rain or a
sudden loneliness in such terrible weather and in
such a terrible town, compelling him to seek a
more permanent companionship with another
mind, or whether it was my sudden arrival and
shame lest his poverty should appear in his refus-
ing to buy the book — whatever it was, he bought
that same. And since he bought the Book I
also have known it and have found in it, as he
did, the most complete expression that I know of
the Unknown Country, of which he was a citizen
— oddly a citizen, as I then thought, wisely as I
now conceive.

All that can best be expressed in words should
be expressed in verse, but verse is a slow thing to
create ; nay, it is not really created : it is a
secretion of the mind, it is a pearl that gathers
round some irritant and slowly expresses the very
essence of beauty and of desire that has lain long,
potential and unexpressed, in the mind of the
man who secretes it. God knows that this Un-
known Country has been hit off in verse a
14 209

On Nothing

hundred times. If I were perfectly sure of my
accents I would quote two lines from the Odyssey
in which the Unknown Country stands out as
clear as does a sudden vision from a mountain
ridge when the mist lifts after a long climb and
one sees beneath one an unexpected and glorious
land ; such a vision as greets a man when he
comes over the Saldeu into the simple and
secluded Republic of the Andorrans. Then, again,
the Germans in their idioms have flashed it out,
I am assured, for I remember a woman telling me
that there was a song by Schiller which exactly
gave the revelation of which I speak. In English,
thank Heaven, emotion of this kind, emotion
necessary to the life of the soul, is very abun-
dantly furnished. As, who does not know the
lines :

Blessed with that which is not in the word
Of man nor his conception : Blessed Land !

Then there is also the whole group of glimpses
which Shakespeare amused himself by scattering
as might a man who had a great oak chest full of
jewels and who now and then, out of kindly fun,
poured out a handful and gave them to his guests.
I quote from memory, but 1 think certain of the
lines run more or less like this :

Look how the dawn in russet mantle clad
Stands on the steep of yon high eastern hill.

219

On an Unknown Country

And again :

Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

Which moves me to digress.. . . . How on earth
did any living man pull it off as well as that ? I
remember arguing with a man who very genuinely
thought the talent of Shakespeare was exagger-
ated in public opinion, and discovering at the end
of a long wrangle that he was not considering
Shakespeare as a poet. But as a poet, then, how
on earth did he manage it ?

Keats did it continually, especially in the
Hyperion. Milton does it so well in the Fourth
Book of Paradise Lost that I defy any man of a
sane understanding to read the whole of that
book before going to bed and not to wake up
next morning as though he had been on a journey.
William Morris does it, especially in the verses
about a prayer over the corn ; and as for Virgil,
the poet Virgil, he does it continually like a man
whose very trade it is. Who does not remember
the swimmer who saw Italy from the top of the
wave ?

Here also let me digress. How do the poets
do it ? (I do not mean where do they get their
power, as I was asking just now of Shakespeare,
but how do the words, simple or complex, pro-
duce that effect ?) Very often there is not any
211

On Nothing

adjective, sometimes not any qualification at all :
often only one subject with its predicate and its
statement and its object. There is never any
detail of description, but the scene rises, more
vivid in colour, more exact in outline, more
wonderful in influence, than anything we can see
with our eyes, except perhaps those things we
see in the few moments of intense emotion which
come to us, we know not whence, and expand
out into completion and into manhood.

Catullus does it. He does it so powerfully in
the opening lines of

Vesper adest ...

that a man reads the first couplet of that Hy-
meneal, and immediately perceives the Apen-
nines.

The nameless translator of the Highland song
does it, especially when he advances that battering

lme And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

They all do it, bless their hearts, the poets,
which leads me back again to the mournful re-
flection that it cannot be done in prose. . . .

Little friends, my readers, I wish it could be
done in prose, for if it could, and if I knew
how to do it, I would here present to you that
Unknown Country in such a fashion that every
landscape which you should see henceforth would

On an Unknown Country

be transformed, by the appearing through it, the
shining and uplifting through it, of the Unknown
Country upon which reposes this tedious and re-
petitive world.

Now you may say to me that prose can do it,
and you may quote to me the end of the Pilgrims
Progress, a very remarkable piece of writing. Or,
better still, as we shall be more agreed upon it,
the general impression left upon the mind by
the book which set me writing — Mr. Hudson's
Crystal Age, I do not deny that prose can do it,
but when it does it, it is hardly to be called
prose, for it is inspired. Note carefully the
passages in which the trick is worked in prose
(for instance, in the story of Ruth in the Bible,
where it is done with complete success), you will
perceive an incantation and a spell. Indeed this
same episode of Ruth in exile has inspired two
splendid passages of European verse, of which
it is difficult to say which is the more national,
and therefore the greatest, Victor Hugo's in
the Legende des Siecles or Keats's astounding four
lines.

There was a shepherd the other day up at
Findon Fair who had come from the east by
Lewes with sheep, and who had in his eyes that
213

On Nothing

reminiscence of horizons which makes the eyes of
shepherds and of mountaineers different from the
eyes of other men. He was occupied when I
came upon him in pulling Mr. Fulton's sheep by
one hind leg so that they should go the way they
were desired to go. It happened that day that
Mr. Fulton's sheep were not sold, and the shep-
herd went driving them back through Findon
Village, and up on to the high Downs. I went
with him to hear what he had to say; for shep-
herds talk quite differently from other men.
And when we came on to the shoulder of
Chanctonbury and looked down upon the Weald,
which stretched out like the Plains of Heaven,
he said to me : " I never come here but it seems
like a different place down below, and as though
it were not the place where I have gone afoot
with sheep under the hills. It seems different
when you are looking down at it." He added
that he had never known why. Then I knew
that he, like myself, was perpetually in percep-
tion of the Unknown Country, and I was very
pleased. But we did not say anything more to
each other about it until we got down into Steyn-
ing. There we drank together and we still said
nothing more about it, so that to this day all we
know of the matter is what we knew when we
started, and what you knew when I began to
214

On an Unknown Country

write this, and what you are now no further in-
formed upon, namely, that there is an Unknown
Country lying beneath the places that we know,
and appearing only in moments of revelation.

Whether we shall reach this country at last or
whether we shall not, it is impossible to deter-

215

On a Faery Castle ^^ *^> ^ ^

A WOMAN whose presence in English letters
will continue to increase wrote of a cause to
which she had dedicated her life that it was like
that Faery Castle of which men became aware
when they wandered upon a certain moor. In
that deserted place (the picture was taken from
the writings of Sir Walter Scott) the lonely
traveller heard above him a noise of bugles in
the air, and thus a Faery Castle was revealed ;
but again, when the traveller would reach it, a
doom comes upon him, and in the act of its
attainment it vanishes away.

We are northern, full of dreams in the dark-
ness ; this Castle is caught in glimpses, a misty
thing. It is seen a moment — then it mixes once
again with the mist of our northern air, and
when that mist has lifted from the heath there
is nothing before the watcher but a bare upland
open to the wind and roofed only by hurrying
cloud. Yet in the moment of revelation most
certainly the traveller perceived it, and the call
217

On Nothing

of its bugle-guard was very clear. He continues
his way perceiving only the things he knows —
trees bent by the gale, rude heather, the gravel
of the path, and mountains all around. In that
landscape he has no companion ; yet he cannot
but be haunted, as he goes, by towers upon
which he surely looked, and by the sharp memory
of bugle-notes that still seem to startle his hearing.

In our legends of Western Europe this Castle
perpetually returns. It has been seen not only
on the highlands of Ireland, of Wales, of Brit-
tany, of the Asturias, of Normandy, and of
Auvergne, but in the plains also, and on those
river meadows where wealth comes so fast that
even simple men early forget the visions of the
hills. The imagination, or rather the speech, of
our race has created or recognised throughout
our territory this stronghold which was not alto-
gether of the world.

Queen Iseult, as she sat with Tristan in a
Castle Garden, towards the end of a summer
night, whispered to him : " Tristan, they say that
this Castle is Faery ; it is revealed at the sound
of a Trumpet, but presently it vanishes away,"
and as she said it the bugles rang dawn.

Raymond of Saragossa saw this Castle, also,
as he came down from the wooded hills after he
had found the water of life and was bearing it
218

On a Fafiry Castle

towards the plain. He saw the towers quite
clearly and also thought he heard the call upon
that downward road at whose end he was to
meet with Bramimonde. But he saw it thence
only, in the exaltation of the summits as he
looked over the falling forest to the plain and
the Sierra miles beyond. He saw it thence only.
Never after upon either bank of Ebro could he
come upon it, nor could any man assure him of
the way.

In the Story of Vales-Dunes, Hugh the For-
tinbras out of the Cotentin had a castle of this
kind. For when, after the battle, they count
the dead, the Priest finds in the sea-grass among
other bodies that of this old Lord. . . .

. . . and Hugh that trusted in his glass,

But rode not home the day ;
Whose title was the Fortinbras

With the Lords of his Array.

This was that old Hugh the Fortinbras who
had been Lord to the Priest's father, so that
when the battle was engaged the Priest watched
him from the opposing rank, and saw him fall,
far off, just as the line broke and before the men
of the Caux country had room to charge. It was
easy to see him, for he rode a high horse and
was taller than other Normans, and when his
horse was wounded. . . .
219

On Nothing

. . . The girth severed and the saddle swung

And he went down ;
He never more sang winter songs

In his High Town.

In his High Town that Faery is

And stands on Harcourt Lea ;

To summon him up his arrier-ban

His writ beyond the mountain ran.

My father was his serving-man ;
Although the farm was free.

Before the angry wars began
He was a friend to me !

In his High Town that Faery is
And stands on Harcourt bay ;

The Fisher driving through the night

Makes harbour by that castle height
And moors him till the day :

But with the broadening of the light
It vanishes away.

So the Faery Castle comes in by an illusion in
the Ballad of the Battle of Val-es-Dunes.

What is this vision which our race has so sym-
bolised or so seen and to which are thus attached
its oldest memories ? It is the miraculous moment
of intense emotion in which whether we are
duped or transfigured we are in touch with a
reality firmer than the reality of this world. The
Faery Castle is the counterpart and the example
of those glimpses which every man has enjoyed,
220

On a Faery Castle

especially in youth, and which no man even in
the dust of middle age can quite forget. In
these were found a complete harmony and satis-
faction which were not negative nor dependent
upon the absence of discord — such completion as
criticism may conceive — but as positive as colour
or as music, and clothed as it were in a living
body of joy.

The vision may be unreal or real, in either
case it is valid : if it is unreal it is a symbol of
the world behind the world. But it is no less a
symbol ; even if it is unreal it is a sudden seeing
of the place to which our faces are set during
this unbroken marching of years.

Once on the Sacramento River a little before
sunrise 1 looked eastward from a boat and saw
along the dawn the black edge of the Sierras.
The peaks were as sharp as are the Malvern from
the Cotswold, though they were days and days
away. They made a broad jagged band intensely
black against the glow of the sky. I drew them
so. A tiny corner of the sun appeared between
two central peaks : — at once the whole range
was suffused with glory. The sun was wholly
risen and the mountains had completely disap-
peared, — in the place where they had been was
the sky of the horizon.

At another time, also in a boat, I saw beyond

On Nothing

a spit of the Tunisian coast, as it seemed a flat
island. Through the heat, with which the air
trembled, was a low gleam of sand, a palm or
two, and, less certainly, the flats and domes of
a white native village. Our course, which was
to round the point, went straight for this island,
and, as we approached, it became first doubtful,
then flickering, then a play of light upon the
waves. It was a mirage, and it had melted into

the air.

* * * * *

There is a part of us, as all the world knows,
which is immixed with change and by change
only can live. There is another part which lies
behind motion and time, and that part is our-
selves. This diviner part has surely a stronghold
which is also an inheritance. It has a home
which perhaps it remembers and which certainly
it conceives at rare moments during our path
over the moor.

This is that Faery Castle. It is revealed at
the sound of a trumpet ; we turn our eyes, we
glance and we perceive it ; we strain to reach it
— in the very effort of our going the doom of
human labour falls upon us and it vanishes away.

It is real or unreal. It is unreal like that
island which I thought to see some miles from
Africa, but which was not truly there : for the

On a Fafiry Castle

ship when it came to the place that island had
occupied sailed easily over an empty sea. It is
real, like those high Sierras which I drew from
the Sacramento River at the turn of the night
and which were suddenly obliterated by the
rising sun.

Where the vision is but mirage, even there it is
a symbol of our goal ; where it stands fast and
true, for however brief a moment, it can illumine,
and should determine the whole of our lives.
For such sights are the manifestation of that
glory which lies permanent beyond the changing
of the world. Of such a sort are the young
passionate intentions to relieve the burden of
mankind, first love, the mood created by certain
strains of music, and— as I am willing to believe
— the Walls of Heaven.

223

On a Southern Harbour ^ ^^ ^*

HP HE ship had sailed northward in an even
manner and under a sky that was full of
stars, when the dawn broke and the full day
quickly broadened over the Mediterranean.
With the advent of the light the salt of the sea
seemed stronger, and there certainly arose a new
freshness in the following air ; but as yet no land
appeared. Until at last, seated as I was alone in
the fore part of the vessel, I clearly saw a small
unchanging shape far off before me, peaked upon
the horizon and grey like a cloud. This I
watched, wondering what its name might be,
who lived upon it, or what its fame was; for it
was certainly land.

I watched in this manner for some hours —
perhaps for two — when the island, now grown
higher, was so near that I could see trees upon
it ; but they were set sparsely, as trees are on a
dry land, and most of them seemed to be thorn
trees.

It was at this moment that a man who had
15 225

On Nothing

been singing to himself in a low tone aft came
up to me and told me that this island was called
the Island of Goats and that there were no men
upon it to his knowledge, that it was a lonely
place and worth little. But by this time there
had risen beyond the Island of Goats another
and much larger land.

It lay all along the north in a mountainous
belt of blue, and any man coming to it for the
first time or unacquainted with maps would have
said to himself: "I have found a considerable
place." And, indeed, the name of the island
indicates this, for it is called Majorca, "The
Larger Land." Towards this, past the Island of
Goats, and past the Strait, we continued to sail
with a light breeze for hours, until at last we
could see on this shore also sparse trees; but
most of them were olive trees, and they were
relieved with the green of cultivation up the
high mountain sides and with the white houses of
men.

The deck was now crowded with people, most
of whom were coming back to their own country
after an exile in Africa among un- Christian and
dangerous things. The little children who had
not yet known Europe, having been born beyond
the sea, were full of wonder ; but their parents,
who knew the shortness of human life and its
226

On a Southern Harbour

trouble, were happy because they had come back
at last and saw before them the known jetties
and the familiar hills of home. As I was sur-
rounded by so much happiness, I myself felt as
though I had come to the end of a long journey
and was reaching my own place, though I was, in
reality, bound for Barcelona, and after that up
northward through the Cerdagne, and after that
to Perigord, and after that to the Channel, and
so to Sussex, where all journeys end.

The harbour had about it that Mediterranean-
go-as-you-please which everywhere in the Mediter-
ranean distinguishes harbours. It was as though
the men of that sea had said : " It never blows
for long: let us build ourselves a rough refuge
and to-morrow sail away." We neared this
harbour, but we flew no flag and made no signal.
Beneath us the water was so clear that all one
need have done to have brought the vessel in if
one had not known the channel would have been
to lean over the side and to keep the boy at the
helm off the very evident shallows and the
crusted rocks by gestures of one's hands, for the
fairway was like a trench, deep and blue. So we
slid into Palma haven, and as we rounded the
pier the light wind took us first abeam and then
forward ; then we let go and she swung up and
was still. They lowered the sails.
227

On Nothing

The people who were returning were so full of
activity and joy that it was like a hive of bees ;
but I no longer felt this as I had felt their earlier
and more subdued emotion, for the place was no
longer distant or mysterious as it had been when
first its sons and daughters had come up on deck
to welcome it and had given me part of their
delight. It was now an evident and noisy town ;
hot, violent, and strong. The houses had about
them a certain splendour, the citizens upon the
quays a satisfied and prosperous look. Its streets,
where they ran down towards the sea, were
charmingly clean and cared for, and the architec-
ture of its wealthier mansions seemed to me at
once unusual and beautiful, for I had not yet
seen Spain. Each house, so far as I lould make
out from the water, was entered by a fine sculp
tured porch which gave into a cool courtyard
with arcades under it, and most of the larger
houses had escutcheons carved in stone upon
their walls.

But what most pleased me and also seemed
most strange was to see against the East a vast
cathedral quite Northern in outline, except for a
severity and discipline of which the North is
incapable save when it has steeped itself in the
terseness of the classics.

This monument was far larger than anything
228

On a Southern Harbour

in the town. It stood out separate from the
town and dominated it upon its seaward side,
somewhat as might an isolated hill, a shore
fortress of rock. It was almost bare of ornament;
its stones were very -carefully worked and closely
fitted, and little waves broke ceaselessly along
the base of its rampart. Landwards, a mass of
low houses which seemed to touch the body of
the building did but emphasise its height. When
I had landed I made at once for this cathedral,
and with every step it grew greater.

We who are of the North are accustomed: to
the enormous; we have unearthly sunsets and
the clouds magnify our hills. The Southern men
see nothing but misproportion in what is enor-
mous. They love to have things in order, and
violence in art is odious to them. This high and
dreadful roof had not been raised under the
influences of the island ; it had surely been
designed just after the re-conquest from the
Mohammedans, when a turbulent army, not only
of Gascons and Catalans, but of Normans also
and of Frisians, and of Rhenish men, had poured
across the water and had stormed the sea-walls.
On this account the cathedral had about it in its
sky-line and in its immensity, and in the Gothic
point of its windows, a Northern air. But in its
austerity and in its magnificence it was Spaniard.
229

On Nothing

As I passed the little porch of entry in the
side wall I saw a man. He was standing silent
and alone ; he was not blind and perhaps not
poor, and as I passed he begged the charity not
of money but of prayers. When I had entered
the cool and darkness of the nave, his figure still
remained in my mind, and I could not forget it.
I remembered the straw hat upon his head and
the suit of blue canvas which he wore, and the
rough staff of wood in his hand. I was especially
haunted by his expression, which was patient
and masqued as though he were enduring a pain
and chose to hide it.

The nave was empty. It was a great hollow
that echoed and re-echoed ; there were no shrines
and no lamps, and no men or women praying, and
therefore the figure at the door filled my mind
more and more, until I went out and asked him
if he was in need of money, of which at that
moment I had none. He answered that his
need was not for money but only for prayers.

" Why," said I, " do you need prayers ? "

He said it was because his fate was upon
him.

I think he spoke the truth. He was standing
erect and with dignity, his eyes were not dis-
turbed, and he repeatedly refused the alms of
passers-by.

230

On a Southern Harbour

"No one/ said I, " should yield to these
moods."

He answered nothing, but looked pensive like
a man gazing at a landscape and remembering
his life.

But it was now the hour when the ship was to
be sailing again, and I could not linger, though
I wished very much to talk more with him. I
begged him to name a shrine where a gift might
be of especial value to him. He said that he
was attached to no one shrine more than to any
other, and then I went away regretfully, remem-
bering how earnestly he had asked for prayers.

This was in Palma of Majorca not two years
ago. There are many such men, but few who
speak so humbly.

When I had got aboard again the ship sailed
out and rounded a lighthouse point and then
made north to Barcelona. The night fell, and
next morning there rose before us the winged
figures that crown the Custom House of that
port and are an introduction to the glories of
Spain.

231

On a Young Man and an Older Man

A YOUNG Man of my acquaintance having
passed his twenty-eighth birthday, and
wrongly imagining this date to represent the
Grand Climacteric, went by night in some pertur-
bation to an Older Man and spoke to him as
follows :

"Sir! I have intruded upon your leisure in
order to ask your advice upon certain matters."

The Older Man, whose thoughts were at that
moment intently set upon money, looked up in a
startled way and attempted to excuse himself,
suffering as he did from the delusion that the
Young Man was after a loan. But the Young
Man, whose mind was miles away from all such
trifling things, continued to press him anxiously
without so much as noticing that he had perturbed
his Senior.

"I have come, Sir/' said he, "to ask your
opinion, advice, experience, and guidance upon
something very serious which has entered into
my life, which is, briefly, that I feel myself to be
growing old."

233

On Nothing

Upon hearing this so comforting and so reason-
able a statement the Older Man heaved a pro-
found sigh of relief and turning to him a mature
and smiling visage (as also turning towards him
his person and in so doing turning his Polished
American Hickory Wood Office Chair), answered
with a peculiar refinement, but not without sad-
ness, " I shall be happy to be of any use I can " ;
from which order and choice of words the reader
might imagine that the Older Man was himself a
Colonial, like his chair. In this imagination the
reader, should he entertain it, would be deceived.

The Younger Man then proceeded, knotting
his forehead and putting into his eyes that
troubled look which is proper to virtue and to
youth :

" Oh, Sir ! I cannot tell you how things seem
to be slipping from me ! I smell less keenly and
taste less keenly, I enjoy less keenly and suffer
less keenly than I did. Of many things which I
certainly desired I can only say that I now desire
them in a more confused manner. Of certain
propositions in which I intensely believed I can
only say that I now see them interfered with and
criticised perpetually, not, as was formerly the
case, by my enemies, but by the plain observance
of life, and what is worse, I find growing in me a
habit of reflection for reflection's sake, leading

234

On a Young Man and an Older Man

nowhere — and a sort of sedentary attitude in
which I watch but neither judge nor support nor
attack any portion of mankind."

The Older Man, hearing this speech, con-
gratulated his visitor upon his terse and accurate
methods of expression, detailed to him the careers
in which such habits of terminology are valuable,
and also those in which they are a fatal fault.

" Having heard you," he said, "it is my advice
to you, drawn from a long experience of men, to
enter the legal profession, and, having entered it,
to supplement your income with writing occa-
sional articles for the more dignified organs of
the Press. But if this prospect does not attract
you (and, indeed, there are many whom it has
repelled) I would offer you as an alternative that
you should produce slowly, at about the rate of
one in every two years, short books compact of
irony, yet having running through them like a
twisted thread up and down, emerging, hidden,
and re-emerging in the stuff of your writing, a
memory of those early certitudes and even of
passion for those earlier revelations."

When the Older Man had said this he sat
silent for a few moments and then added gravely,
"But I must warn you that for such a career
you need an accumulated capital of at least
£30,000."

235

On Nothing

The Young Man was not comforted by advice
of this sort,, and was determined to make a kind
of war upon the doctrine which seemed to under-
lie it. He said in effect that if he could not be
restored to the pristine condition which he felt
to be slipping from him he would as lief stop
living.

On hearing this second statement the Older
Man became extremely grave.

"Young Man/' said he, "Young Man, consider
well what you are saying ! The poet Shakespeare
in his most remarkable effort, which, I need
hardly tell you, is the tragedy of Hamlet, or the
Prince of Denmark, has remarked that the thou-
sand doors of death stand open. I may be mis-
quoting the words, and if I am I do so boldly
and without fear, for any fool with a book at his
elbow can get the words right and yet not under-
stand their meaning. Let me assure you that the
doors of death are not so simply hinged, and that
any determination to force them involves the
destruction of much more than these light though
divine memories of which you speak ; they involve,
indeed, the destruction of the very soul which
conceives them. And let me assure you, not
upon my own experience, but upon that of those
who have drowned themselves imperfectly, who
have enlisted in really dangerous wars, or who
236

On a Young Man and an Older Man

have fired revolvers at themselves in a twisted
fashion with their right hands, that, quite apart
from that evil to the soul of which I speak, the
evil to the mere body in such experiments is so
considerable that a man would rather go to the
dentist than experience them. . . . You will
forgive me," he added earnestly, " for speaking in
this gay manner upon an important philosophical
subject, but long hours of work at the earning
of my living force me to some relaxation towards
the end of the day, and I cannot restrain a
frivolous spirit even in the discussion of such
fundamental things. . . . No, do not, as you put
it, 'stop living/ It hurts, and no one has the
least conception of whether it is a remedy. What
is more, the life in front of you will prove, after a
few years, as entertaining as the life which you
are rapidly leaving."

The Young Man caught on to this last phrase,
and said, "What do you mean by 'enter-
taining ' ? "

"1 intend," said the Older Man, "to keep my
advice to you in the note to which I think such
advice should be set. I will not burden it with
anything awful, nor weight an imperfect diction
with absolute verities in which I do indeed be-
lieve, but which would be altogether out of place
at this hour of the evening. I will not deny that

237

On Nothing

from eleven till one, and especially if one be de-
livering an historical, or, better still, a theological
lecture, one can without loss of dignity allude to
the permanent truth, the permanent beauty, and
the permanent security without which human
life wreathes up like mist and is at the best futile,
at the worst tortured. But you must remember
that you have come to me suddenly with a most
important question, after dinner, that I have but
just completed an essay upon the economic effect
of the development of the Manchurian coalfields,
and that (what is more important) all this talk
began in a certain key, and that to change one's
key is among the most difficult of creative actions.
. . . No, Young Man, I shall not venture upon
the true reply to your question."

On hearing this answer the Young Man began
to curse and to swear and to say that he had
looked everywhere for help and had never found
it ; that he was minded to live his own life and
to see what would come of it ; that he thought
the Older Man knew nothing of what he was
talking about, but was wrapping it all up in
words ; that he had clearly recognised in the
Older Man's intolerable prolixity several cliches
or ready-made phrases ; that he hoped on reach-
ing the Older Man's age he would not have been
so utterly winnowed of all substance as to talk so
238

On a Young Man and an Older Man

aimlessly ; and finally that he prayed God for a
personal development more full of justice, of life,
and of stuff than that which the Older Man
appeared to have suffered or enjoyed.

On hearing these words the Older Man leapt
to his feet (which was not an easy thing for him
to do) and as one overjoyed grasped the Younger
Man by the hand, though the latter very much
resented such antics on the part of Age.

"That is it! That is it!" cried the Older
Man, looking now far too old for his years. " If
I have summoned up in you that spirit I have
not done ill ! Get you forward in that mood and
when you come to my time of life you will be
as rotund and hopeful a fellow as I am myself."

But having heard these words the Young Man
left him in disgust.

The Older Man, considering all these things
as he looked into the fire when he was alone,
earnestly desired that he could have told the
Young Man the exact truth, have printed it, and
have produced a proper Gospel. But considering
the mountains of impossibility that lay in the
way of such public action, he sighed deeply and
took to the more indirect method. He turned to
his work and continued to perform his own duty
before God and for the help of mankind. This,
on that evening, was for him a review upon the

239

On Nothing

interpretation of the word haga in the Domes-
day Inquest. This kept him up till a quarter
past one, and as he had to take a train to New-
castle at eight next morning it is probable that
much will be forgiven him when things are
cleared.

240

On the Departure of a Guest ^> ^>

(Test ma Jeunesse qui s'en va.

Adieu/ la trte gente compagne —
Oncques ne suis moins gat pour qa
(Cest ma Jeunesse qui s'en va)
Et hn-lon-laire, et lon-lon-la

Peut-Stre perds ; peut-Stre gagne.
Cest ma Jeunesse qui s'en va.

(From the Author's MSS.

In the library of the Abbey of Theleme.)

Host: Well, Youth, I see you are about to
leave me, and since it is in the terms of your
service by no means to exceed a certain period
in my house, I must make up my mind to bid you
farewell.

Youth : Indeed, I would stay if I could ; but
the matter lies as you know in other hands, and
I may not stay.

Host : I trust, dear Youth, that you have
found all comfortable while you were my guest,
that the air has suited you and the company ?

Youth : I thank you, I have never enjoyed a
16 241

On Nothing

visit more ; you may say that I have been most
unusually happy.

Host : Then let me ring for the servant who
shall bring down your things.

Youth : I thank you civilly ! I have brought
them down already — see, they are here. I have
but two, one very large bag and this other small
one.

Host: Why, you have not locked the small
one ! See it gapes !

Youth {somewhat embarrassed) : .My dear Host
... to tell the truth ... I usually put it off
till the end of my visits . . . but the truth . . .
to tell the truth, my luggage is of two kinds.

Host : I do not see why that need so greatly
confuse you.

Youth {still more embarrassed) : But you see —
the fact is— I stay with people so long that — well,
that very often they forget which things are
mine and which belong to the house. . . . And
— well, the truth is that I have to take away
with me a number of things which . . . which,
in a word, you may possibly have thought your
own.

Host {coldly) : Oh !

Youth {eagerly) : Pray do not think the worse
of me — you know how strict are my orders.

Host {sadly) : Yes, I know ; you will plead
242

On the Departure of a Guest

that Master of yours, and no doubt you are right.
. . . But tell me, Youth, what are those things ?

Youth : They fill this big bag. But I am not
so ungracious as you think. See, in this little
bag, which I have purposely left open, are a
number of things properly mine, yet of which I
am allowed to make gifts to those with whom
I lingered — you shall choose among them, or if
you will, you shall have them all.

Host : Well, first tell me what you have
packed in the big bag and mean to take away.

Youth : I will open it and let you see. {He
unlocks it and pulh the things out.) I fear they are
familiar to you.

Host : Oh ! Youth ! Youth ! Must you take
away all of these ? Why, you are taking away,
as it were, my very self! Here is the love of
women, as deep and changeable as an opal ; and
here is carelessness that looks like a shower of
pearls. And here I see— Oh ! Youth, for shame !
— you are taking away that silken stuff which
used to wrap up the whole and which you once
told me had no name, but which lent to every-
thing it held plenitude and satisfaction. Without
it surely pleasures are not all themselves. Leave
me that at least.

Youth : No, I must take it, for it is not yours,
though from courtesy I forbore to tell you so

243

On Nothing

till now. These also go : Facility, the ointment ;
Sleep, the drug; Full Laughter, that tolerated
all follies. It was the only musical thing in the
house. And I must take — yes, I fear I must take
Verse.

Host : Then there is nothing left !

Youth : Oh ! yes ! See this little open bag
which you may choose from ! Feel it !

Host (lifting it) : Certainly it is very heavy, but
it rattles and is uncertain.

Youth : That is because it is made up of divers
things having no similarity; and you may take
all or leave all, or choose as you will. Here
(holding up a clout) is Ambition : Will you have
that? ...

Host (doubtfully) : I cannot tell. ... It has
been mine and yet . . . without those other
things ....

Youth (cheerfully) : Very well, I will leave it.
You shall decide on it a few years hence. Then,
here is the perfume Pride. Will you have that ?

Host : No ; I will have none of it. It is false
and corrupt, and only yesterday I was for throw-
ing it out of window to sweeten the air in my
room.

Youth : So far you have chosen well ; now
pray choose more.

Host: I will have this — and this — and this.

244

On the Departure of a Guest

I will take Health {takes it out of the hag), not
that it is of much use to me without those other
things, but I have grown used to it. Then I
will take this (takes out a plain steel purse and
chain), which is the tradition of my family, and
which I desire to leave to my son. I must have
it cleaned. Then I will take this {pulls out a
trinket), which is the Sense of Form and Colour.
1 am told it is of less value later on, but it is a
pleasant ornament. . . . And so, Youth, good-
bye.

Youth (with a mysterious smile) : Wait — I have
something else for you (he feels in his ticket
pocket) ; no less a thing {he feels again in his watch
pocket) than (he looks a trifle anxious and feels in his
waistcoat pockets) a promise from my Master,
signed and sealed, to give you back all 1 take
and more in Immortality ! (He feels in his hand-
kerchief pocket. )

Host: Oh! Youth!

Youth (still feeling) : Do not thank me ! It is
my Master you should thank. (Frowns.) Dear
me ! I hope I have not lost it ! (Feels in his trousers
pockets.)

Host (loudly) : Lost it ?

Youth (pettishly) : I did not say I had lost
it ! I said I hoped I had not . . . (feels in his
great-coat pocket, and pulls out an envelope). Ah !

245

On Nothing

Here it is ! (His face clouds over.) No, that is
the message to Mrs. George, telling her the time
has come to get a wig . . . (Hopelessly) : Do you
know I am afraid 1 have lost it! I am really
very sorry — I cannot wait. (He goes off.)

246

On Death <^ ^^ "^ <> <>

T KNEW a man once who made a great case of
Death, saying that he esteemed a country
according to its regard for the conception of
Death, and according to the respect which it
paid to that conception. He also said that he
considered individuals by much the same standard,
but that he did not judge them so strictly in the
matter, because (said he) great masses of men
are more permanently concerned with great
issues ; whereas private citizens are disturbed by
little particular things which interfere with their
little particular lives, and so distract them from
the general end.

This was upon a river called Boutonne, in
Vendee, and at the time I did not understand
what he meant because as yet I had had no
experience of these things. But this man to
whom I spoke had had three kinds of experience ;
first, he had himself been very probably the
occasion of Death in others, for he had been a
soldier in a war of conquest where the Europeans

247

On Nothing

were few and the Barbarians many ! secondly, he
had been himself very often wounded, and more
than once all but killed ; thirdly, he was at the
time he told me this thing an old man who must
in any case soon come to that experience or
catastrophe of which he spoke.

He was an innkeeper, the father of two
daughters, and his inn was by the side of the
river, but the road ran between. His face was
more anxiously earnest than is commonly the face
of a French peasant, as though he had suffered
more than do ordinarily that very prosperous,
very virile, and very self-governing race of men.
He had also about him what many men show who
have come sharply against the great realities,
that is, a sort of diffidence in talking of ordinary
things. I could see that in the matters of his
household he allowed himself to be led by
women. Meanwhile he continued to talk to me
over the table upon this business of Death, and as
he talked he showed that desire to persuade
which is in itself the strongest motive of interest
in any human discourse.

He said to me that those who affected to
despise the consideration of Death knew nothing
of it; that they had never seen it close and
might be compared to men who spoke of battles
when they had only read books about battles, or
248

On Death

who spoke of sea-sickness though they had never
seen the sea. This last metaphor he used with
some pride, for he had crossed the Mediterranean
from Provence to Africa some five or six times,
and had upon each occasion suffered horribly;
for, of course, his garrison had been upon the
edge of the desert, and he had been a soldier
beyond the Atlas. He told me that those who
affected to neglect or to despise Death were
worse than children talking of grown-up things,
and were more like prigs talking of physical
things of which they knew nothing.

I told him then that there were many such
men, especially in the town of Geneva. This,
he said, he could well believe, though he had
never travelled there, and had hardly heard the
name of the place. But he knew it for some
foreign town. He told me, also, that there were
men about in his own part of the world who
pretended that since Death was an accident like
any other, and, moreover, one as certain as
hunger or as sleep, it was not to be considered.
These, he said, were the worst debaters upon his
favourite subject.

Now as he talked in this fashion I confess that

I was very bored. I had desired to go on to

Angoul£me upon my bicycle, and I was at that

age when all human beings think themselves

249

On Nothing

immortal. I had desired to get off the main
high road into the hills upon the left, to the east
of it, and I was at an age when the cessation of
mundane experience is not a conceivable thing.
Moreover, this innkeeper had been pointed out
to me as a man who could give very useful infor-
mation upon the nature of the roads I had to
travel, and it had never occurred to me that he
would switch me off after dinner upon a hobby
of his own. To-day, after a wider travel, I know
well that all innkeepers have hobbies, and that an
abstract or mystical hobby of this sort is amongst
the best with which to pass an evening. But no
matter, I am talking of then and not now. He kept
me, therefore, uninterested as I was, and con-
tinued :

" People who put Death away from them, who
do not neglect or despise it but who stop think-
ing about it, annoy me very much. We have in
this village a chemist of such a kind. He will
have it that, five minutes afterwards, a man
thinks no more about it." Having gone so far,
the innkeeper, clenching his hands and fixing
me with a brilliant glance from his old eyes,
said :

" With such men I will have nothing to do ! "
Indeed, that his chief subject should be treated
in such a fashion was odious to him, and rightly,
250

On Death

for of the half-dozen things worth strict con-
sideration, there is no doubt that his hobby was
the chief, and to have one's hobby vulgarly
despised is intolerable.

The innkeeper then went on to tell me that so
far as he could make out it was a man's business
to consider this subject of Death continually, to
wonder upon it, and, if he could, to extract its
meaning. Of the men I had met so far in life,
only the Scotch and certain of the Western
French went on in this metaphysical manner :
thus a Breton, a Basque, and a man in Eccle-
fechan (I hope 1 spell it right) and another in
Jedburgh had already each of them sent me to
my bed confused upon the matter of free will.
So this Western innkeeper refused to leave his
thesis. It was incredible to him that a Sentient
Being who perpetually accumulated experience,
who grew riper and riper, more and more full of
such knowledge as was native to himself and
complementary to his nature, should at the very
crisis of his success in all things intellectual and
emotional, cease suddenly. It was further an
object to him of vast curiosity why such a being,
since a future was essential to it, should find that
future veiled.

He presented to me a picture of men per-
petually passing through a field of vision out of
251

On Nothing

the dark and into the dark. He showed me
these men, not growing and falling as fruits do
(so the modern vulgar conception goes) but alive
throughout their transit : pouring like an un-
broken river from one sharp limit of the horizon
whence they entered into life to that other sharp
limit where they poured out from life, not through
decay, but through a sudden catastrophe.

"I," said he, " shall die, I do suppose, with a
full consciousness of my being and with a great
fear in my eyes. And though many die decrepit
and senile, that is not the normal death of men,
for men have in them something of a self-creative
power, which pushes them on to the further
realisation of themselves, right up to the edge of
their doom."

I put his words in English after a great many
years, but they were something of this kind, for
he was a metaphysical sort of man.

It was now near midnight, and I could bear
with such discussions no longer ; my fatigue was
great and the hour at which I had to rise next
day was early. It was, therefore, in but a drowsy
state that I heard him continue his discourse.
He told me a long story of how he had seen one
day a company of young men of the New Army,
the conscripts, go marching past his house along
the river through a driving snow. He said that

252

On Death

first he heard them singing long before he saw
them, that then they came out like ghosts for a
moment through the drift, that then in the half
light of the winter dawn they clearly appeared,
all in step for once, swinging forward, muffled in
their dark blue coats, and still singing to the lift of
their feet ; that then on their way to the seaport,
they passed again into the blinding scurry of the
snow, that they seemed like ghosts again for a
moment behind the veil of it, and that long after
they had disappeared their singing could still be
heard.

By this time I was most confused as to what
lesson he would convey, and sleep had nearly
overcome me, but I remember his telling me that
such a sight stood to him at the moment and did
still stand for the passage of the French Armies
perpetually on into the dark, century after cen-
tury, destroyed for the most part upon fields of
battle. He told me that he felt like one who
had seen the retreat from Moscow, and he would,
I am sure, had I not determined to leave him and
to take at least some little sleep, have asked me
what fate there was for those single private
soldiers, each real, each existent, while the Army
which they made up and of whose " destruction"
men spoke, was but a number, a notion, a name.
He would have pestered me, if my mind had still

253

On Nothing

been active, as to what their secret destinies
were who lay, each man alone, twisted round the
guns after the failure to hold the Bridge of the
Beresina. He might have gone deeper, but I
was too tired to listen to him any more.

This human debate of ours (and very one-sided
it was!) is now resolved, for in the interval since
it was engaged the innkeeper himself has died.

254

On Coming to an End ^> ^ ^>

/^\F all the simple actions in the world ! Of all
^^ the simple actions in the world !

One would think it could be done with less
effort than the heaving of a sigh. . . . Well —
then, one would be wrong.

There is no case of Coming to an End but has
about it something of an effort and a jerk, as
though Nature abhorred it, and though it be true
that some achieve a quiet and a perfect end to
one thing or another (as, for instance, to Life),
yet this achievement is not arrived at save
through the utmost toil, and consequent upon
the most persevering and exquisite art.

Now you can say that this may be true of
sentient things but not of things inanimate.
It is true even of things inanimate.

Look down some straight railway line for a
vanishing point to the perspective : you will
never find it. Or try to mark the moment when
a small target becomes invisible. There is no
gradation ; a moment it was there, and you
255

On Nothing

missed it — possibly because the Authorities were
not going in for journalism that day, and had not
chosen a dead calm with the light full on the
canvas. A moment it was there and then, as
you steamed on, it was gone. The same is true
of a lark in the air. You see it and then you do
not see it, you only hear its song. And the same
is true of that song : you hear it and then sud-
denly you do not hear it. It is true of a human
voice, which is familiar in your ear, living and in-
habiting the rooms of your house. There comes
a day when it ceases altogether — and how posi-
tive, how definite and hard is that Coming to an
End.

It does not leave an echo behind it, but a sharp
edge of emptiness, and very often as one sits
beside the fire the memory of that voice sud-
denly returning gives to the silence about one
a personal force, as it were, of obsession and of
control. So much happens when even one of all
our million voices Comes to an End.

It is necessary, it is august and it is reasonable
that the great story of our lives also should be
accomplished and should reach a term : and yet
there is something in that hidden duality of ours
which makes the prospect of so natural a conclu-
sion terrible, and it is the better judgment of
mankind and the mature conclusion of civilisa-
256

On Coming to an End

tions in their age that there is not only a conclu-
sion here but something of an adventure also.
It may be so.

Those who solace mankind and are the princi-
pal benefactors of it, I mean the poets and the
musicians, have attempted always to ease the
prospect of Coming to an End, whether it were
the Coming to an End of the things we love or
of that daily habit and conversation which is our
life and is the atmosphere wherein we loved
them. Indeed this is a clear test whereby you
may distinguish the great artists from the mean
hucksters and charlatans, that the first approach
and reveal what is dreadful with calm and, as
it were, with a purpose to use it for good while
the vulgar catchpenny fellows must liven up
their bad dishes as with a cheap sauce of the
horrible, caring nothing, so that their shrieks
sell, whether we are the better for them or no.

The great poets, I say, bring us easily or
grandly to the gate : as in that Ode to a Nightin-
gale where it is thought good (in an immortal
phrase) to pass painlessly at midnight, or, in the
glorious line which Ronsard uses, like a salute
with the sword, hailing "la profitable mort."

The noblest or the most perfect of English
elegies leaves, as a sort of savour after the
reading of it, no terror at all nor even too much
17 257

On Nothing

regret, but the landscape of England at evening,
when the smoke of the cottages mixes with
autumn vapours among the elms ; and even that
gloomy modern Ode to the West Wind, unfinished
and touched with despair, though it will speak

of—

.... that outer place forlorn
Which, like an infinite grey sea, surrounds
With everlasting calm the land of human sounds ;

yet also returns to the sacramental earth of one's
childhood where it says :

For now the Night completed tells her tale
Of rest and dissolution : gathering round
Her mist in such persuasion that the ground

Of Home consents to falter and grow pale.

And the stars are put out and the trees fail.
Nor anything remains but that which drones
Enormous through the dark. . . .

And again, in another place, where it prays that
one may at the last be fed with beauty —

.... as the flowers are fed
That fill their falling-time with generous breath :
Let me attain a natural end of death,

And on the mighty breast, as on a bed,

Lay decently at last a drowsy head,
Content to lapse in somnolence and fade
In dreaming once again the dream of all things made.

The most careful philosophy, the most heavenly
music, the best choice of poetic or prosaic phrase
258

On Coming to an End

prepare men properly for man's perpetual loss of
this and of that, and introduce us proudly to the
similar and greater business of departure from
them all, from whatever of them all remains at
the close.

To be introduced, to be prepared, to be ar-
moured, all these are excellent things, but there
is a question no foresight can answer nor any
comprehension resolve. It is right to gather
upon that question the varied affections or per-
ceptions of varying men.

I knew a man once in the Tourdenoise, a
gloomy man, but very rich, who cared little for
the things he knew. This man took no pleasure
in his fruitful orchards and his carefully ploughed
fields and his harvests. He took pleasure in pine
trees ; he was a man of groves and of the dark.
For him that things should come to an end was
but part of an universal rhythm ; a part pleasing
to the general harmony, and making in the music
of the world about him a solemn and, oh, a con-
clusive chord. This man would study the sky at
night and take from it a larger and a larger
draught of infinitude, finding in this exercise not
a mere satisfaction, but an object and goal for
the mind ; when he had so wandered for a while
under the night he seemed, for the moment, to
have reached the object of his being.
259

On Nothing

And I knew another man in the Weald who
worked with his hands, and was always kind,
and knew his trade well ; he smiled when he
talked of scythes, and he could thatch. He
could fish also, and he knew about grafting, and
about the seasons of plants, and birds, and the
way of seed. He had a face full of weather, he
fatigued his body, he watched his land. He
would not talk much of mysteries, he would
rather hum songs. He loved new friends and
old. He had lived with one* wife for fifty years,
and he had five children, who were a policeman,
a schoolmistress, a son at home, and two who
were sailors. This man said that what a man
did and the life in which he did it was like the
farm work upon a summer's day. He said one
works a little and rests, and works a little again,
and one drinks, and there is a perpetual talk
with those about one. Then (he would say) the
shadows lengthen at evening, the wind falls, the
birds get back home. And as for ourselves, we
are sleepy before it is dark.

Then also I knew a third man who lived in a
town and was clerical and did no work, for he
had money of his own. This man said that
all we do and the time in which we do it is
rather a night than a day. He said that when
we came to an end we vanished, we and our
260

On Coming to an End

works, but that we vanished into a broadening
light.

Which of these three knew best the nature of
man and of his works, and which knew best of
what nature was the end ?

Why so glum, my Lad, or my Lass (as the case
may be), why so heavy at heart ? Did you not
know that you also must Come to an End ?

Why, that woman of Etaples who sold such
Southern wine for the dissipation of the Picardian
Mist, her time is over and gone and the wine
has been drunk long ago and the singers in her
house have departed, and the wind of the sea
moans in and fills their hall. The Lords who
died in Roncesvalles have been dead these thou-
sand years and more, and the loud song about
them grew very faint and dwindled and is silent
now : there is nothing at all remains.

It is certain that the hills decay and that rivers
as the dusty years proceed run feebly and lose
themselves at last in desert sands ; and in its aeons
the very firmament grows old. But evil also is
perishable and bad men meet their judge. Be
comforted.

Now of all endings, of all Comings to an End
none is so hesitating as the ending of a book
261

On Nothing

which the Publisher will have so long and the
writer so short : and the Public (God Bless the
Public) will have whatever it is given.

Books, however much their lingering, books
also must Come to an End. It is abhorrent to
their nature as to the life of man. They must
be sharply cut off. Let it be done at once and
fixed as by a spell and the power of a Word ; the
word

Finis

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

VVx^

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