THE EVERY-DAY PHILOSOPHER.








THE
EVERY-DAY PHILOSOPHER
IN
TOWN AND COUNTRY.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
THE RECREATIONS OF A COUNTRY PARSON.
BOSTON:
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
1865.




UNIVERSITY PRESS:
WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY,
CAMBRIDGE.




CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
TO WORK AGAIN ~.                          7~  7
CHAPTER II.
CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES; WITH SOME THOUGHTS
ON CURRENTS..19
CHAPTER III.
CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS... 45
CHAPTER IV.
GOING ON.7. 2~ ~ ~.2
CHAPTER V.
CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE     ~..119
CHAPTER VI.
OUTSIDE.160
CHAPTER VIL
GETTING ON........183
CHAPTER VII.
AT THE LAND'S END......214




;i              CONTENTS.
CHAPTER IX.
CONCERNING RESIGNATION.... 232
CHAPTER X
CONCERNING THINGS WHICH CANNOT GO ON. 255
CHAPTER XL
CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING: WITH SOME
THOUGHTS ON TAMPERING WITH THE COIN
OF THE REALM.......278
CONCLUSION...  *  *  *   817




CHAPTER I.
TO WORK AGAIN.
F you had slept last night in any one of
the row of houses which forms the north
U-~   Ad side of a certain street in a certain city,
you would almost certainly have been
wakened up a little before six o'clock this morning by
a most dreadful squall, which was the culmination of
a stormy night. It was quite dark. The rain was
driven in bitter plashes against the windows. The
windows rattled, the doors creaked, the very walls
seemed to tremble, and there was a dismal howling
in the chimneys. For though the street I have mentioned has the city all round it, yet the ground on
which it is built slopes so nruch, that the houses catch
the unbroken force of the wind from the not distant
sea. And from the upper windows, if you look to
the north, beyond the gleam of a frith six miles in
breadth, you may discern a range of hills, not far
enough distant to seem blue.
It was a time in which to remember those who are
at sea; and to be thankful that you were safe on shore.




8               TO WORK AGAIN.
But there is a further association with such a time,
which would probably be present to the mind of many
who in former days studied at a certain ancient University which the writer will never cease to hold in
affectionate remembrance. For this morning was one
of the latest mornings of October; and on the selfsame morning in time, and on just such a morning for
pleasantness, has many a student risen at six from his
bed, that he might be present in the lecture-room, a
mile and a half away, at half-past seven. On the previous day, he had gone at a comfortable forenoon.hour
to the Common Hall of the University, and assisted
at the ceremony of opening the session. The ceremony was a simple one. Several hundreds of students,
arrayed in gowns of flaming scarlet, assembled in that
plain Hall; and heard the Principal give a short address on academic dignity and duty. And if the student were one who had studied at the University in
former sessions, he would be cheered up somewhat in
the prospect of resuming his studies by the sight of
some familiar and kindly faces. But that ceremony in
the early forenoon was but the gentle introduction to
college-work; here is its stern reality. I am well
aware that human beings in this world have oftentimes very dark and repulsive prospects to face, on
rising from their beds in the morning; and I could
think of things so grave as awaiting worthier men,
that they make me almost ashamed to chronicle lesser
trials. Yet I can say, from sorrowful experience, that




TO WORK AGAIN.                 9
duty and work seldom look more gloomy and disheartening than they do to a student of that ancient University of which the writer is an unworthy son, when he
gets up in darkness and cold and hurricane; and hastens through mud and sleet along the gloomy streets
to the lecture at half-past seven.
One happy result follows.  During all the remainder of his life, the man who for three long
winters in' succession, each beginning about the
twenty-eighth of October, and reaching on till the
end of April, has undergone that discipline, can
never cease to have a special feeling of thankfulness when on a morning of late October or early
November he awakes at half-past five in the morning, and hears the rain outside; and then reflects
that he need not get up and go out. The remembrance of many mornings past may send a chill
through his frame; and various worries and cares
which must be faced at rising may painfully suggest
themselves; yet at least there is not that dismal
rising before he has gathered heart to face the
dreary day.
Things which were very far from pleasant when
they occurred, are sometimes very pleasant to look
back on. I remember well how through months of
over-work at College, anything but enjoyable while
they passed over, I kept written on a piece of paper,
always before my eyes, Virgil's line which says so.
I can see it yet, in large letters on my table; I used




.10             TO WORK AGAIN.
to look at it, in the silent house, at half-past three in
the morning before going to bed, and to repeat it over
when getting up wearily at half-past six again. For.
sitan olim hiec meminisse juvabit: which was the
graceful classic way of saying that there is a good
time coming, and of advising sensible folk to wait a
little longer. That time has come to the writer,-and
to many of his friends.  We like to talk, when we
meet, of the old days with their dismal mornings. It
rejoiced me, between five and six this morning, to
remember these things, and to feel the force of the
anniversary. And now, when a new generation is
gathering, on this very day, within the gloomy courts
so well remembered, the recollection does no worse
than call up in the writer many thoughts of the varied
ways in which men take to work again. Suffer me
to say here, my friendly reader, May the City and
the University flourish together; according to the
simple and straightforward wish of the pious burghers who first inscribed the motto on the scutcheon of
the ancient town. And let me confess that I have
already grown so old, that not without a certain mist
that dims one's eyes, I can look on the crowd of lads
and boys (for most of them are no more) in the Hall
on the day of the opening of a session. You look
back yourself, my friend; and from a record, not far
to seek, you are able to discern a little of the mistakes, the follies, the repentances, the humiliations,
the mortifications, the labors, the manifold takings.




TO WORK AGAIN.               11
down, which await those hopeful young fellows, before
they are battered, rudely enough, into trim for sober
life. The Duke of Wellington said that all war was
a series of blunders; it is not too much to say that
blunders and repentances make up great part of the
career of every mortal, especially in the days when
he begins first to think for himself.
The winter session, which is the only one of the
year in that University which is not to be named
here, begins, as has been said, about the twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth of October. The vacation has
lasted since the first of the preceding May. It need
not be said that, to the more industrious students, that
long vacation is in great part given to diligent study;
yet it is always study to which your own sense of
duty fixes the times and limits. Now, you begin to
be under authority, and to have your task allotted to
you from day to day. And at this season, it is a
curious thing to come from the country to that city.
You pass at a step from autumn, still rich with color,
into winter, gloomy and gray. In an inland country
region, late October is often a charming time; and
the landscape has its own touching and even glowing
beauty. Though many leaves have fallen, and make
a dry rustle under your feet as you go through woodland ways, yet many of the trees are thickly clad:
some wonderfully green; some touched by decay into
beauty and glory, in the still sunshine of those beautiful days that come. And the dahlias and hollyhocks




12              TO WORK AGAIN.
are blazing; for, as the season advances, the colors of
nature deepen; and the pale and delicate hues of the
early snowdrops, primroses, and lilies pass through
the gradation of summer blossoms and roses into the
glow of the late autumn flowers. It is as gentle maidenhood passes into blooming matronhood, with all its
qualities more pronounced. And coming away from
the country, at such a season, I dare say you have
thought it still looking almost its best. But all these
things are not, in the great city of that ancient University. The leaves are gone; all the country round
is bare and bleak. The College-gardens, large and
black-looking, are the most dismal scene that ever
bore the pleasant name. You will find no winding
walks through thick masses of evergreens, which in
winter rain or winter frost look so lifelike and warm
and cheering. The trees, poor and stunted, are all
deciduous; and their leaves are not merely.capable
of falling, but have fallen in fact. The air is thick,
and smoke abounds,- the smoke that makes the
wealth of that wealthy city. And though you may
be willing enough to set to work, and indeed rather
weary of idleness or desultory study for some weeks
past, you will probably confess that, even apart from
the dismal lectures at half-past seven in the morning,
it is rather a sad setting to work again.
Let us be thankful, my friend, if our work be such,
that, after some escape from it, we can take to it
again cheerfully and willingly. When we read in




TO WORK AGAIN.                13
the newspapers about the reassembling of Parliament,
the general effect conveyed to one's mind is a pleasant one.  The impression left with us is that the
members come back to their work willingly; they
have been free from it so long that the appetite for
the kind of thing has revived; and each man rises
that morning with a positive feeling of exhilaration as
he looks on to the event of the day. It is not as
it was with Napoleon, even when he was Emperor.
You remember how he enjoyed his Saturday and Sunday in the country quiet; and how on Sunday night
he was accustomed to say, thinking of his return
next morning to Paris and the cares of state, " Tomorrow I must put on the yoke of misery again."
Many people, young -and old, feel as Napoleon felt.
There is the heart-sinking' of the nervous little boy,
going back to school after the holidays, with vague
fears of evil. There is the apprehension of a great
mercantile man, entering upon a season in which he
foresees many painful difficulties and complications,
and does not know how things may turn out. It is
as with the little bark, which, from a sheltered nook
where it was lying snug and safe, puts out unwillingly
into the full fury of winds and waves. And even
coming back to work which you like, and to which
you thankfully.feel yourself in some degree equal,
there ii a certain shrinking from putting the shoulder to the collar again, and going stoutly at your task.
There is a certain inertia, a certain nervous.timidity




14             TO WORK AGAIN.
to be overcome. You would like to quietly sit still
where you are, and hide your head in a hole.
You will feel this, I think, in coming back from
your autumn holiday-time; especially if you live and
work in town.  Human beings are never content.
When you lived entirely in the country, it is very
likely you used to think how pleasant and cheerful
it would be to spend the dead months of the year in
town; and just as the season is darkening down to
winter, and the country beginning to look bleak and
desolate, to get in among the warm dwellings and
multitudes of your fellow-men.  But now, if your
home be in the city, you probably think, about this
season, how enjoyable a thing it is to stay on in the
country still, watching the stages through which it
passes into its winter aspect; feeling the weather so
much nearer you, and so much a greater part of your
life, than it is in the town; looking for the days of
the Martinmas summer, beautiful as any in all the
year; waiting for the exhilaration of the frost, and
the silence of the snow; and finding a value in the
dreariest aspect of fields and hills and roads, for the
hearty thankfulness with which it teaches you to enjoy the warm fireside, and light and books and music.
It is October that gathers many men into town to
work again, the yearly holidays over. And if you be
a working man, who must earn your family's support
by your labor, you may be pleased if you have bad
mix weeks or two months of rest. If you have been




TO WORK AGAIN.               15
away from work during the chief part of August and
September, Nemesis might well be angry if you were
to complain of coming back now as a hardship. Still
you shrink a little. Nobody quite enjoys the idea of
setting to work again; unless, indeed, his vacation
have been so long that it has ceased to be enjoyed as
rest, and come to be felt merely as the misery of
idleness.
I suppose it is in human nature, that, after living for
a while in a pleasant place, you should shrink from leaving it: many people find it costs them a painful effort to
go away from their home; but, once away, they can
quite easily stay away a long time. Inertia is unquestionably a property of mind as well as of matter.
We don't like to move. Likely enough, my friend, in
the autumn of this year, we have each been in half
a dozen places, in any one of which we should have
been content to have stayed all our days. And though
no one can be fonder of his duty than yourself, my
friend, or more pleased with the place where God has
cast your lot; though it was a great strain and exertion to you to go away from both; yet it was a considerable strain and exertion to rise and come back.
Yes, it is a curious feeling you have, in coming
away from any place which has been your home for
even a short time; and there are not many things, besides actual physical pain, to which it does not cost a
little pang to say Good-by.  The thoughtful reader
has probably remarked how different a place looks




16             TO WORK AGAIN.
when you are coming away from it, from what it ever
looked before. You observe, almost with a start, a
great many little things and relations of things about
it, which you never previously observed. All the
familiar objects seem dumbly asking you to stay.
And you must know the feeling by your own experience before you can rightly understand it. You cannot evolve it, a priori, out of your own consciousness.
You may try to imagine what it would be like; but
you cannot. Well does this writer remember how, in
the days when he was a country clergyman, he used
sometimes to pace up and down a certain little walk,
every shrub by whose side had the look of an old
friend; and to wonder what the feeling would be, and
what the place would look like, if he should ever go
away from it. But in those days he never thought
he would; and his imagination would not serve him.
And when the day, vaguely anticipated, came at last,
every familiar holly and yew wore a new face; and
the aspect of the whole scene was one never beheld
before. In a lesser degree, but still a very appreciable degree, you feel all this in quitting a place where
you have been staying for even six weeks. And you
will be aware of a certain cheerlessness and desolateness, till your roots, thus torn up, get buried anew in
the earth of your familiar home and its interests.
Once fairly amid your own belongings and duties
again, and you are all right. Your home seemed
misty and unsubstantial while you were far away from




TO WORK AGAIN.               17
it; but here it is again, real and warm, and with a
general look of not unpleased recognition. And if
you and I, my reader, in any degree deserve them,
some kind looks and words of welcome, in the first
busy days of somewhat confused occupation, may
probably warm and cheer our spirit, and make us set
with all the more hope and heart to work again.
There is no pleasanter incident in the little history
of this time of return to very arduous duty, than the
sending out of these Essays, which have been written
in months past, as some not unsalutary change of occupation from graver thoughts and labors. The writer
trusts that they may fall into the right hands. Certain volumes, which the friendly reader may know,
have done so; and have gained for the writer the
approval of various wise and good men, whose approval is to him among the most prized of earthly
possessions. If these pages should fall into the hands
of the man they do not suit, I hope he will not take
the trouble of reading them; he has but to close the
volume, and they will worry him no more. But the
people for whom the author writes will understand
easily that these chapters contain thoughts which are
not unconsidered, and which aim at something beyond
the mere amusement of a vacant hour.
In closing a former volume, I said I hoped the
chapters it contained might not be the last. And
now I am very pleased and thankful that the wish
2




18             TO WOREK AGAIN.
has been indulged. It is but a little part of a life,
devoted to the most solemn and the happiest of all
work, that has been spared to these Essays. But
they have found an audience vastly wider than the
writer's voice could reach, or than will ever listen to
his sermons. And believing what I like to believe,
not in self-conceit, but in thankfulness, I receive and
cherish the assurance of very many who have told me
that the reading of these pages did some little good to
them; as the writing of these pages has done some
little good to myself.




CHAPTER II.
CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES;
WITH SOME THOUGHTS ON CURRENTS.
AM not going to write an essay on Ven
tilation, important as that-subject unquestionably is; nor am I about to enter into
any discussion of the various elements of
which the air we breathe is made up. I am aware,
indeed, that for the maintenance of animal and intellectual energy in their best state, it is expedient that the
atmosphere should contain a certain amount of ozone;
but what ozone is I do not know, and neither, I believe,
does any one else. And on the matter of material currents, whether ocean currents, atmospheric currents, or
river currents, I am not competent to afford the scientific reader much information. I know, indeed, as
most people know, that it is well for Britain that the
warm Gulf Stream sets upon our shores. I read in
the newspapers how bottles thrown into the sea turn
up in distant and surprising places. I am aware that
the Trade Winds blow steadily from west to east.




20        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
And I have sat tranquilly, and looked intently at the
onward flow of streams; from the slow and smooth
canal-like river that silently steals on through the rich
level English landscape, to the wild Highland torrent
that tears down its rocky bed, in white foam and
thunder.
But what I wish, my reader, that you and I should
do at present, is to take a large view of the case, not
needing any special knowledge of physical science.
Let us remember just this, that the atmosphere in
which we live is something that touches and affects us
at every inch of our superficies, and at every moment
of our life. It is not to say merely that we breathe
it; but that it exerts upon every part of us, inner and
outer, an influence which never ceases, and which,
though possibly not much marked at the time, produces
in the long run a very great and decided effect. You
draw in the air from ague-laden fens, and you do not
find anything very particular in each breath you draw.
But breathe that, and live in that, for a few weeks or
months, and see what will come to you. Or you go
in'the autumn, weak and weary with the season's work
and worry, jaded and nervous, to the sea-side, and the
bracing atmosphere in a little while insensibly does its
work; your limbs grow strong and active again, and
your mind grows energetic and hopeful. And you
have doubtless felt for yourself how the heavy, smoky
air of a large city makes you dull and stupid, and how
the sparkling draughts you draw in of the keen, un



CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.            21
breathed air of the mountains, exhilarate and nerve
anew. And as for currents, without going into details, we know this general fact: If you cast a floating
thing upon a current, it will. insensibly go along with
the current. There may not be a stronger or a more
perceptible push at one moment than at another; but
there is an influence which in the main is unceasing,
and there is a general drifting away. Slowly, slowly,
the log cast into the sea, out in the middle of the Atlantic, comes eastward, week by week, till it is thrown
somewhere on the outer coast of Ireland or of the
Hebrides. And when the thing cast upon the current
is more energetic than a log, still the current affects it
none the less really. The Mississippi steamer breasts
that great turbid stream, and makes way against it;
but it makes way slowly. Let the engines cease to
work, and the steamer drifts as the log drifted. Or
let the engines work as before, and the vessel's head
be turned down the stream; and then, going with the
current, its speed is doubled.
Now, the atmosphere I mean in this essay is the
atmosphere in which the soul lives and breathes; and
the currents, those which carry along the moral and
spiritual nature to developments better or worse.
Shall we say it, for the most part to worse?  In this
world, in a moral sense, we generally drift towards
evil, if we drift at all. You must warp up the stream
if you would advance towards good. It seems to be
God's purpose that anything good must be attained by




22)        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
effort: if you slothfully go with the current, it will be
only to ill.
I am not able, just now, to give you a definition of
either moral atmospheres or moral currents which satisfies me. You will gradually see my meaning, if you
do not see it yet. Let it be said, generally, that to follow inclination within, or to yield to the vague influ
ence of the things and people around you, is to drift
with the moral current. And sensitively to feel the
moral influences amid which you live —the moral
influences arising from external nature, or from the
dwelling in which you live, or from the people with
whom you associate, or from the books and newspapers and magazines and reviews you read — is to
feel the moral atmosphere. And a very great part of
the influence which moulds human character, and decides human destiny, is of this vague, yet pervading
kind. A tree, I am told, draws the chief part of its
nourishment from the air, - very much more than it
draws from the earth through its roots. The tree
must have roots, or it would not live or grow at all;
yet the multitude of leaves draw in that by which it
mainly lives and grows. And it seems to me to be so
with human Beings. We must be morally rooted and
grounded, as it were, by direct education, and by directly getting principles fixed in our minds. But after
this is done, we mainly take our tone from the moral
atmosphere. We are mainly affected by moral currents; and just as really when we strive against them
as when we yield to them.




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.          23
I am sure you know that a great many of the things
we read - books, periodicals, and the like - affect us
not so much by the ideas they convey, as by the general atmosphere with which they surround us. If you
read, week by week, a clever, polished, cynical, heartless publication, it will do you harm insensibly; it will
mould and color your ways of thinking and feeling
much more than you would think. You like its talent,
you know: but you disapprove, sometimes very keenly,
its general character and tone; and you think you are
so on your guard against these, inwardly protesting
against them each time you feel them, that no effect
will be produced by them upon you. You are mistaken in thinking so. You breathe and live in a moral
atmosphere, which is quite sure to tell on you. You
are cast on a current; and it needs constant pulling
against it to keep you from drifting with it. And your
moral nature is not (so to speak) ever on the stretch
with the oars; ever in an attitude of resistance to the
malaria. Yes; that clever, heartless, cynical paper
will leave its impress on you by degrees. And on the
other side, you know that the influence of writings
which are not obtrusively instructive, may sink gently
into our nature and do us much good. There is not
much formal teaching in them; but as you read them,
you feel you are breathing a general healthy atmosphere; you are aware of a quiet but decided and
powerful current, setting steadily towards what is
good and magnanimous and true.




24        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
No doubt, friendly reader, you feel that what I have
said is just. In talking to people, in living in places,
in reading books, you feel the atmosphere; you are
aware of the current. I do not speak to people whose
moral nature is callous as the hide of the rhinoceros,
and who never feel the moral atmosphere at all.'You
might endeavor to prick a rhinoceros with a pin for
some time without awaking any sensation in that animal. And there are human beings who, it is quite
evident from their conversation and their doings on
various occasions, are as little sensitive to the moral
atmosphere, and the laws and proprieties which arise
out of it, as the rhinoceros is to the very bluntest pin.
They are not aware of any influence weaker than a
physical push; as you remember the man who would
take no hint less marked than a kicking. But you
know, my friend, that in talking to different people,
you insensibly take your tone from them; and you'talk in a way accommodated to the particular case.
There are people to whom, unawares, and without
purpose prepense, you find yourself talking in a loud,
lively manner, which is far from your usual one.
There are others to whom you insensibly speak in a
quiet, thoughtful way. And you cannot help this;
it is just that you feel the atmosphere, and yield to it.
It is as when you go out on a crisp frosty day, and
without any special intention to that effect, find yourself walking smartly and briskly along. But if it be a
still, sunshiny October afternoon, amid the brown and




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.           25
golden woods, you will unconsciously accommodate
yourself to the surroundings: you will (if there be no
special call for haste) walk pensively and slow. Now,
some may unjustly fancy, as they remark how different your demeanor is in the society of different people,
that you are an impostor, -a hypocrite, -not to say
a humbug; that you are falsely assuming a manner
foreign to your own, that you may suit the different
people with whom you converse. It is not so. There
is no design in what you do. You are not desiring to
pleaise the loud man by assuming a loud manner, reflecting. his; as I have heard of some one who was
regarded as having paid a delicate but effective compliment to a great man who wore a very odd waistcoat,
by presenting himself in the presence of the great
man, clad in a waistcoat exactly like his own. There
is nothing of that kind; nothing insincere; nothing
fiunkeyish. It is only that you have a sensitive nature, which feels the atmosphere in which it is placed
for the time. You know how mercury in frost feels
the cold, and shrinks; it cannot help it. Then in
warm weather it expands by the necessity of its nature. It always appeared to me in my childhood that
Dr. Watts effectually justifies the most offensive deportment on the part of dogs, by suggesting that it is
their Maker's intention they they should exhibit such
a deportment. There is a passage, not much known,
in a lyric by that poet, which runs to the effect: "Let
dogs delight to bark and bite, for God has made them




26        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
so." If the fact be admitted, the principle is sound;
but as judicious discipline can greatly diminish the
tendency of these animals to bark and bite, I doubt
whether the words of Dr. Watts are to be construed
in their full meaning. But there can be no question
that mercury, which is a substance not accessible to
moral considerations, deserves neither blame nor praise
for expanding and shrinking according to its nature.
And while I admit that any doings of human beings,
partaking of a moral element, are (in the main) so
under the control of the will, that the human beings
may justly be held responsible for them, I hold that
this sensitiveness to the moral atmosphere is very
much a matter of original constitution, and that the
man who feels it may fairly plead that his Maker
"made him so." And very many people —shall we
say the most exquisitely constituted of the race? —
discern the moral atmosphere which surrounds some
men by a delicate and unerring intuition. There are
men who bring with them a frosty atmosphere; there
are men who bring a sunshiny. You know people
whose stiffness of manner freezes up the frankest ahd
most genial. You know there are people to whom you
would no more think of talking of the things which
interest you most, than you would think of talking to'
a horse; or, let us say, to a donkey. Do you suppose
that I should show my marked copy of In Memoriam
to either my friend Dr. Log, or my friend Mr. Snarling




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.           27
I dare say some of my readers, going to see an acquaintance, have walked into his study, and found
themselves, physically, in a choky, confined, hot-house
atmosphere. And on entering into conversation with
the man in the study they have found, morally, the
same thing repeated. The moral atmosphere was just
the physical over again. You remember the morbid
views, the uncharitable judgments, the despondency
of tone. And I think your inward exclamation was,
Oh, for fresh air, physically and morally! And, indeed,
I can hardly believe that sound and healthy judgments
are ever come to, or that manly and truthful thoughts
are produced, except when the physical atmosphere is
pure and healthful.  It would not attach much importance to the vote, upon some grave matter of principle, which is come to by an excited mob of even
educated men, at four o'clock in the morning, in an
atmosphere so thoroughly pestilential that it might
knock a man down. And there are houses, on entering
which you feel directly the peculiar moral atmosphere.
It is oppressive. It catches your throat; it gets into
your lungs; it (morally) puts a bad taste into your
mouth. There are dwellings which, even in a physical
sense, seem never to have fresh air thoroughly admitted; never to have the lurking malaria that hangs in
corners and about window-curtains thoroughly cleared
out, and the pure fresh air of heaven let in to fill
every inch of space. There are more dwellings where
this is so in a moral sense. You enter such a dwell



28        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
ing; you talk to the people in it. You at once feel
oppressed.  You feel stupid; worse than that, you
feel sore and cantankerous. You feel you are growing low-minded. Anything like magnanimity or generosity goes out of you.'You listen to wretched sneers
against everything that is good or elevating.  You
find a series of miserable little doings and misdoings
dwelt upon with weary iteration and bitter exaggeration.  You hear base motives suggested as having
really prompted the best people you know to their
best doings. Did you ever spend an evening in the
society of a cynical, sneering man, with some measure
of talent and energy? You remember how you heard
anything noble or disinterested laughed at; how you
heard selfish motives ascribed to everybody; how some
degrading association was linked with everything pure
and excellent. Did you not feel deteriorated by that
evening? Did you not feel that (morally) you were
breathing the atmosphere of a sewer or a pigsty?And even when the atmosphere was not so bad as
that, you have known the houses of really excellent
folk, which were pervaded by such a stiffness, such an
unnatural repression of all natural feeling, such a sens.e
of constraint of soul, that when you fairly got out of
the house at last, you would have liked to express
your relief, and to give way to your pent-tip energies,
by wildly dancing on the pavement before the door
like a Red Indian. And, indeed, you might very
probably have done so, but for the dread of the po.




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.           29
lice; and for the fear that, even through the dark,
you might be discerned by the eyes of Mrs. Grundy.
Some people are so energetic and so much in ear
nest, that they diffuse about them an atmosphere which
is keenly felt by most men. And it often happens
that you are very much affected by the moral influence of people, from almost all whose opinions you
differ. I have no doubt that human beings who differ
from Dr. Arnold and Mr. Hughes on almost every
point of belief, have been greatly influenced, and influenced for the better, by these good men. There is
something in the atmosphere that breathes from both
of them that tends to higher and purer ways of thinking and feeling; that tends to make you act more
constantly from principle, and to make you feel the
solemnity of this life. And without supposing any
special good fortune in the case of the reader, I may
take for granted that you have known two or three
persons whose presence you felt like a constant rebuke
to anything mean or wrong in thought or deed, and
like a constant stimulus to things good and worthy.
You have known people, in the atmosphere of whose
influence the evil in. your nature seemed cowed and
abashed. It seemed to die out like a nettle in frost;
that clear, brisk, healthy atmosphere seemed to kill it.
And you may have known men, after reading whose
pages, or listening to whose talk, you felt more of
kindly charity towards all your brethren in the helplessness and sinfulness of humanity. Of course, to




30        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
diffuse a powerful influence, whether towards evil or
good, a man must possess great force and earnestness
of character. Ordinary mortals are like the chameleon, which takes something of the color of any strongcolored object it is placed near. They take their tone
very much from the more energetic folk with whom
they are placed in contact. I dare say you have known
a man who powerfully influences for good the whole
circle of men that surrounds him. Such a one must
have a vast stock of vital and moral energy. Most
people are like the electric eel, very much exhausted
after having given forth their influence. A few are
like an electric battery, of resources so vast that it can
be pouring out its energy without cease. There are
certain physical characteristics which often, though
not always, go with this moral characteristic. It is
generally found in connection with a loud, manly
voice, a burly figure, a very frank address. Not always, indeed; there have been puny, shrinking, silent
men, who mightily swayed their fellow-men, whether
to evil or to good. But in the presence of the stronger
physical nature, you feel something tending to make
you feel cheerful, hopeful, energetic. I have known
men who seemed always surrounded by a healthy,
bracing atmosphere. When with such, I defy you to
feel down-hearted, or desponding, or slothful. They
put new energy, hopefulness, and life into you. Yes,
my reader, perhaps you have found it for yourself,
that to gain the friendship of even one energetic,




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.            81
thoughtful, good man, may suffice to give a new and
healthier tone to your whole life. Yes, the influence
of such a one may insensibly reach through all you
think, feel, and do; as the material atmosphere pervades all material things. And such an influence
may be exerted either through a fiery energy, or by
an undefinable, gentle fascination.  I believe that
most men felt the first of these, who knew much of
Dr. Chalmers. I believe that many have felt the
second of these, in their intercourse with Dr. Newman
or Mr. Jowett. Possibly, we might classify mankind
under two divisions: the little band whose pith or
whose fascination is such that they give the tone,
good or bad; that they diffuse the atmosphere; and
the larger host, whose soul is receptive rather than
diffusive; the great multitude of human beings who
take the tone, feel the atmosphere, and go with the
current. It is probable that a third class ought to
be added, including those who never felt anything,
particularly, at all.
When you first enter a new moral atmosphere, you
feel it very keenly. But you grow less sensitive to
it daily, as you become accustomed to it. It may be
producing its moral effect as really; but you are not
so much aware of its presence. Did you ever go to a
place new to you, of very unusual and striking aspect;
and did you wonder if people there lived just as they
do in the commonplace scenes amid which you live?
Let me confess that I cannot look at the pictures of




32        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
the quaint old towns of Belgium, without vaguely ask.
ing myself that question. In a lesser degree, the fancy
steals in, even -as one walks the streets of Oxford or
of Chester. You feel how fresh and marked an atmosphere you breathe, in a visit of a few days' length
to either town.  But of course, if you live in the
strangest place for a long time, you will find that life
there is very much what life is elsewhere. I have
often thought that I should like to do my in-door
work in a room whose window opened upon the sea;
so close to the sea that looking out you might have
the waves lapping on the rock fifteen feet below you;
and that when you threw the window up, the salt
breeze might come into the chamber, a little feverish
perhaps with several toiling hours. Surely, I think,
some influence from the scene would mingle itself
with all that one's mind would there produce. And
it would be curious to look out, before going to bed,
far over the level surface in the moonlight: to see the
spectral sails passing in the distance; and to hear the
never-ceasing sound, old as Creation. I do not know
that the reader will sympathize with me; but I should
like very much to live for a week or two at the Eddystone Light-house. There would be a delightful sense
of quiet. There would be no worry. There would
be plenty of time to think. It would be absolutely
certain that the door-bell would never ring. And
though there would be but limited space for exercise,
there would unquestionably be the freshest and purest




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.            83
of air. No doubt if the wind rose at evening, you
might through the night feel the light-house vibrate
with the blow of the waves; but you'could recall all
you had read of the magnificent engineering of Smeaton; and feel no more than the slight sense of danger
which adds a zest. I am aware that in a little while
one would get accustomed to the whole mode of life.
The flavor of all things goes with custom. When
you go back to the sea-side, how salt the breeze tastes,
which you never remarked while you were living
there! And sometimes, looking back, you will wish
you could revive the freshness and vividness of first
impressions.
We have been thinking of the atmosphere diffused
by books and by persons; let it be said that the thing
about a book which affects your mind and character
most, is not its views or arguments; it is its atmosphere. And it is so also with persons. It is not what
people expressly advise you that really sways you;
it is the general influence that breathes from all their
life. A book may, for instance, set out sound religious
views; but in such a hard cold way that the book will
repel from religion. That is to say, the arguments
may push one way, and the atmosphere the opposite
way; and the atmosphere will neutralize the arguments and something more. And you will find people, too, whose advices and counsels are good; who
often counsel their children or their friends to duty,
3




34        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
and to earnestness in religion: but who neutralize
and reverse the bearing of all these good counsels by
the entire tone of their life. The words of some people say, Choose the good part, Ask for the best of all
guidance and influence day by day; but their atmosphere says, Anything for money,- for social standing, — for spitefulness, —for general unpleasantness.
You will find various Pharisees nowadays who loudly
exclaim, " God be merciful to me a sinner;" but woe
betide you, if you venture to hint to such that anything
they can do is wrong!
Let me say, that you may read and you may hear
religious instruction, which without asserting anything
expressly wrong, still deteriorates you. It lowers you;
you are the worse for it. There is an undefinable,
but strongly-felt lack of the Christian spirit about it.
Its views are mainly right; but somehow its atmosphere is wrong. I do not say this in any narrow
spirit: it is not against one party of religionists more
than another that I should bring this charge. Perhaps the teaching which is soundest in doctrine, is
sometimes the most useless, through its want of the
true Christian life; or through merely giving you the
metaphysics of Christianity, without any real bringing of the vital truths of Christianity home to the
heart, and to the actual case of those to whom they
are told. I have read a book, - a polished, scholarly
tale, the leading character in which was a clergyman
-but in reading the book you felt a strong smack




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.           35
of heathenism. I do not mean the savage, cannibal
heathenism which still exjsts in the islands of the
South Pacific; but the polished heathenism which
was many centuries since in Greece and Rome. The
clergyman was sound in dogma, I dare say, if you had
asked him for a confession of his faith; but his Christianity was an outside garment, while his whole nrature was saturated with the old literature and mythology of that ancient day. Then you may find a book,
a religious book, containing nothing on which you
could well put your finger as wrong: yet you were
left with a general impression of scepticism. That
was the atmosphere. The views and arguments are
as the solid ground: but you touch the solid ground
but at a single point; - the circumambient ether is
all.around you, and within you. I have read pages
setting out somewhat sad and discouraging views; yet
as you turned the pages, you were aware of a general
atmosphere of hopefulness and energy. And I have
listened to what might have made pages, if it had
been printed (pages which assuredly I should not
have read), setting out the sublimest and most glorious hopes of humanity, in a way so dreary, dull,
wearisome, and stupid, that the atmosphere was most
depressing. You felt as though you were environed
by a damp, thick fog.
It would be an endless task to reckon up the moral
atmospheres in which human beings live; or even




86        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
the moral atmospheres which you yourself, my friend,
have breathed. But there are some that one remembers vividly; they did not come often enough, or continue long enough, to lose their freshness. Such is
the atmosphere which surrounds all operations relating to the sale and purchase of horses. You remember how, when you went to buy one of those noble
animals, you found yourself surrounded by a new
and strongly-flavored phase of life. Was there not a
general atmosphere as of swindling? You were surprised to hear lies, the grossest, told, even though
they were sure to be instantly detected. You felt
that your ignorance and capacity of being cheated
were being gauged with great skill. It is a singular
thing, indeed, that one of the most useful and beautiful of God's creatures should diffuse around him a
most unhealthy moral atmosphere. You may have
remarked that the noble steed is not merely surrounded by an ether filled with falsehoods; but that
a less irritating, though still remarkable, ingredient,
mingles with it, like ozone - it is the element of
slang. I have remarked this with great interest, and
mused much on it without succeeding in satisfactorily
accounting for it. Why is it that to say a horse is a
good horse should stamp you as a green hand; but
that to say the animal is no bad nag, or a fairish
style of hack, should convey the idea that you know
various things? And wherefore should it be, that a
shallow nature should be indicated by your saying




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.            37
you were willing to pay fifty pounds for the horse,
while untold fepth and craft shall be held to be irmplied by the statement that your tether was half a
hundred?
A very disagreeable atmosphere, diffused by various persons, is that of suspicion. Some one has done
you a kind turn, and your heart warms to the doer
of it. But MIr. Snarling comes in; and you tell him,
in hearty tones, of the kind turn, and. of your warm
feeling towards the man that did it. Mr. Snarling
doubts, hints, insinuates, suggests a deep and traitorous design under that kind act; perhaps succeeds
in chilling or souring your warm feeling; till, on the
withdrawal of the unhealthy atmosphere, your better
nature gets the upperhand again. And when next
you meet the kind, open face of the friend who did
you the kind turn, your heart smites you as you think
what a wicked suspicious creature you were while within the baleful atmosphere of Snarling. You have seen,
I dare say, very shallow and empty individuals, who
fancied that it made them look deep and knowing, to
say that beggars, for the most part, live in great luxury, and have money in the bank. That may be so
in rare cases; but I KNOW that the want of the poor
is often very real. It comes, doubtless, in some measure, from their own sin or improvidence; and as, of
course, you and I never do wrong, let us throw a
very large stone at the poor creature who is starving
to-day, because she took a full meal of bread and but



88         CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
ter and tea four days since. I have heard a man,
with great depth of look, state that a certain cripple
known to me could walk quite well. I asked the
man for his authority. He had none, but vague suspicion. I told the man, with some acerbity (which I
do not at all regret), that I knew the poor man well,
and that I knew he was as crippled as he seemed. It
looks knowing to declare of some poor starved creature that he is more rogue than fool. Whenever you
hear that said, my reader, always ask what is the precise charge intended to be conveyed, and ask the
ground on which the charge is made. In most cases
you will get no answer to the second question; in
very many no intelligible answer to the first.  It
would be a pleasant world to live in, if the people
who dwell in it were such as they are represented
by several persons known to' me.  I remember an
outspoken old Scotch lady, to whom I was offering
some Christian comfort after a great loss. I remember how she said, with a look as if she meant it, " If
I did not believe all that, I should take a knife and
cut my throat!"  It was an honest confession of her
faith, though made in unusually energetic terms. And
I might say for myself, if I had not some faith in my
race, it would be better to be off to the wilderness
at once, or, like Timon, to the desolate shore. The
wants of beggars, even of the least deserving, are, for
the most part, very real. As for their luxuries, they
are generally tea and buttered toast. Sometimes fried




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.           89
ham may also be found.  Poor creatures! These
things are the only enjoyments they have; and I, for
one, am not ready with my anathema maranatha. I
have known very suspicious and uncharitable persons
who were extremely fat; doubtless they lived entirely on parched peas. And all the sufferings of
the poor are not shams, paraded to the end of obtaining pence. I look back now, over a good many
years, to the time when I was a youth at college. I
remember coming home one night, between eleven
and twelve o'clock, along a quiet street in a certain
great city. I remember two poor girls standing in
the shelter of the wall of a house, leaning against the
wall, from the drenching rain. Neither noticed me.
I see yet the deadly white face of one,- the haggard, sick look, as she crouched by the wall, and leant
on the other's shoulder, as if just recovering from a
faint. I hear yet the anxious, despairing voice with
which the other said to her, "'Are you better now?"
The words were not spoken at me, or spoken for the
ear of any passer-by. All this was on the dark midnight street, amid the drenching rain. It was a little
thing; but it brought home to one the suffering that
is quietly undergone in thousands of places over Europe each day and night.
Probably you have known people who were placed
in a sphere where the atmosphere, moral and physical,
was awfully depressing. They did their work poorly
enough; and many'blamed them severely. For my



40        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
self, I was inclined to wonder that they did so well.
Who could be a good preacher in certain churches of
which I have known? I think there are few men
more sensitive to the moral atmosphere than the
preacher. There are churches in which there is a
hearty atmosphere; others, in which there is a chilly
atmosphere; others, with a bitter, narrow-minded,
Pharisaic; others, with an atmosphere which combines the pragmatic, critical, and self-sufficient, with
the densely stupid. But passing from this, I say that
most men, even of those who do their work in life decently well, have only energy enough to do well if you
give them a fair chance. And many have not a fair
chance; some have no chance at all. There are human beings set in a moral atmosphere in which.moral
energy and alacrity could no more exist than physical
life in the choke-damp of the mine. Be thankful, my
friend, if you are placed in a fairly healthful atmosphere. You are doing fairly in it; but in a different
one you might have pined and died. You are leading
a quiet Christian life, free from great sin or shame.
Well, be thankful; but do not be conceited; above
all, do not be uncharitable to those for whom the race
and the warfare have been too much.
I have said that it is the more energetic of the race
that diffuse a moral atmosphere; the ordinary members of the race feel it. The energetic give the tone;
the ordinary take it. There are minds whose nature
is to give out; and minds whose nature is to take in.




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.            41
But most men have energy enough, if rightly directed,
to affect the air somewhat; and though the moral
ingredient they yield may not be much in quantity, it
may be able to supply just the precious ozone. Let
us try to be like the sunshiny member of the family,
who has the inestimable art to make all duty seem
pleasant; all self-denial and exertion, easy and desirable; even disappointment not so blank and crushing;
who is like a bracing, crisp, frosty atmosphere throughout the home, without a suspicion of the element that
chills and pinches. You have known people within
whose influence you felt cheerful, amiable, hopeful,
equal to anything! Oh, for that blessed power, and
for God's grace to exercise it rightly! I do not know
a more enviable gift than the energy to sway others
to good; to diffuse around us an atmosphere of cheerfulness, piety, truthfulness, generosity, magnanimity.
It is not a matter of great talent; not entirely a matter of great energy; but rather of earnestness and
honesty, - and of that quiet, constant energy which
is like soft rain gently penetrating the soil. It is
rather a grace than a gift; and we all know where
all grace is to be had freely for the asking.
You see, my reader, I have spoken of atmospheres
and currents together. For every moral atmosphere
is of the nature of a moral current. As you breathe
the atmosphere, you feel that there is an active force
in it; that you are beginning to drift away. It is not




42        CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
merely a present sense of something that comes over
you; but you know that it sets you floating onward to
something beyond your present feeling. The more
frequent tendency of a moral atmosphere is to assimilate your moral nature to itself. Perhaps all atmospheres, if you live in them long enough, tend to this.
But there are some atmospheres which, just at first,
are so very disagreeable, that their effect is repellent;
they tend to make you wish to be just as different from
themselves as you can. But the refined person, at first
revolted by a rude and coarse atmosphere, will, in years,
grow subdued to it; and the pure young soul, shocked
and disgusted at the first approach of gross sin, comes at
last to bear it and to exceed it. Yes, the ultimate tendency of all moral atmospheres upon all ordinary people, is to assimilate them to the element in which they
live. Let men breathe any atmosphere long enough,
and this w.ill follow; save in the case of an exceptional man here and there. It is a very bad thing for
a young person to be much among thoroughly worldly
people, or among mere money-making people. Let
us not cry down money; it is a great and powerful
thing. You remember, it was not money, but the over
love of money, that was "the root of all evil."  But
it is most unhappy to live among those from whose entire ways of thinking and talking you get the general
impression, that money is the first and best thing;
and that the great end of life is to obtain it; and that
almost any means may be resorted to for that end.




CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.            43
All this is-not said in so many words; but it pervades
you unseen; you breathe it like an unwholesome
malaria. You take it in, not merely at every breath,
but at every pore. And the result of years of this
is, that the warm-hearted, generous youth grows into
the sordid, heartless old man; and that the enthusiastic young Christian is sometimes debased into a
very chilly, lifeless, and worldly middle age.
And now, before I end, you must let me say this.
And when I say it upon this page (which never formed
any part of a sermon) you will know that I say it not
because I think I must, but because I honestly believe
it. There is a certain blessed influence which can
mingle itself with every moral atmosphere that a human being can honestly breathe; and which can make
every such atmosphere healthful. You know what I
mean. It is the influence of that.Holy Spirit, whose
presence the Redeemer said was more valuable and
profitable than even His own; and who is promised
without reservation to all who heartily ask His pres.
ence. And you know, too, that we have a sure
promise, that if we build on the right foundation, the
current of our whole life will tend towards what is
happy and good. There may be a little eddy backwards here and there, and sometimes what seems a
pause, but it is in the direction of these things that the
whole current sets; it is towards these that "all things
work together." I firmly believe that the natural tendency of all moral currents, apart from God's grace, is




44         CONCERNING ATMOSPHERES.
downwards. Apart from that, we shall always grow
worse; with it, we shall always grow better. Believe
me, my reader, when I say, that if all our life and all
our lot be not hallowed by the presence in all of the
Blessed Spirit, we may be sure that we are breathing
a moral atmosphere which wants just the precious
ozone that is needful to true health and life. And if
we have not, penitently and humbly, confided ourselves
to our Saviour, we may know that we are drifting
with a current which is certainly bearing us on towards all that is evil and all that is woful. It is sad
to see the poor little pale and sickly children of some
dark, stifling close in a large city; poor little things
who never breathe the free country air; who are
living in an unwholesome atmosphere within doors
and without, in which they are pining, and growing up
weak and nerveless; but it is more sad to see the immortal soul stunted, emaciated, and distorted, through
the unhealthy moral air it breathes. It must have
been a miserable sight, the little boat with the man in
it asleep, drifting smoothly and swiftly along, beyond
human reach, towards the tremendous cataract; but it
is more miserable, if we saw it rightly, to see a human
soul, in spiritual sleep, drifting day by day towards the
fearful plunge into final woe. Let us pray, my reader,
for both of us; that God would be with us by His
Spirit, and keep us in all ways that we go; that in all
our life we may breathe the Atmosphere of His presence; and by the Current of all our life be brought
nearer to Himself!




CHAPTER III.
CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
- E       VERYTHING  in this world has a Be.
ginning and an End.
After writing that sentence, which (as
you see) sets forth a great general principle, I stopped for some time, to consider whether it
holds always true. As one grows older, one grows
always more cautious as to general principles. - My
young friend, when you are arguing any question with
an acute opponent, you should, as a rule, never assent
to any general principle which he may state. He
may ask you, with an indignant air, Don't you admit
that two and two make four? Let your answer be,
No, I admit nothing, till I see how it touches the matter which concerns us at present. You do not know
what may be involved in the admission sought; or
what may follow from it. The most innocent-looking
general principle may lead to the most appalling
consequences. The general principle which appears
most unquestionably true, may prove glaringly false in
some very ordinary case. You should request time




46    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
for consideration before you admit any axiom in
morals, metaphysics, or politics; or you should ask
your adversary what he means to build upon it, before
you can say either yes or no to it. Do as the Scotch
judges do when a difficult case has been argued before
them. I discover from the newspapers that they are
wont to say, that they will take such a case to avizan.
dum: which I suppose (no one ever told me) means
that they must think twice, or even oftener, before deciding a matter like that.
I have taken the general principle, already stated,
to avizandum. It seems all right. But I remember,
in thinking of it, at how great advantage a judge is
placed, in trying to come to a sound decision. Very
clever and well-informed men state the arguments on
either side. And all the judge has to do, is to say
which arguments seem to him the strongest. He has
no fear that any have been overlooked. But a human
being, weighing a general principle, must act as counsel on each side, as well as judge. He must call up
before his mind, all that is to be said for and against
it; as well as say whether the weightiest reasons
make for or against.  And he may quite overlook
some important reason, on one side or other. He
may quite forget something so obvious and familiar
that a child might have remembered it. Or he may
fail to discern that some consideration which mainly
lecides his judgment is open to a fatal objection,
which every one can see is fatal the instant it is




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.   47
stated. Was it not Sir Isaac Newton, who had a pet
cat and kitten? And did not these animals annoy
him while busy in his study, by frequently expressing
their desire to be let out and in? The happy thought
struck him, that he might save himself the trouble of
often rising to open his study-door for their passage,
by providing a way that should always be practicable
for their exit or entrance. And accordingly the great
man cut in his door a large hole for the cat to go out
and in, and a small hole for the kitten. He failed to
remember, what the stupidest bumpkin would have
remembered, that the large hole through which the
cat passed might be made use of by the kitten too.
And the illustrious philosopher discerned the error
into which he had fallen, and the fatal objection to the
principle on which he had acted, only when taught it
by the logic of facts. Having provided the holes already mentioned, he waited with pride to see the creatures pass through them for the first time. And as
they arose from the rug before the, fire, where they
had been lying, and evinced a disposition to roam to
other scenes, the great mind stopped in some sublime
calculation; the pen was laid down; and all but the
greatest man watched them intently. They approached
the door, and discerned the provision made for their
comfort. The cat went through the door by the large
hole provided for her; and instantly the kitten followed her THROUGH THE SAME HOLE! How the
great man must have felt his error! There was no




48    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
resisting the objection to the course he had pursued,
that was brought forward by the act of the kitten.
And it appears almost certain that if Newton, before
committing himself by action, had argued the case; if
he had stated the arguments in favor of the two holes;
and if he had heard the housemaid on the other side;
the error would have been averted. But then Newton had not the advantage which the Chancellor has;
he had not the matter argued before him. He argued
the matter on either side, for himself; and he overlooked a very obvious and irrefragable consideration.
You and I, my reader, have many a time done what
was perfectly analogous to the doing of Sir Isaac
Newton. We have formed opinions and expressed
them; and we have done things, thinking we were
doing wisely and right; just because we forgot something so plain that you would have said no mortal
could forget it, - something which showed that the
opinion was idiotic, and the doing that of a fool. You
know, more particularly, how men who have committed great crimes, such as murder, seem by some infatuation to have been able to discern only the one obvious reason that seemed to make the commission of
that crime a thing tending to their advantage; and to
have been incapable of looking just a handbreadth
farther on, so as to see the fatal, crushing objection to
the course they took;- the absolute ruin and destruction that must of necessity follow. And the opinion
of many men upon any subject may often be likened




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.    49
to a table which the art of the upholsterer has fashioned to stand upon a single leg. They hold the opinion for just one reason: and that reason an unsound
one. Give that reason a blow with the fatal, unanswerable objection; down comes the opinion; even
as down would come the table, whose single leg was
knocked away.
I am well aware that the severe critic who has read
the lines which have been written, may feel disposed
to accuse the writer of a disposition to wander from
his path. A great deal of what has been said, is as
when you take a look over thestile at a footpath running away from the beaten highway you are to traverse; and end by getting over the stile, and walking
a little way along the footpath; intending, no doubt,
ultimately to return to the beaten highway, and to
plod steadily along it. All this discussion of general
principles ought to have been despatched in a line or
two, analogous to the glance over the stile. But let
the critic take into account the fact, that since the
writer last sat down to write an essay, he has written
a great many serious pages; which it cost hard work
to write, and in which nothing in the nature of an in~tellectual frisk could be permitted. And thus it is,
that with a great sense of relief, he -finds himself
writing a page whereon he may mildly disport himself; casting logical and other trammels aside; and
enjoying a little mental recreation. And now, going
back from the path, and getting over the stile, we are
4




50    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
in the highway again. We turned out of the highway, you remember, at the point where it was said,
that EVERYTHING IN THIS WORLD HAS A BEGINNING
AND AN END; and that, upon reflection, it' seemed
that the general principle might be accepted as true.
No doubt, in our early days, we have heard sermons
which we thought would never end; yet ultimately,
and after the expiration of long time, they did. And
even those things within our recollection, which seem
as exceptions to the great principle, are probably exceptions rather in appearance than in reality. I remember, indeed, an aged clergyman whom in my
youth I occasionally heard preach; who always began
the first sentence of his sermon, but who never ended
it; at least not till the close of the sermon; and no
human being could know when that sentence ended,
or say at what point (if any point in particular) it
ceased to be. Still even that first sentence of each
discourse of that good man, came to a close somehow.
It stopped, if it was not finished, - because the sermon
stopped. So you see that even that indefinite sentence
can hardly be regarded as an exception to the rule
that all things in this world have a beginning and an
end.
And now, my friend, having laid down the broad
principle with which this dissertation sets out, let me
proceed to say that it is one of the greatest blessings
of this life, as well as one of the saddest things in
this life, that there are such things as beginnings and
ends.




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.   51
We cannot bear a very long, uniform look-out.
You may remember Miss Jane Taylor's pleasantlytold story concerning a certain clock. The pendulum
of that clock began to calculate how often it would
hlave to swing backwards and forwards in the week
and the month to come; then, looking still farther
into futurity, it calculated, by a pretty hard exercise
of mental arithmetic, how often it would have to swing
in a year. And it got so frightened at the awful prospect, that it determined at once to stop. There was
something crushing in that long look-out. It was killing to take in at once that unvaried way; on, and on,
and on. The pendulum forgot the blessed fact of
beginnings and ends; forgot that to our feeling there
are beginnings and ends even in the duration, the expanse, the employment, which in fact is most unvarying. It is an unspeakable blessing that we can stop,
and start again, in everything; and that we can fancy
we do so even when we do not. The pendulum was
not afraid of a hundred beats, or of a thousand; but
the prospect of' millions terrified it. Yet millions are
just an aggregate of many hundreds; and the pendulum could without fatigue do the hundred, and then
set off again upon another hundred, and do that without fatigue. The journey that crushes us down when
we contemplate it as one long weary thing can be
borne when we divide it into stages. And one great
lesson of practical wisdom is to train ourselves to
mentally divide everything into stages; in short, to




52    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
cling habitually to the invaluable doctrine and fact
of beginnings and ends.
There was a poor cabman at Paris who committed
suicide not long ago. He left behind him a letter
explaining his reasons for the miserable deed. His
letter expressed no violent feeling, - spoke of no great
blow that had befallen him. It said that he ended
his life because he was " weary of doing the same
things over and over again every day." The poor
man's mind was doubtless unhinged. Yet you see
what he did, and how he nursed his insanity. He
looked too far ahead. He saw all life as one expanse.
He forgot that life is broken into many stages,- that
it is made up of beginnings and endings. He could
not bring himself, for the time, to see it so. Each
separate day he might have stood; but a thousand
days held in prospect at once beat him. It was as
the bundle of rods was so impossible to break, though
each single rod might easily enough be broken. It
was the fallacy which tells so heavily upon most public speakers: that you stand in great awe of a crowd
of a thousand or two thousand men, each of whom individually would inspire you with no awe at all.
Now, my readers, I know perfectly well that you
have all known a feeling of weariness and almost of
despair arise, when you looked far forward and saw
the long weary way that seemed to stretch on and on
before you in life. I believe that it is not so much what
we are actually enduring at the time that prompts the




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.    53
cry, "Now, I can bear this no longer! " as some sudden, vivid glimpse of all this, lasting on, and on, and
on. There are few lives in which it is not expedient
to "take short views;" few minds that, without weariness and depression, can take in at one view any
very great part of their life at once.  Sometimes
there comes on us the poor Frenchman's feeling:
Here is this same round over, and over, and over;
the occupations of each day are a circle, and we are
just going round and round it, like a horse in a mill.
To-morrow will be like to-day; and then to-morrow,
and the day after that; and so on, on, on. The feeling is a morbid one, and a wrong one; but it is a
common one. A little of the sea in a tumbler is colorless; but a vast deal of the sea, seen in its ocean
bed, is green. With life the case is reversed. In
the commonplace course of life, the path we are actually treading may look rather green, —green, I
mean, like the cheerful verdure of grass; but if you
take in too great a prospect, the whole tract is apt to
take the aspect of a desert waste, with only a green
spot here and there. You will not add to the cheerfulness and hopefulness of man or of child, by drilling into him: "This morning you will do such and
such things; and all day such other things  and in
the evening such other things; then you will sleep.
To-morrow morning you will rise, and then the same
things over and over; and so on, on. I have known
a malignant person who enjoyed the work of present



54    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
ing to others such disheartening views of life. Let
me, my reader, counsel the opposite course. Let us
not look too far on. Let us not look at life as one
unvaried expanse; although we may justly do so.
Let us discipline our minds to look at life as a series
of beginnings and ends. It is a succession of stages;
and we shall think of one stage at a time. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Most people
can bear one day's evil; the thing that breaks men
down is the trying to bear on one day the evil of two
days, twenty days, a hundred days. We can bear a
day of pain, followed by a night of pain; and that
again by a day of pain, and thus onward. But we
can bear each day and night of pain only by taking
each by itself. We can break each rod, but not the
bundle.  And the sufferer, in real great suffering,
turns to the wall in blank despair when he looks too
far on; and takes in a uniform dreary expanse of
suffering, unrelieved by the blessed relief of even fanciful beginnings and ends.
I remember a poor woman whom I used often to
visit and pray with, in my first parish. She died of
cancer; and the excruciating disease took eight months
to run its course, after having reached the point at
which the pain became almost intolerable. Isi all that
long time, the poor woman told me that she was never
aware that she had slept; it seemed to her that the
time never came in which she ceased to be conscious
of agony. Her sufferings formed an unbroken dura



CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.    55
tion, undivided by beginnings and ends. She was a
good Christian woman, and had a blessed hope in
another world. But I can never cease to remember
her despairing face, as she seemed to look onward to
weeks of agony, always growing worse and worse, till
it should wear her down to her grave.
The power and habit of taking comprehensive views
is not in every case a desirable thing. It is well for
us that we should look at our work in life in its parts,
rather than as a whole. Of course you understand
what I mean. I am far from saying that we ought not
oftentimes to consider what is the drift and bearing of
all our life, and of all we are doing in it. I mean that
to avoid a fatiguing and disheartening result, we should,
for certain purposes, look not at the entire chain, but
at each successive link of it. Of course, we know each
link will be succeeded by the next; but let us think
of them one at a time. Let us be thankful for Saturday night, and let us enjoy it; and let us hold at arm's
length the intruding thought of Monday morning,
when the shoulder must be put to the collar again.
No doubt, in the work of life, every end is also a beginning. We rest for a little, perhaps only in thought
and feeling; and then we go at our work again. But
it is a convenient thing, and it helps to carry us on in
our way, to mark out a number of successive ends, and
thus to divide our journey into successive stages. It
is well for us that when we start, we cannot see how
far we have to go. We should give up all effort in




56    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
despair, if from the beginning we held in view all the
interminable length of way, whose length we shall
hardly feel when we are wiled away along it gradually, step by step. It has alvways appeared to me extremely bad policy in any preacher, who desires to keep
up the interest of his congregation, to announce at the
beginning of the sermon, that in the first place he will
do so and so; and in the second place such another
thing; and in the third place something else; and
finally close with some practical remarks. I can say
for myself, that whenever I hear any preacher say
anything like that, an instant feeling of irksomeness
and weariness possesses me. You cannot help thinking of the long tiresome way that is to be got over,
before happily reaching the end. You check off each
head of the sermon as it closes; but your relief at
thinking it is done, is dashed by the thought of what
a deal more is yet to come. No: the skilful preacher
will not thus map out his subject, telling his hearers
so exactly what a long way they have to go. He will
wile them along, step by step. He will never let
them  have a long out-look.  Let each head of discourse be announced as it is arrived at. People can
bear one at a time, who would break down in the
simultaneous prospect of three, not to say of seven or
eight. And then, when the sermon is nearly done,
you may, in a sentence, give a connected view of all
you have said; and your skill will be shown if people
think to themselves, what a long way they have been




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.    57
brought without the least sense of weariness. I lately
heard a sermon, which was divided into seven heads.
If the preacher had named them all at the beginning,
the congregation would have ceased to listen; or
would have listened under the oppressive thought of
what a vast deal awaited them before they would be
free. But each head was announced just as it was
arrived at; the congregation was wiled along insensibly; and the sermon was listened to with breathless
attention from the first sentence to the last.
Let it be so with life, and the work of life. It would
crush down any man's resolution, if he saw in one
glance the whole enormous bulk of labor, which he
will get through in a lifetime, without feeling it so
very much at each successive stage.  It is well to.break up our journey into separate portions; to take
it bit by bit; to set ourselves a number of successive
ends; even though we know that we are practising a
sort of deception on ourselves; and that when the end
we have immediately in view is reached, our work
will be just as far from being done, as ever. Your
little boy has before him the mighty task of his education. You do not tell the little thing at once the
whole extent of toil that is included in that. No; you
fix on a small part of the work that is to be done;
you show the little man that as his first end. That is
the first thing to be done; and then we shall see what
is to come next. And yet you know, and the little
child knows just as well, that after he has conquered




58    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
that tremendous alphabet, he must just begin again
with something else; that by a hundred steps, - each
set out at first as an end to be attained; and each
indeed an end, but likewise a beginning,- he must
mount from his first little book onwards and upwards
into the fields of knowledge and learning. Let us, if
we are wise men, hold by the grand principle of STEP
BY STEP; let us be thankful that God, knowing that
weariness is a thing that must be felt at intervals by
the minds and bodies of all His creatures, has appointed that they shall live in a world of Beginnings
and Ends. Yes, we can stand a day at a time; but
if we forget the -law of beginnings and ends, we shall
come- to be bearing the weight of a hundred days
together. And that will crush the strongest.
Many people, of an anxious temperament, are like
the pendulum already mentioned. The pendulum
looked ahead to the incalculable multitude of ticks,
forgetting that there would always be a moment to
tick in. And you can easily see that many human
beings plod heavily and dully through their work in
life, because instead of giving their mind mainly to
the present tick, they are thinking of the innumerable
ticks that are coming. You know quite well that the
work of life is done by most animals that have to
work, in a dull, spiritless way. Few go through their
work in a cheerful, lively way. Even inferior animals are coming to imitate their rational fellow-creatures. The other day, I was driving in a cab along a




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.   59
certain broad and ugly highway, which unites Athens
with the Piraeus.  I overtook and passed various
drays, drawn by fine large horses. I carefully remarked the expression of the countenance of each
successive horse.  All of them  had a very gloomy
and melancholy look. They seemed as though they
were enduring. They could stand it; and that was
all. And I thought, here is an example of the way
in which this world mainly goes on. It goes on; it
gets through; but not cheerfully. You could know,
even if you had no better means of knowing, that
there is something wrong. And the working bees of
the human race do, for the most part, go through their
work like the dull, down-looking horse. The horses
were plump and sleek; they were plainly well fed
and well groomed; yet their expression was sorrowful, or at least apathetic. It would have struck
you less, to have seen that dull look on the face of
some poor, half-starved screw. And you know that it
is generally the human beings whose material advantages are the greatest, who have the most unsatisfied
and unhappy expression of countenance. Look at the
portraits of cabinet ministers and the like. Few work
with a light heart, and with enjoyment in their work.
Many forebodings, and many cares, sit heavily upon
the heart and brain of most. Oh for more practical
belief in Beginnings and Ends!
It is characteristic of those things which possess a
Beginning and an End, that they also possess a Mid



60    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
dle, of greater or less extent. But we do not mind
about the middle nearly so much. The middle is
much less affecting and striking.  It is the first start,
and then the close, that we mainly feel. You know
the peculiar interest with which we look at the setting
sun of summer, in his last minutes above the horizon.
Of course he was going on just as fast through all the
day; but at mid-day, we did not know the value of
each minute, as we do when he is fast going down. I
have been touched by the sight of human life, ebbing
almost visibly away; and you could not but think of
the sun in his last little space above the mountains, or
above the sea. I remember two old gentlemen, great
friends; both on the extreme verge of life. One was
above ninety; the other above eighty. But their wits
were sound and clear; and, better still, their hearts
were right. They confessed that they were no more
than strangers and pilgrims on the earth; they declared plainly that they sought a country, far away,
where most of those they had cared for were waiting
for them. But the body was very nearly worn out;
and though the face of each was pleasant to look at,
paralysis had laid its grasp upon the aged machinery
of limb and muscle which had played so long. I used,
for a few weeks, to go one evening in the week and
sit with them, and take tea. They always had tea in
large breakfast cups; other cups would not have done.
I remember how the two paralytic hands shook about,
as they tried to drink their tea. There they were, the




CONCERNING BEGIhNNINGS AND ENDS.    61
two old friends; they had been friends from boyhood,
and they had been over the world together.  You
could not have looked, my friend, but with eyes somewhat wet, at the large tea-cups, shaking about, as theold men with difficulty raised them to their lips. And
there was a thing that particularly struck me. There
was a large old-fashioned watch, always on a little stand
on the tea-table, ticking on and on. You seemed to feel
it measuring out the last minutes, running fast away. It
always awed me to look at it and hear it. Only for a
few weeks did I thus visit those old friends, till one
died; and the other soon followed him, where there are
no palsied hands or aged hearts. No doubt, through all
the years the old-fashioned watch had gone about in
the old gentleman's pocket, life had been ebbing as
really and as fast as then. And the sands were running as quickly for me as for the aged pilgrims. But
then with me it was the middle; and to them it was
the end. And I always felt it very solemn and touching, to look at the two old men on the confines of life,
and at the watch loudly ticking off their last hours.
One seemed to feel time ebbing, - as you see the setting sun go down.
Beginnings are difficult. It is very hard to begin
rightly in a new work or office of any kind. And I
am thinking not merely of the inertia to be overcome
in taking to work; though that is a great fact. In
writing a sermon or an essay, the first page is much




62    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
the hardest. You know, it costs a locomotive engine
a great effort to start its train; once the train is off,
the engine keeps it going at great' speed with a tenth,
or less, of the first heavy pull. But I am thinking
now of the many foolish things which you are sure to
say and do in your ignorance, and in the novelty of
the situation. Even a Lord Chancellor has behaved
very absurdly in his first experience of his great elevation. It would be a great blessing to many men to
be taken elsewhere, and have a fresh start. As a
general rule, a clergyman should not stay all his life
in his first parish.  His parishioners will never forget
the foolish things he did at his first coming, in his inexperienced youth. There, he cannot get over these;
but elsewhere he would have the good of them, without the ill. He would have the experience, dearly
bought; while the story of the blunders and troubles
by which it was bought would be forgotten. I dare
say there are people, miserable and useless where they
are, who, if they could only get away to a new place,
and begin again, would be all right. In that new
place they would avoid the errors and follies by which
they have made their present place too hot to hold
them.  Give them a new start; give them  another
chance; and taught by their experience of the scrapes
and unhappiness into which they got by their hasty
words, their ill temper, their suspicion and impatience,
their domineering spirit, and their determination in
little things to have their own way; you would find




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.   63
them do excellently. Yes, there is something admirable about a Beginning! There is something cheering to the poor fellow who has got the page on which
he is writing hopelessly blotted and befouled, when
you turn over a new leaf, and give him the fresh unsullied expanse to commence anew! It is like wiping
out a debt that never can be paid, and that keeps the
poor struggling head under water; but wipe it out,
and oh, with what new life will the relieved man go
through all his duty! It is a terrible thing to drag a
lengthening chain; to know that, do what you may,
the old blot remains, and cannot be got rid of. I know
various people, soured, useless, and unhappy, who (I
am sure) would be set right forever, if they could but
be taken away from the muddle into which they have
got themselves, and allowed to begin again somewhere
else. I wish I were the patron of six livings in the
Church. I think I could make something good and
happy of six men who are turned to poor account
now. But alas, that in many things there is no second chance! You take the wrong turning; and you
are compelled to go on in it, long after you have found
that it is wrong. You have made your bed, and you
must lie on it. And it is sad to think how early in
life all life may be marred. A mere boy or girl may
get into the dismal lane which has no turning; and
out of which they never can get, to start afresh in a
better. track. How many of us, my readers, would
be infinitely better and happier, if we could but begin
~ai




64    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
An End is sometimes a very great blessing. I
have no doubt, my readers, that in your childhood
you have often felt this when a sermon was brought
to a close. Perhaps in maturer years you have experienced a like emotion of relief under the like circumstances. I can say deliberately that never in my
youth did I once wish that such a discourse should be
longer than it was. Yet we all remember bow we
have shrunk from Ends. You may have read a fairy
tale by Mr. Thackeray, with illustrations by its author. One of these is a cartoon, representing a boy
eating a bun, apparently of superior quality; and
at the same time expressing a sentiment common to
early youth. He eats; and as he eats, he' speaks as
follows: "Oh what fun! Nice plum-bun! How I
wish it never was done!"  I remember the mental
state. I have known it well. In my mind it is
linked with the thought of plum-pudding, and of
other luxuries and dainties. It was sad to see the
object lessen, as it was enjoyed, - to see it melt away,
like a summer sunset!  And about Christmas-time,
one had sometimes a like feeling as to the appetite
and relish for plum-pudding and the like. Would it
were unceasing! I mean the appetite. But you remember how it flagged. And though you stimulated
it with cold water, yet the fourth supply beat you,
and had to be taken away. And you remember, too,
how you shrunk from the end of your holiday season, and wished that time would stand still. You




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.    65
may have read the awful scene in Christopher Marlowe's " Faustus," where the hapless philosopher, on the
verge of his appointed season, seems to cling to each
moment as it passes away from him. And oh, my
reader, if the great work of life have not been done
while the day lasted, think how awful it will be to
feel that the end of the day of grace is here! Think
of poor Queen Elizabeth in her dying hour, offering
all the wealth of her kingdom for another day of life!
We cannot, in the commonplace days of ordinary
health and occupation, rightly realize the tremendous
fact; but think of the End of this life, to the man
who has no hope beyond it! To feel that-all in the
world you have toiled for and loved is going from
you; to feel your feeble hand losing its grasp of all;
to see the faces around grow dim through the mists
of death; to feel the weary heart pausing, and the
last chill creeping upwards; to feel that you are
driven irresistibly to the edge of the awful gulf, -
and no hope beyond! But remember, reader, it will
be your own fault, if you come to that.
It is the end of a career that gives the character
to it all. We feel as if a life, however honorable
and happy, were blighted by a sorry ending. The
thought of Napoleon at St. Helena squabbling about
the thickness of his camp soup, and the number of
clean shirts to be allowed him, casts back an impression of pettiness upon the man even in his mid-career.
There is a graver consideration.  If'a man had lived




66    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
many years in usefulness and honor, but finally fell
into grievous sin and shame, we should think of his
life as on the whole a shameful one. But if a man
end his career nobly, if his last years are honorable
and happy, we should think of his life on the whole
as one of happiness and honor, though its beginning
were ever so lowly and sad. You remember how a
great king of ancient days asked a philosopher to
name some of the happiest of the race. The philosopher named several men, all of whom were dead.
The king asked him why he did not think of men
still living; "Look at all my splendor," he said to the
philosopher; " why do you not think of me? "  " A,'"
said the wise man; " who knows what your life and
your lot may be yet? I call no man happy before
he dies!" [Distinguished classical scholar, I am not
telling the story for you.] And, sure enough, that
monarch was reduced to captivity and misery; and
died a miserable captive: and so you would not say
that his life was a happy or a prosperous one on the
whole. But in the most important of all our concerns, my friend, the End is far more important than
that. You know that though the monarch, vanquished
and uncrowned, died in a dungeon, that could not blot
out the years of royalty he had actually lived. He
had been a king, once; however fallen now. The
man who sits by his lonely fireside, silent and deserted, can yet remember the days when that quiet
dwelling was noisy and gladsome with young voices:




CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.   61
they were real days, when his children were round
him; and it does him good yet to look back on them,
- though now the little things are in their graves.
But the fearful thing about the Christian who ends in
sin and shame, is this: He dare not comfort himself
under the present wretchedness, by looking back to
better days, when he thought he was safe. The fearful thing is that this present end of sin has power to
blot out those better days: if a man, however fair his
profession, end at last manifestly not a Christian, this
proves that he never was a Christian at all! You see
what tremendous issues depend upon the Christian
life ending well! It is little to say that ending ill is
a sad thing at the time: it is that ending ill flings
back a baleful light on all the days that went before!
If the end be bad, then there was something amiss all
along, however little suspected it may have been. It
is only when the end is well over, that you can be
perfectly sure you are safe.  You remember Mr.
Moultrie's beautiful poem, about his living children
and his dead child. The living children were good,
were all he could wish; but God only knew how
temptation might prevail against them as years went
on; but as for the dead one, he was safe. "It may
be that the Tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may
sever; But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be
ours forever!" Yes, that little one had passed the
End; no evil nor peril could touch him more.




68    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
I dare say you have sometimes found that for a lay
or two, a line of poetry or some short sentence of
prose would keep constantly recurring to your memory. I find it so; and the line is sometimes Shakspeare's; sometimes Tennyson's; often it is from a
certain Volume (the Best Volume) of which it is my
duty to think a great deal. And I remember how,
not long since, for about a week, the line that was
always recurring was one by Solomon, king and philosopher (and something more): it was " Better is the
end of a thing than the beginning."  And at first I
thought that the words sounded sad, and more heathen-like than Christian. Has it come to this, that
God's Word tells us concerning the life God gave us,
that the best thing that can happen to us is soonest to
get rid of that sad gift; and that each thing that
comes our way, is something concerning which we
may be glad when it is over? I thought of Mr.
Kingsley, and wondered if the sum  of the matter,
after all, is "The sooner it's over, the sooner to
sleep;" and of Sophocles, and how he said " Not to
be, is best of all; but when one hath come to this
world, then to return with quickest step to whence he
came, is next." But then I saw, gradually, that the
words are neither cynical nor hopeless; that they do
but remind us of the great truth, that God would have
our life here one of constant progress from good to
better, and so the End best of all. We are to be
"forgetting those things which are behind, and reach



CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.    69
ing forth unto those which are before," because the
best things are still before us. If things in this world
go as God intended they should, then everything is a
step  to something else, something farther: which
ought to be an advance on what went before it; which
ought to be better than what went before it. And
above all, the End of our life here (if it end well), so
safe and so happy, is far better than its Beginning,
with all the perils of the voyage yet to come.
I thought of these things the other Sunday afternoon, seeing the Beginning and the End. almnost side
by side. At that service I did not preach; and I was
sitting in a square seat in a certain church, listening
to a very good sermon preached by a friend. A certain little boy, just four years old, came and sat beside
me, leaning his head on me as a pillow; and soon
after the beginning of the sermon, the little man (very
properly) fell sound asleep. And (attending to the
sermon all the while) I could not but look down at
the fat rosy little face, and the abundance of curly
hair; the fresh, clear complexion, the cheerful, innocent expression; and think how fair and pleasing a
thing is early youth, - how beautiful and hopeful is
our life's Beginning. And after service was over, on
my way home, I went to see a revered friend, who, at
the end of a long Christian life, was dying. There
was the worn, ghastly face, with its sharp features;
the weary, worn-out frame; the weakened, wandering
mind, so changed from what it used to be. And




70    CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.
standing by that good Christian's bed, and thinking of
the little child, I said to myself, There is the Beginning of life; Here is the End; — what shall we say in
the view of that sad contrast? And I thought, there
and then, that " Better is the end of a thing than the
beginning!"  Yes; better is the end of a dangerous
voyage than its outset. You have seen a ship sailing
away upon a long, perilous voyage over the ocean;
the day was fair and sunshiny, and the ship looked
gay and trim, with her white sails and her freshlypainted sides. And you have seen a ship coming safe
into port at the end of her thousands of miles over the
deep, under a gloomy, stormy sky, and with hull and
masts battered by winds and waves. And you have
thought, I dare say, that better far was this ending,
safe and sure, than even that sunshiny beginning, with
all the risks before it. And here, in the worn figure
on the weary bed, here is the safe end of the voyage
of life! Oh, what perils are yet before the merry little child! Who can say if that little one is to end in
glory? But to the dying Christian all these perils
are over. He is safe, safe! And then, remember, this
is not yet the end, you see. It is NOT the end, that
weary figure, lying on that bed of pain. It is only
the last step before the end. A very little, and how
glorious and happy that sufferer will be! You would
not wish to keep him here, when you think of all the
blessedness into which the next step from this pain
will bear him. Nay; but you may take up, in a sub



CONCERNING BEGINNINGS AND ENDS.    71
limer significance than that of deliverance from mere
earthly ill, the beautiful words of the greatest poet:
" Vex not his soul: oh, let him pass! He hates him,
That would, upon the rack of this rough world,
Stretch him out longerl "




CHAPTER IV.
GOING ON.
K ffi HERE are many things of which you
have a much more vivid perception at
some times than at others. The thing is
before you; but sometimes you can grasp
it firmly, sometimes it eludes you mistily. You are
walking along a country path, just within hearing of
distant bells. You hear them faintly; but all of a
sudden, by some caprice of the wind, the sound is
borne to you with startling clearness. There is something analogous to that in our perceptions and feelings
of many great facts and truths. Commonly, we perceive them and feel them faintly; but sometimes they
are borne in upon us, we cannot say how.  Sometimes we get vivid glimpses of things which we had
often talked of, but which we had never truly discerned and realized before. And for many days it
has been so with me. I have seemed to feel the lapse
of time with startling clearness. I have no doubt, my
reader, that you have sometimes done the like. You
have seemed to actually perceive the great current




GOING ON..                 78
with which we are all gliding steadily away and
away.
Rapid movement is a thing which has a certain
power to disguise itself from the person who is involved in it. Every one knows that if you are travelling in an express train at sixty miles an hour, you
do not feel the speed nearly so much as the man does
who stands beside the track and sees the great mass
sweep by like a hurricane. Have you ever thought it
would be curious, if we could for a few minutes be
made sensible of the world's motion?" Here we are,
tearing on through space at an inconceivable speed.
We do not feel it, of course; we could not stand it.
I should like to feel it for half a minute - not for more.
But it is not that motion we are to think of at present. No special illumination has been accorded to
me, making me feel that fact which we all know without feeling. But there is another rapid motion, common to all of us, as is the motion of the earth which
bears us all. There is a great current.bearing us
along and all things about us, which is commonly not
much felt. But it seems to me that for several weeks
I have been actually feeling it. I have been excessively busy; living in a great pressure and hurry of
occupations. In that state, my reader, you feel Sunday after Sunday return with a rapidity which takes
away your breath; and let me say that if you have to
provide one sermon, and still more if you have to provide two, against the return of each, you will in that




74                 GOING ON.
fever of work and haste come to look from one Sunday to the next till you will come to find them flying
past you like the quarter-mile posts on a railway.
You will find that you can hardly believe, walking
into church on Sunday morning, that a week has gone
since the last Sunday. And in such a time you will
realize much more distinctly than you usually do, that
all things are going on, - drifting away, - all in company. These April days are taking life away from
you, from me, -' from prince and peasant. There is
one thing at least which all human beings are using
up at exactly the same rate. We can all get out of
the day just twenty-four hours, neither more nor less.
One man may live at the rate of a hundred pounds a
year, and another at the rate of a hundred thousand;
but each expends his time at the rate of three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Whatever other
differences there may be between the lots of human
beings, we are all drifting on with the current of time,
and drifting at the same rate exactly. And we are
certainly drifting. We are never quite the same in
two successive weeks. One Sunday is not like the
last. Look closely, and you will see that there is a
difference, - slight perhaps, but real. Each time you
sit down to your " Saturday Review" you feel there is
a difference since the last time. Still more do you feel
it, as you read the returning " Fraser," coming at the
longer interval of a month. Things never come back
again quite the same. And indeed in Nature there is




GOING ON.                  75
a singular dislike to uniformity. If to-day be a fine
day, look back; it is almost certain that this day
last year was rainy. If to-day you are in very cheerful spirits, it is probable that- on the corresponding day
in the year that is gone you were very dull and
anxious. No doubt human beings sometimes successfully resist Nature's love of variety. Some men have
an especial love for having and doing things always in
the same way. They walk on special days always on
the same side of the street; perhaps they put their
feet like Dr. Johnson, on the same stones in the pavement. They dress in the same way year after year.
They maintain anniversaries, arld try to bring the old
party around the table once more, and to have the old
time back. But we cannot have things exactly over
again. There is a difference in the feeling, even if
you are able precisely to reproduce the fact. And
indeed the wonder is that things are so much like, as
they are to-day, to what they were a year ago, when
we think of the innumerable possibilities of change
that hang over us. Yes, we are drifting on and on,
down to the great sea. Sit down, my friend, to
write your article. You have written many. The
paper is the same; the table on Which you write is
the same; the inkstand is the same; and the pen is
made by the same mender that made all the rest.
And it is possible enough that when the article is
printed at last, your readers will say that it is just the
same thing over again; but it is not. To your feeling




76                 GOING ON.
this day's work is quite different from the work of all
preceding days. There is an undefinable variation
from  whatever was before.  And  as weeks and
months go on, there come to be differences which some
may think more real than any in the comparatively
fanciful respect of feeling. The hair is turning thin
and gray; the old spirit is subdued.  There are
changes in taste, in judgment, in feeling, in many
ways. Yes, we are all Going On.
I wish to stop. There is something awful in this
perpetual progression. If the current would slacken
its speed, at least, and let one quietly think for a little
while! Let us sit down, my friend, by the way-side.
We are old enough now to look back, as well as to
look round; and to think how life is going with us,
and with those we know. We are now in the middle
passage; perhaps farther on. And if we are half way
in fact, assuredly we are far more in feeling. Though
a man live to seventy, his first thirty-five years are by
far the longer portion of his life.
Let us think to-day, my reader, of ourselves and of
our friends; and of how it is faring with us as we go on.
It is a curious thing now, when we have settled to
our stride, and are going on (in most cases) very
much as we probably shall go on as long as we live, to
compare what we are with what we promised at our
entrance on life to be. You remember people who
began with a tremendous flourish of trumpets,-people
of whom there was a vague impression, more or less




GOING ON.                  77
general, that they were to do great things. Sometimes this impression was confined to the man himself.
Not unfrequently it was shared by his mother and his
sisters. It occasionally extended to his father and his
brothers.  And in a few cases, generally in these
cases not without some reason, it prevailed in the
mind of his fellow-students. And it may be said, that
a belief that some young lad is destined to do considerable things, if it be anything like universal among
his college companions, must have some foundation.
A belief to the same effect with regard to any young
man, if confined to two or three of his intimate companions, is generally quite groundless; and if it exist
only in the heart of his mother and of himself, it is
quite sure to be absurd and idiotic. We can all, probably, remember individuals who, without any reason
apparent to onlookers, cherished a most extraordinary
high opinion of themselves; and one which was not at
all taken down by frequently being beaten, and even
distanced, in the competitions of College life. Such
individuals, for the most part, indulged a very bitter
and malicious spirit towards students more able and
successful than themselves. I wish I could believe
that modesty always goes with merit. I fear no rule
can be laid down. I have beheld inordinate selfconceit in very clever fellows, as well as in very
stupid ones. And I have beheld self-conceit developed in a degree which could hardly be exceeded, in
individuals who were neither very clever nor very




78                 GOING ON.
stupid, but remarkably ordinary in every way. Let
me here remark, that I have known the most enthusiastic admiration excited in the breasts of one or two
individuals by a very commonplace man. I mean
admiration of his talents. And I beheld the spectacle
with great wonder, not unmixed with indignation. I
can quite understand man or woman feeling enthusi
astic admiration for a great and wonderful genius. 1
can feel that warm admiration myself. And I can
imagine its existing in youthful minds, even when
the genius is dashed with great failings, or is of a very
irregular nature. But the thing I wonder at, and
cannot understand, is enthusiastic admiration professed
and felt for dreary commonplace. I am not in the
least surprised when I hear a young person, or indeed
an old one, speaking in hyperbolical terms of the
preaching of Bishop Wilberforce. I have heard it
myself, and I know how brilliant and effective it is.
But I really look with wonder at the young woman
who professes equally enthusiastic admiration of the
sermons of Dr. Log. I have heard Dr. Log preach.
I could not for my life attend to his sermon. It was
horribly tiresome. There was not in it a trace of pith
or beauty. It approached to the nature of twaddle.
I was awe-stricken when I heard it described in rapturous phrases. I recognized a superior intelligence.
I. thought to myself, reversing Mr. Tickell's lines,
"You hear a voice I cannot hear; you see a hand I
cannot see." It is right to add, that the enthusiastic




GOING ON.                 79
appreciators of Dr. Log were very few in number,
and that they appeared to me nearly as stupid as Dr.
Log himself.
But leaving Dr. Log and his admirers, let me say
that very clever fellows, very stupid fellows, and very
commonplace fellows, have started in life with a great
flourish of trumpets. The vanity of many lads, leaving the University, is enormous. They expect to set
the Thames on fire, to turn the world upside down.
A few takings-down bring the best of them to modesty
and sense. And the men for whom the flourish was
loudest do sometimes, when all find their level, have
to rest at a very low one. Many painful mortifications
and struggles bring them to it. Oh! if talent and
ambition could always be in a man, in just proportion!
But I have known the most commonplace of men,
with ambition that would have given enough to do to
the abilities of Shakspeare. And we may perhaps
say, that no one who begins with a great flourish ever
fails to disappoint himself and his friends. He may
do very well; he may do magnificently; but he does
not come up to the great expectations formed of him.
I was startled the other day to hear a certain man
named as a failure, who has attained supreme eminence in his own walk in life, and that a conspicuous
one. I said No; he is anything but a failure; he has
attained extraordinary eminence; he is a great man.
But the reply was, " Ah, we expected far more I We
thought he would leave an impression on the age, and




80                 GOING ON.
he has certainly not done that; while it seems certain
he has done the best he is ever to do." But look
round, my friend, and think how the world goes with
those who set out with you. They are generally, I
suppose, jogging on humbly and respectably.  The
present writer did not in his youth live among those
from whom the famous of the earth are likely to be
taken. One or two of the number have risen to no
small eminence; but the lot of most has circumscribed
their ambition. It is not in the Senate that he can
look to find many of the names of his old companions.
It is not likely that any will be buried in Westminster Abbey. The life of two or three may perhaps be
written, if they leave behind them a warm friend who
is not very busy. It does not matter. The nonsense
has been taken out of us by the work of life. And
on the whole, we are going creditably on.
It is worthy of notice, that things which at the beginning were very bad may be made good by a very
small change wrought upon them. You see this in
human beings, as they go on through life. You remember, I have no doubt, how various passages in
the earlier writings of Mr. Tennyson, on which the
" Quarterly Review" savagely fixed at their first pub
lication, and which Mr. Tennyson's warmest admiren
must admit to have been in truth very weak, affected
and ridiculous, have by alterations of wonderfull?
small amount been brought to a state in which the
most fastidious critic could find no fault in them




GOING ON.                 81
Just a touch from the master-hand did it all. You
have in a homelier degree felt the same yourself, in
correcting and re-writing your own crude and immature compositions. Often a very small matter takes
away the mark of that Beast whose name shall not be
mentioned here. I know a very distinguished preacher, really a pulpit orator, whose manner at his outset
was remarkably awkward. No doubt he has devoted
much pains to his manner since; though his art is
high enough to conceal any trace of art. I heard him
preach not long since; and his manner was singularly
graceful; while yet there was no great change materially. You have remarked how the features of a
girl's face, very plain at fourteen, have at twenty
grown remarkably pretty. And yet the years have
wrought no very great change. The face is unquestionably and quite recognizably the same; yet it has
passed from plainness into beauty. And so, as we go
on in life, you will find a man has got rid of some
little intrusive folly which just makes the difference
between his being very good and his being very bad.
The man whose tendency to boast, or to exaggerate
or to talk thoughtlessly of others, made him appear a
fool in his youth, has corrected that one evil tendency,
and lo! he is quite altered- he is all right; he is a
wise and good man. You would not have believed
what a change for the better would be made by that
little thing. You know, I dare say, how poor and bad
are the first crude thoughts for your sermon or your
6




82                 GOING ON.
article, thrown at random on the page. Yet when
you have arranged and rounded them into a symmetrical, and accurate, and well-considered composition,
it is wonderful how little change there is from the first
rude sketch. Look at the waste scraps of paper before you throw them into the fire, and you will find
some of your most careful and best sentences there,
word for word. You have not been able to improve
upon the way in which you first dashed them down.
There is a sad thing which we are all made to feel,
as we are going on. It is, that we are growing out of
things which we are sorry to outgrow. The firmest
conviction that we are going on to what is better,
cannot suppress some feeling of regret at the thought
of what we are leaving behind. When I was a country parson, I used to feel very sorry to see a laurel
or a yew growing out of the shape in which I remembered it; and which was associated with pleasant days.
There was a dull pang at the sight. I remember well
a little yew I planted with my own hand. It looks
like yesterday since I held its top, while a certain man
filled in the earth, and put the sod round its stem.
For some time it appeared doubtful if that yew would
live and grow; at last it was fairly established, and it
began to grow vigorously the second year. For a
year or two more, it was a neat, shaggy little thing;
but then it began to put out tremendous shoots, and to
grow out of my acquaintance. I felt I was losing an




GOING ON.                83
old friend. Many a time I had stood and looked at
the little yew; I knew every branch of it; and always
went to look at it when I had been a few days away.
No doubt it was growing better; it was progressing
with a yew's progress; I was getting a new friend
better than the old one; yet I sighed for the old one
that was gradually leaving me. You do not like to
think that your little child must grow into something
quite different from what it is now, must die into the
grown up man or woman, must grow hardened to the
world, and cease to be lovable as now. You would
like to keep the little thing as it is, when it climbs
on your knee, and lays a little soft cheek against your
own. Even in the big girl of seven, that goes to
school, you regret the wee child of three that you used
to run after oi the little green before your door; and
in the dawn of cleverness and thought, though pleasant to see, still you feel there is something gone which
you would have liked to keep. But it is an inevitable
law, that you cannot have two inconsistent good things
together. ~ You cannot at once have your field green
as it is in spring, and golden as it is in autumn. You
cannot at once live in the little dwelling which was
long your home, and which is surrounded by the memories of many years; and in the more beautiful and
commodious mansion which your increasing wealth has
been able to buy. You cannot at once be the merchant prince, wealthy, influential, esteemed by all,
though gouty, ageing, and careworn; and the hopeful,




84                 GOING ON.
light-hearted lad that came in from the country to
push his way, and on whose early aspirations and
struggles you look back with a confused feeling as
though he were another being. You cannot at the
same time be a country parson, leisurely and quiet,
living among green fields and trees, and knowing the
concerns of every soul in your parish; and have the
privilege and the stimulus of preaching to a congregation of educated folk in town. Yet you would look
round in silence and regret, when you look for the last
time upon the scenes amid which you passed some
considerable part of your life; even though you felt
that the new place of your labors and your lot were
ever so much better. And though you know it is
well that your children should grow up into men and
women, still you will sometimes be sorry that their
happy childhood must pass so swiftly and so completely away; that it must be so entirely lost in that
which is to come after it; that even in the healthy
maturity of body and of mind there is so little that
recalls to you the merry little boy or girl you used to
know. Yes; we may have got on to something that
is unquestionably better; but still we miss the dear
old time and way. It is as with the emigrant, who
has risen to wealth and position in the new world
across the sea; but who often thinks, with fond regret,
of the hills of his native land; and who, through all
these years, has never forgotten the cottage where he
drew'his first -breath, and the little church-yard where




GOING ON.                 85
his father and mother are sleeping. Yes; you little
man with the very curly hair, standing at that sofa
turning over the leaves of a large Bible with pictures;
stay as you are, as long as you can! For I may live
to see you grow into something far less pleasant to
see; but I shall never live to see you Lord Chancellor; though that distinguished post (it iswell known)
is the natural designation of a Scotch clergyman's
son.
There is something rather awful implied in going
on. Its possibilities are vast; you may yet have
greatly to modify your opinion of any man who is still
going on. The page is not finished yet; and it may
be terribly blotted before it is -done with. But the
man who is no longer going on; the man who has
finished his page and handed it in; is fixed and
statuesque. There he is, forever. You may finally
make up your mind about him. He can never do
anything to disappoint you now. But very many men
do live on, just to disappoint. They have done their
best already; and they are going on producing work
very inferior to what they once did, and to what we
might expect of them. You go and hear a great
preacher; not upon a special occasion, but in his own
church, upon a common Sunday. You have read his
published sermons, and thought them very fine; some
sentences from them'still linger on your ear. Unhappily, he did not stop with these fine things.'He is




86                 GOING ON.
going on still; and what he is turning off now is quite
~different. There is little to remind you of what he
was. Your lofty idea of that great and good man
is sadly shattered. No doubt this is not always so.
There are men who go on through life; and go on
without deterioration. There are men who are always
themselves; always up to the mark. But for the
most part, going on implies a great falling off. Think
of Sir Walter Scott's last novels. Think of Byron's
last poetry.  Compare "The Virgin Widow" with
"Philip-Van Artevelde"  Think of the latter productions of the author of " Festus. "  Think of the
last squeezings from the mind of Dr. Chalmers. Think
of the recent appearances, intellectual and moral, of
Mr. Walter Savage Landor. Think how roaring Irish
patriots have become the pensioners of the Saxon,
after having publicly sworn never to touch the alien
coin. Think how men who bearded the tyrant in
their youth, have ended in contented toadyism. We
are never perfectly safe in forming a judgment of any
man who is still going on; that is, of any living man.
We shall not call him good, any more than happy, till
we have seen the last of him. His very ending may
be enough to blight all his past life. You cannot as
yet settle the mark of a man who is still painting pictures, still publishing poems, still writing books, still
speaking in parliament, still taking a prominent part
in public business. He may possibly rise far above
anything he has yet done. He may possibly sink so




GOING ON.                 87
far below it, as to lower the general average of his
entire life. As regards fame, the right thing is an
end like Nelson's.' He ended at his best; and ended
definitively. Even Trafalgar would have been overclouded if the hero had still kept going on. Think
of him perhaps coming back; being made a Duke;
evincing great vanity; trying to become a leader
among the Peers, and showing his lack of business
aptitude and of sound judgment in politics; coming to
be occasionally hissed about the streets of London
getting involved in discreditable tricks to gain office.
Now Nelson might have done none of these things.
But I believe any one who reads his life will feel that
he might have done them all. And was it not far
better that the weak, but great man, the true hero, the
warm-hearted, lovable, brave, honest admiral, should
be taken away from the petty and sordid possibilities
of Going On; that it should be made sure he
should never vex or disappoint us; that he should die
in a blaze of glory, and leave a name for every Briton
to cherish and to love? There are living men, concerning whom we might regret that they are still
going on.  They cannot rise above their present
estimation; they may well sink below it. It would
be a great thing if some means could be devised, by
which a man might stop, without dying. A man
might say, after having done some difficult and honorable work, reaching over a large portion of his life,
" Now, I stop here. I take my stand on what I have




GOING ON.
done; judge of me by that. I must still go on
breathing the air as before; but I fear I shall let
myself down; so don't inquire aboit me any further.'
We all know that great and good men have sometimes, in the latter chapters of their life, done things
on which we can but shut our eyes, and which we
can but strive to forget. It seems quite certain that
Solomon, albeit the wisest of men, became a weak old
fool in his latter days; nor does the only reliable
history say anything of final repentance and amendment. And silly or evil doings early in life, may be
effaced from remembrance by wise and good doings
afterwards,; while silly and evil doings in the last
stage of life, appear to stamp the character of it all.
It is this thought which sometimes makes the recollection that we are still going on, weigh heavily on
one. There is no saying how the page of our life
may be blotted before it is finished; and you must
let me say, my friend, that the wise man will stand
in great fear and suspicion of himself; and will very
earnestly apply for that sacred influence which alone
can hold him right to the end, where alone it is to be
found. There are many things to make one thoughtful, as we remember how we are going on; but the
great thing (as regards one's self) is, after all, the sight
of the gloom before us, into which we are advancing
day by day; not seeing even a step ahead. And to
that may be added the occasional examples which are
pressed upon us in the case of others, who once




GOING ON.                  89
seemed very much like ourselves, of what human
beings may come to be. And that which man has
done, man may do. I see various things that are
worthy of note, as I look round on the procession of
the human beings I know and remember, and think
what comes as we go on. I see some who are rather
battered and travel-stained.  The greatness of the
way is beginning to tell. I see some who look somewhat worn and jaded.  There are little physical
symptoms of the wear of the machine. The hair of
certain men is going, or even gone. The teeth of
some are not complete, as of yore. On the whole, I
trust, we are gaining. I do not think there is any
period of life that one would wish to live over again;
no period, at least, of more than a very few days.
There are wrecks, no doubt; some who broke down
early, and have quite disappeared, one does not know
where; and among these, more than one or two whose
promise was of the best.
Thinking of this one day, I was walking along a
certain street, and came to a place where it was needful to cross. A carriage stopped the way, if that indeed can be called a carriage which was no more than
a cab. And my attention was attracted by -the cabhorse, which was standing close by the pavement.
He was a sorry creature; but, as you looked at him,
there was no mistaking the thoroughbred. There wag
the light head, once so graceful; the dilated, sensitive
nostrils were still there, and the slendetr legs. Bui




90                GOING ON.
the poor legs were bent and shaky; the neck was cut
into by the collar; the hair was rubbed off the skin
in many places; and the sides were going with that
peculiar motion which indicates broken wind. Here
was what the poor horse had come to. At first doubtless he was a graceful, cheerful creature, petted and
made much of in his youth. Probably he proved not
worth training for a race-horse; and a thoroughbred
without sufficient bone and muscle is very useless for
practical purposes; though it may be remarked that
a thoroughbred with sufficient bone and muscle is the
best horse for every kind of work except drawing
coals or beer. So the poor thing became a ridinghack, and having fallen a few times, was sold for a
cab-horse. And it was plain that for many days he
had been poorly fed, and hardly worked; and that now
the cab-proprietor was taking all he could out of him,
before giving him over to the knacker, to be made into
sausages. It is a popular delusion that the last stage
in a horse's existence is to go to the dogs. There are
some districts in which he goes to the pigs; and others
in which he ends by affording nutriment, in a disguised form, to human beings.  I am no alarmist,
and I believe horse-flesh is quite salutary. All I have
to add is, that persons having an antipathy to that
article of food, had better inquire where their bacon
was fed, and had better keep a sharp eye upon their
sausages.
This, however, is a digression from a sad reflection.




GOING ON.                 91
That poor cab-horse suggested various human beings
whom I once knew. We have all known clever and
promising youths who became drunken wrecks, and
who deviated into various paths of sin, shame, and
ruin. I laid down my pen when I had written that
sentence, and thought of four, five, six, who had ended
so, thinking of them not without a tear. Some were
the very last you would have expected to come to this.
There are indeed men whose career as youths is quite
of a piece with their after-career of shame; but my
early friends were not such as these. I can think of
some, cheerful, amiable, facile in the hand of companions good or bad, who bade fair for goodness and
happiness, yet who went astray, and who were wrecked
very soon. I knew of one, once a man of high character and good standing, who had to become as one
dead, and who was long afterwards traced, a sailor in
distant seas. He had a beautiful voice; and I have
heard that it was fine to hear him singing on the deck
by moonlight as he kept his watch.  Poor wretch,
with what a heavy heart!
The change that passes upon one's self, as we go on
through life, comes so gradually through the wear of
successive days, that we are hardly conscious how perceptibly we are getting through all that we have to
get through here. We fancy, quite honestly, that we
do not look any older in the last ten years, and that
we are now just the same as we were ten years since.




92                GOING ON.
We fancy that, intellectually and morally, we are better; and physically, just the same. People whose
character and history are commonplace at least fancy
this in their more cheerful hours. But sometimes it
comes home to us what a change has passed on us,
perhaps in not a very long time. You will feel this
especially in reading old letters and diaries; the letters
you wrote and the diary you kept long ago. You
probably thought that your present handwriting is exactly the same as your handwriting of ten years since;
but when you put the two side by side, you will see
how different they are. And in the perusal of these
ancient documents, it will be borne in upon you how
completely changed are the things you care for. The
cares and interests, the fears and hopes, of the old
days, are mainly gone. You have arrived at quite
different estimates of people and of things; and if you
be a wiser, you are doubtless a sadder man. And
when you go back to the school-boy spot, or to the
house where you lived when you were ten years old,
it will be a curious thing to contrast the little fellow
of that time, with your own grave and sobered self.
And you will do so the more vividly in the presence
of some well-remembered object, which has hardly
changed at all in the years which have changed you
so much. It is a commonplace; but commend me tb
commonplaces for reaching the common heart; the
picture of the aged man, or even the man in middle
age, standing beside the tree or the river by which he




GOING ON.                  93
played when he wag a little child. The hills, the
fields, the trees around, are the same; and there is he,
so changed! You remember Wordsworth's beautiful
ballad, in which the old schoolmaster is lying beside
the fountain, by which he was used to lie in his days
of youthful strength; you remember the same old
man, looking back, from a bright April morning, to
another April morning exactly like it, but past for
forty years. We may well believe, that there is not
a human being but knows the feeling. It is some
little thing in our own history that we remember; but
it has touched the electric chain of association, and
wakened up the past. There is a rude song current
among the coal-miners of the north of England, in
which an old man is standing by an old oak-tree, and
speaking to that unchanged friend of the change that
has passed upon himself; and though the chorus, recurring at the end of each verse, is not so graceful as
the lines which Wordsworth gives to Matthew, the
thought is exactly the same. The words are, " Sair
failed, hinny, sair failed now; sair failed, hinny, sin I
kenned thou." But of all the poems which contrast
the much-changed man and the little-changed tree, I
know of none more touching than one I lately read
in an American magazine. It is called "The Name
in the Bark." Here is a part of the poem: —
The self of so long ago,
And the self I struggle to know,
I sometimes think we are two, - or are we shadows of one?




94                     GOING ON.
To-day the shadow I am,
Comes back in the sweet summer calm,
To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun.
Once more in the dewy morn,
I trod through the whispering corn:
Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were blown:
The ribboned and tasselled grass
Leaned over the flattering glass;
And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone.
To the gray old birch I came,
Where I whittled my schoolboy name:
The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the railThe blackbirds down among
The alders noisily sung,
And under the blackberry-trees whistled the serious quail.
I came, remembering well,
How my little shadow fell,
As I painfully reached and wrote to leave to the future a sign:
There, stooping a little, I found
A half-healed, curious wound; —
An ancient scar in the bark, but no initial of mine!
I shall not add the verses in which the poet wisely
moralizes on this instance how fast the traces we
leave behind us pass away. Is it because I can remember how my little shadow fell, many years since,
that the last-quoted verse touches me as it does? We
cast a different shadow now, my friend, from that little one we remember well; and it will not be very
long till the shadows that fell and the substance that
cast them shall have left here an equal trace.




GOING ON.                  95
Yes, my readers, we are all changed, as we are
going on, from what we used to be. And it is no
wonder we are changed. The wonder is that we are
not changed a great deal more. How much hard
work we have done; how much care, trouble, anxiety, disappointment, we have come through! What
painful lessons we have been obliged to learn, every
one of us! A great deal of the work we do is merely
to serve the purposes of the time, and it leaves no
trace; but when the work done leaves its tangible
memorial, it often strikes us much; and we wonder
to see how fresh and unwearied the man looks who
did it all. I have seen the accumulated stock of sermons of a clergyman of more than forty years in the
Church. It was awful to see what a vast mass they
were. And even when we look not at the work of a
lifetime, but at the results of what was no more than
part of the work of a few years, we.do so with a feeling of surprise that the man who did it was not at
the end of his work much changed to appearance
from  what he was when he began it. Some time
since I got back for a short time the prize essays I
wrote while at college. They filled a whole shelf,
and not a very small shelf. It was awful to look at
them. They were all written before the writer was
twenty-two. They were great heavy volumes -
heavy physically; and intellectually and mesthetically
still heavier. I tried to read one, but could not, because it was so tiresome; and I may therefore fairly




96                 GOING ON.
conclude that no one will ever read them. Yet let
me confess, that having arranged them on a lower
shelf, I sat down on a rocking-chair immediately in
front of them, and looked at them with great interest
and wonder. In such a prospect, what could one do
but shake one's head and sigh? The essays were all
successful, Mr. Snarling. Every one of those prize
essays got its prize. It. is not in mortification that
one sighs, but vaguely in the view of such an immense deal of hard work done to so very small purpose. And when you look at a man advanced in life,
whose whole life has been one of hard work, you cannot but confusedly wonder to see him looking as he
does. To see Lord Campbell walking about at Hartrigge, when he had reached the highest place that a
British subject can reach, - to see the benignant and
cheerful face of that remarkable man, and then to
think of the tremendous amount of mental labor he
had gone through in his long life, was a most perplexing and bewildering sight. When you are shown a
ship that has come back from an Arctic voyage, you
will generally remark that the ship looks like it; it
has a weather-beaten and battered aspect, suggestive
of crunching against icebergs and the like.  But
when you are shown a man whose voyage in life
has been a long and laborious one, you are sometimes
surprised to find that he looks as fresh and unwearied
as if he had done nothing all his life but amuse himself.




GOING ON.                 97
I have already said that it is a great blessing that
in this world there are such things as Beginnings and
Ends. It is a blessing that we can divide our way,
as we go on, into stages, — that we are saved the wearying and depressing effect of a very long uniform
look-out. We begin a succession of tasks; we end
them; - and then we begin afresh. And even those
things in which, in fact, there are no beginnings nor
ends, have.them in our feeling. The unvarying advance of time is broken into days and weeks; and we
feel a most decided end on Saturday night, and we
make a new start on Monday morning. It must be
dreadful for a man to work straight on, Sunday and
all other days. I believe it is impossible that any
man should do so long. The man who refuses to
observe a weekly day of rest will knock his head
against the whole system of things, to the detriment
of his head.
But even more valuable than this obvious result of
the existence of Beginnings and Ends is another. It
is an unspeakable blessing that a man who has got
himself thoroughly into a mess anywhere or in any
occupation, should be able to get away somewhere else
and begin again. If Mr. Snarling, who has quarrelled
with all his parishioners in his present charge, were
removed to another a hundred miles off, I think he
would take great pains to avoid those acts of folly and
ill-temper which have made him so unhappy where
he is. And let me say in addition, that most of us, as
7




98                 GOING ON.
we go on, are always in our hearts admitting the im
perfection and unsatisfactoriness of our past life. We
are every now and then, in thought and feeling, beginning again. Men are every now and then cutting
off the past; and acknowledging that they must start,
or (more commonly) that a little while back they did
start, anew. You occasionally avow to yourself, my
reader, though not to the world, that you were a blockhead even two or three years ago. You occasionally
say to yourself that your real life begins from this day
three years. From that date you think you have
been a great deal wiser and better. That course of
conduct five years ago; those opinions you held then,
that poem, essay, or book you wrote then; you are
willing to give up. You have not a word to say for
them. But that was in a former stage — in a different life. You have begun again since that; you have
cut connection with it. You say to yourself, "It may
be thirty years since I came into the world; but my
real life -the part of my life I am willing to avow
and to answer for —began on the 1st of January,
1860. I cut off all that preceded. I began again
then; and as for what I have said and done since
then, I am ready (as Scotch folk say) to stand on the
head of it. It is only in a limited sense that I admit
my identity with the individual who before that date
bore my name and wore my aspect. I disavow the
individual. I condemn him as severely as you can
do," Tell me, my reader, have you not many a time




GOING ON.                  99
done that? Have you not given up one leaf as hopelessly blotted, and tried to turn over a new one, -cut
off (in short) the preceding days of life and resolved
to begin again? Do so, my friend. You may make
something of the new leaf, but you will never make
anything of' the old one. And whenever you find any
human being anxious to begin again, always let him
do it, always help him to do it. Don't do as some
malicious wretches do, try to make it as difficult and
humiliating as possible for him to turn over the new
leaf. Don't try to compel him to a formal declaration in words that he sees his former life was wrong,
and wants to break away fiom it; it was bitter enough
for him to make that avowal to himself. You will
find malicious animals who, if man or child has done
wrong, and is sorry for it, and wishes to turn into a
better way, will do all they can to prevent the poor
creature from quietly turning away from the blurred
page and beginning the clean one. If there be joy in
heaven over the repenting sinner, it cannot be denied
that there is vicious spite over the repenting sinner
in certain hearts upon earth. Let us not seek to
make repentance harder than it is by its nature.
Unhappily there are cases in which neither in fact nor
in feeling is it possible to begin again, - at least upon
an unsullied page.  There are many people who
never have a second chance. They must go deeper
and deeper; they took the wrong turning, and they can
never go back. Such is generally the result 6f cr;me.




100                GOING ON.
There is one sex, at least, with which the one wrong
step is irretraceable. And even with the ruder half
of mankind, there are some deeds which, being done
shut you in like the spring-lock in poor Ginevra's oakchest. There is no repassing; and often the irreversible turning into the wrong track was not the result
of anything like crime; often the cause was no more
than ill-luck, or some foolish word or doing. What
disproportionate punishment often follows on little acts
of haste or folly! In the order of Providence folly
is often punished much more severely than sin. A
young fellow, foolishly thinking to gain the favor of
a sporting patron by exhibiting an extraordinary
knowledge of the turf and the chase, cuts himself off
from the living on which his heart was set. A
flippant word, hardly spoken till it was repented,
has prejudicially affected a man's whole after-career.
Various men, in pique and haste, have made marriages which blighted all their life, and which brought
an actual sorer punishment than that with which the
law visits aggravated burglary or manslaughter. It
is well in most cases to keep a way of retreat. It is.
well that before entering in you should see if you can
get out, should it prove desirable. You must be very
confident or very desperate if you cut off the bridge
behind you, when in front there is but to do or to die.
No doubt a habit of keeping the retreat open is fatal
to decision of action and character. There is good,
in one view, in feeling that we have crossed the Rubi




GOING ON.                101
con and are in for it; then we shall hold stoutly on;
otherwise, we may be advancing with only half a
heart. And there are important cases in which the
difference between half a heart and a whole one
makes just the difference between signal defeat and
splendid victory.
It is to be admitted, my friends, that as we go on,
the nonsense is being taken out of us. You have seen
a horse start upon its journey in a very frisky condition, kicking about and prancing; but after a few
miles it settles into doing its work steadily. That is
the image which to my mind represents our career,
going on. The romance has mainly departed. We
look for homely things, and are content with them.
Once, too, we expected to do great achievements, but
not now. We know, generally, our humble mark.
Indeed, the question as to the earning of bread and
butter has utterly crowded out of our hearts the question as to the attainment of fame. We would not
give one pound six and eight pence for wide renown.
We would not give the eight pence for posthumous
celebrity. We know our humble mark, I have said.
I mean intellectually. And it is a great comfort to
know it. It saves us much fever of competition, of
suspense, of disappointment. We cannot possibly be
beaten in the race of ambition; we cannot even injure
our lungs or our heart in the race of ambition; because we shall not run it at all. A wise man may be




102                GOING ON.
very glad, and very thankful, that he does not think
himself a great genius, and that he does not think what
he can do very splendid. For if a man thought himself a great genius, he would be bitterly mortified that
he was not recognized as such. And if a man thought
his sermons or his books very fine, he would be mortified that his church was not crammed to suffocation,
instead of being quite pleased when it is respectably
filled; and he would be disappointed that his books
do not sell by scores of thousands of copies, instead
of being joyful that about half the first edition sells,
leaving his publishers or himself only a little out of
pocket, besides all their time and trouble. I know a
man of highly respectable talents, who once published
a theological book. Nobody ever bought a copy except himself. But he bought a good many, which he
gave to his friends. And then he was extremely
pleased that so many copies were sold. Was he not
a wise and modest man?
Among other follies, I think that in going on, men,
if they have any sense at all, get rid of Affectation.
Few middle-aged men, unless they be by nature incurably silly and conceited, try to walk along the
street in a dignified and effective way. They wish to
get quickly and quietly along; and they have utterly
discarded the idea that any passer-by thinks it worth
while to look at them. Generally speaking, they sign
their names in a natural handwriting. They do not,
as a rule, look very cheerful. They seem, when




GOING ON.                103
silent, to fall into calculations, the result of which is
not satisfactory. The great tamer of men, is doubtless, the want of money. That is the thing that brings
people down from their airy flights and romantic imaginations; especially when there are some dependent on them. You may dismiss the very rich, who
never need think and scheme about money, and how
it is to be got, and how far it can be made to go, as an
inappreciable fraction of the human race. Care sits
heavy upon the great majority of those who are going
on. You know the anxious look, and the inelastic
step, of most middle-aged people who have children.
All these things are the result of the want of money.
Probably the want of money serves great ends in the
economy of things. Probably it is a needful and essential spur to work; and a useful teacher of modesty,
humility, moderation. No man will be blown up with
a sense of- his own consequence, or walk about fancying that he is being pointed out with the finger as the
illustrious Smith, when (like poor Leigh Hunt) he
fears lest the baker should refuse to send him bread,
or that the washerwoman should impound his shirts.
It is a lamentable story that is set out in the latter
portions of the " Correspondence " of that amiable but
unwise man. And human vanity needs a strong
pressure to keep it within moderate limits. Even the
wise man, with all his unsparing efforts to keep selfconceit down, has latent in him more of it than he
would like to confess. I lately heard of an outburst




104                GOING ON.
of the vanity latent in a decent farmer of moderate
means. One market day he got somewhat drunk,
unhappily. And walking home, on the country road,
he fell into a ditch, wherein he remained. Some of
his friends found him there, and proceeded to rescue
him. On approaching him, they found he was praying. For though drunk that day, he was really a
worthy main: it was quite an exceptional case; I
suppose he never got drunk again.  They caught
a sentence of his prayer. It was, "Lord, as Thou
hast made me great so do Thou make me good!"
His friends had no idea of the high estimation in
which the man held himself. He was, in the matter
of greatness, exactly on the same footing with the
other people round him. But he did not think so.
In his secret soul, he fancied himself a very superior
man. And when his self-restraint was removed by
whiskey, the fancy came out.
But he must have been at least a well-to-do man,
who had this idea of his own importance. Many men
are burdened far too heavily for that. Very many
men in this world are bearing just as much as they
can. A little more would break them down, as the
last pound breaks the camel's back. When a man is
loaded with as much work, or suffering, or disappointment, as he can bear, a very trifling addition will
make his burden greater than he can bear. I remember how a friend told me of a time when he was passing through the greatest trouble of his life. He had




GOING ON.                105
met a very heavy trial, but was bearing up wonder.
fully. One day, only a day or two after the stroke
had fallen, he was walking along a lonely and rocky
path, when he tripped and fell down, giving his knee
a severe stunning blow against a rock. He had been
able to bear up before, though his heart was full. But
that was the drop too much; and he broke down and
cried like a child, though before that he had not shed
a tear.
There are various conclusions at which men arrive
as they go on, which at an earlier part of their journey
they would have rejected with indignation. One thing
you will learn, my reader, as you advance, is, what you
may expect. I mean, in particular, how much you
may expect from the kindness of your friends; how
much they are likely to do for you; how much they
are likely to put themselves about to serve you. I do
not say it in the way of finding fault; but the ordinary
men of this world are so completely occupied in looking to their own concerns, that they have no time or
strength to spare for those of others. And, accordingly, if you stick in the mud, you had much better,
in all ordinary cases, try to get out yourself. Nobody
is likely to help you particularly. Good Samaritans,
in modern society, are rare; priests and levites are
frequent. I lately came to know a man who had
faithfully and effectually served a certain cause for
many years. He came at last to a point in his life at




106                GOING ON.
which those interested in the cause he had served
might have greatly helped him. He made sure they
would. But they simply did nothing. Nobody moved
a finger to aid that meritorious man. He was mortified; but after waiting a little, he proceeded to help
himself, which he did effectually. I do not think he
will trust to his friends any more. The truth is, that
beyond the closest circle of relationship, men in general care very little indeed for each other. I know
men, indeed, - and I say it with pride and thankfulness, - with whom the case is very different: I remember ond who loved his friends as himself, and who
stood up-for them everywhere with a noble devotion.
I think a good many of them caught from him the impulse that would have made them do as much for him;
but he was one of the truest friends and the noblesthearted men on this earth. Many months are gone
since he was laid in his grave; but how many of those
who will read this page cherish more warmly than
ever the memory of John Parker! "If I forget
thee," my beloved friend —you remember David's
solemn words.  But compared with the chance
acquaintances whom every one knows, he was as a
Man among Gorillas. And I recur to my principle,
that beyond closest ties of blood, men in general care
very little for one another. You have known, I dare
say, an old gentleman, dying in great suffering through
many weeks; but his old club friends did not care at
all; at most, very little. His suffering and death




GOING ON.                 107
caused them not the slightest appreciable concern.
You may expect certain of your friends to be extremely lively and amusing at a dinner-party, on the
day of your funeral. I remember, a good many years
ago, feeling very indignant at learning about a gay entertainment, where was much music and dancing, attended by a number of young people, on the evening
of the day on which a fair young companion of them
all was laid in her last resting-place. I am so many
years older; yet I confess I have not succeeded in
schooling myself to feel none of the indignation I then
felt; though I have thoroughly got rid of the slightest
tendency to the surprise I felt in that inexperienced
time. For, since then, I have seen a young fellow of
six-and-twenty engaged in a lively flirtation with two
girls who were in a railway carriage while he was
standing on the platform, just the day after his mother's fiuneral. I have beheld two young ladies decked
to go out to a ball. Their dresses happily combined a
most becoming aspect with the expression of a modified degree of mourning. They had recently lost a
relative. The relative was their father. I have witnessed the gayety and the flirtations of a newly-made
widow. It appeared to me a sorry sight. There are
human beings, it cannot be denied, whose main characteristics are selfishness and heartlessness.  For it is
unquestionably true, that the most thorough disregard
for the feelings, and wishes, and interests of others,
may coexist with the keenest concern for one's self.




108                GOING ON.
You will find people who bear with a heroic constancy
the sufferings and trials of others; but who make a
frightful howling about their own. And, singularly,
those who never gave sympathy to another mortal,
expect that other mortals shall evince lively sympathy with them.  Commend me to a thoroughly
selfish person, for loud complaints of the selfishness
of others.
As you go on, you will come to understand how well
you can be spared from this world. You remember
Napoleon's axiom, that No man is necessary. There
is no man in the world whom the world could not do
without. There are many men who, if they were
taken away, would be missed; would be very much
missed, perhaps, by more or fewer human beings. But
there is no man but what we may say of him that,
useful and valuable as he may be, we might, sooner or
later, with more or less difficulty, come to do without
him. The country got over the loss of Sir Robert
Peel and the Duke of Wellington; it misses Prince
Albert yet, but it is getting over his absence. I do
not mean to say that there are not hearts in which
a worthy human being is always remembered, and
always missed; in which his absence is felt as an irreparable loss, making all life different from what it used
to be. But in the case of each, these hearts are few.
And it is quite fit that they should be few. If our
sympathy with others were as keen as our feeling for
ourselves, we should get poorly through life; with




GOING ON.                109
many persons sympathy is only too keen and real as
it is. But though you quite easily see and admit that
human beings can be spared without much inconvenience, when you think how the State comes to do
without its lost political chief,'and the country without
its departed hero, you are somewhat apt, till growing
years have taught you, to cherish some lurking belief
that you yourself will be missed, and kindly remembered, longer and by more people than you are ever
likely to be. A great many clergymen, seeing the
strong marks of grief evinced by their congregation
as they preach their farewell sermon before going to
another parish, can hardly think how quickly the congregation will get over its loss; and how soon it will
come to assemble Sunday by Sunday with no remembrance at all of the familiar face that used to look at
it from the pulpit, or of the voice which once was
pleasant to hear. Let no man wilfully withdraw from
his place in life, thinking that he will be missed so
much that he will be eagerly sought again. If you
step out of the ranks, the crowd may pass on; the vacant space may be occupied; and you may never be
able to find your place any more. There are far more
men than there are holes, and all the holes get filled
up. Who hastily resigned a bishopric? who in dudgeon threw up an Attorney-Generalship? who (thinking he could not be spared) abdicated the Chancellorship? And did not each of these men find out his
mistake? The holes were filled up, and the men re



110                GOING ON.
mained outsiders ever afterwards. There is a very
striking story of Hawthorne's, analyzing the motives
and feelings of a man who, in some whim, went away
from his house and his wife, but went no farther than
the next street, and lived there in disguise for many
years, all his relatives fancying him dead. And the
eminent American shows, with wonderful power,
how a human being so acting may make himself the
outlaw of the universe.  It needs all your presence, all your energy, all your present services, to
hold you in your place in life, my friend.  There
are certain things whose value is felt through
their absence; but I think that, as a general rule, a
man can make his value felt only by his presence.
A friend of mine, who is a successful author, told
me how, when he published his first book, he made
quite sure that all his friends would read it, and more
particularly that all his cousins, to whom he sent copies of his book, would do so. But he confided to me,
as one of the lessons he had arrived at in going on,
that it is with total strangers.that any writer must
hope for whatever success he may reach. Your cousins, thinking to mortify you, will diligently refrain
from reading your volume. At least they will profess
that they do so; though you will find them extremely
well coached up in all the weak and foolish passages
with which the reviewers have found fault. And
these passages they will hasten to point out to your
father and mother, also to your wife, at the same time




GOING ON.                 111
expressing their anxious hope that these foolish passages may not do you harm. My friend told me how
in his first book there was a sentence which his cousins
feared would give offence to a certain eminent person
who had shown him kindness; and the promptitude
with which they could always turn up the passage,
and the vigorous and fluent manner in which they
could point out how offensive it must prove to the eminent person, testified to the amount of pains they had
bestowed upon the discussion of the subject. Among
the six hundred pages, how easily and swiftly they
could always find this unlucky page! My friend told
me that in a rather popular book of his; there was a
passage of a few pages in length which had been
severely criticised. Possibly it was weak; possibly it
was absurd. I confess that I read it, and it did not
strike me as remarkable. However, the critics generally attacked it; and probably they were right. A
few weeks ago, my friend told me he met a very pretty
young cousin, of twenty years, for the first time.
With a radiant smile, the fair cousin began to talk to
my friend about his efforts in authorship. "Oh, Mr.
Smith," said she, " do you know, the only thing I ever
read in your book was that part where you said " - no
matter what. " It was so funny! Do you know, Cousin
Dick showed it to me the moment I arrived at Ananias Street! " I have not the faintest doubt that Cousin
Dick did. I have myself heard Dick quote a sentence
from his relative's work, which sounded very flippant




112                GOING ON.
and presumptuous.  I turned up the page, and requested Dick to observe that he was (unintentionally,
but) grossly misrepresenting the passage. It was not
the least like what he quoted; and the version given
by him was altered greatly for the worse. Dick saw
he was wrong. But several times since have I heard
him give the incorrect quotation, just as before. Of
course, his purpose was not to represent his relative
as a man of taste and sense.
I think that as we go on we come to have a great
charity for the misdoings of our fellow-men. There
are, indeed, flagrant crimes, whose authors can never
be thought of but with a burning abhorrence. I have
heard of the doings of men whom I should be happy
to help to hang. But I am thinking of the little misdoings of social life in a civilized country. As for deliberate cruelty and oppression, as for lying and cheating to make money, I never have learned to think of
them but with a bitterness approaching the ferocious.
*Nor have I grown a bit more charitable with advancing years in my estimate of the liar, cheat, and blackguard (of whatever rank), who will mislead some poor
girl to her ruin. I should be glad to burn such a one,
with this hand, with a red-hot iron, upon the forehead,
with the word LIAR. And something of the emotion
I feel in the thought of him extends to the thought of
the young ladies who waltz with him, knowing perfectly what he is; and to the thought of the parsons




GOING ON.                 113
who toady him, in hope of a presentation to the
wealthy living of Soapy-cum-Sneaky. But, setting
these extreme cases aside, you will come, as you go
on through life, to see some excuse for various little
misdoings, towards which you felt somewhat bitterly
in earlier years. You will come to frankly recognize
the truth, which at first you are slow to admit, that
there are certain positions which are too much for
human nature. I mean too much for human nature
to hold without exhibiting a good deal of pettiness,
envy, spitefulness, and malevolence; unless, indeed,
with very fine and amiable natures. There is an ecclesiasiastical arrangement peculiar to Scotland; it is
what is termed a Collegiate Charge. It means that a
parish church shall have two incumbents of authority,
dignity, and eminence, exactly similar. The incumbents, in many cases, quarrel outright; in many more
they do not work cordially together. In a smaller
number, indeed, they have been known to be as
brothers, or as father and son. There is something
trying in the position of a parish clergyman who has
a curate, or assistant, who is more popular than himself. You may sometimes find a church poorly attended when the clergyman preaches, but crowded
when the curate does so. Even in such a case, if the
rector be a good man, and the curate another, perfect
kindliness may exist between the rector and the curate; but I doubt whether that kindliness is much to
be expected from the rector's wife. And when the
8




114                GOING ON.
curate at length gets a parish of his own, he need not
expect that his old principal will often ask him back
to preach. Now, many people will be found ready to
speak with much severity of the principal who acts
thus; and to blame the clergyman who, not being able
to fill his church himself, prefers having it empty to
seeing it filled by any one else. Such people are
unquestionably wrong.~ They expect from the poor
clergyman more than ought to be looked for from
average human nature. The clergyman's conduct is
very natural. Put yourself in his place; look at the
matter from his point of view. You would not like
yourself the thing he does not like. You would very
possibly do exactly what he does. And you might
do it all quite conscientiously. You might fancy you
had high and pure reasons for what you did, and that
there was no intrusion of jealousy. The young curate's sermons were, very likely, very crude and extravagant; and you may honestly think it your duty
to prevent your people from being presented with
spiritual food so immature. And rely upon it, those
men who carefully exclude from their pulpits all intresting and attractive preachers, and put there (in
their own absence) the dullest and poorest preachers
they can find, though doubtless actuated in great measure by a determination that they themselves shall not
be eclipsed, but shall rather shine by comparison, are
quite able to persuade themselves that they act from
the purest motives.  But even while you pity the




GOING ON.                115
men (let us hope there are very few) in whose mind
such unworthy considerations have weight, do not
blame them severely. They are in a difficult position. No doubt they would find it happier as well as
worthier to spurn the first suggestion of petty jealousy; no doubt the magnanimous man would do so;
but there are men who are not magnanimous, and
who could no more be magnanimous than they could
be six feet high, or than they could write King Lear.
Now, my friend, as you go on, you come to understand all these things. You learn to make great
allowances for the pettiness of human nature. You
come to be able to treat with cordiality people to.
whom in your hot and hasty youth' you could not
have spoken without giving them a bit of your mind
which they would not have liked to hear. And when
I say that with advancing years you come to excuse
human misdoings, I do not mean that as we grow
older we come to think more lightly of the difference
between right and wrong, or between the generous
and the mean. I hope we know better than that. It
is another principle that comes into play - the principle, to wit, that not being without sin yourself, you
should be slow to cast a stone at an erring brother.
It has been already said that there are cases as to
which. we shall not reason thus. Of heartless and
deliberate cruelty and treachery we shall never think
but with fury; and we do not wish ever to think but
with fury. Give me the knout, and lead out one of




116               GOING ON.
several human beings of whom I have heard, and I
will warrant you you should hear extensive howling!
I am not aftaid to plead the highest of all precedents,
for the permission of the bitterest wrath and for the
dealing of the sharpest blows. But I humbly and
firmly trust, my friendly reader, that in you and me
there is nothing like heartless, deliberate cruelty and
treachery. We have no sympathy at all with these,
any more than with the peculiar taste which makes
worms like filth. But as to very much of human
error and weakness, do you not feel in yourself the
capacities which (though restrained by God's grace)
might have brought you to all that? The thing we
can least forgive is that which we cannot imagine how
any one could do - that which we think we have in
us nothing like.
In your earlier days, you were perpetually getting
into scrapes, by speaking hastily and acting hastily.
As you go on, you learn by experience to avoid these
things in great measure; and you learn to be very
cautious as to the people you will take into your
confidence. It is a sorrowful lesson of experience,
but it is a lesson of experience, that there are many
people to whom you should never say a sentence, without first calculating whether that sentence can be
repeated, or can be misrepresented, to your disadvantage.  Like a skilful chess-player, you need to
consider what may be the result of this move. It is
to be admitted, that much of worldly wisdom is far




GOING ON.                117
from being a pleasing or noble thing. You learn by
experience a great deal which it is right you should
know and act upon, yet which does not ennoble you.
It is a fine sight, after all, a warm-hearted, outspoken,
injudicious man of more than middle age! I know
well an eminent professor in a certain university, who
is a very clever and learned man, and a very injudicious one. I admire his talents and his learning;
but I feel a warm affection for his outspoken and
injudicious honesty and truthfulness. I am quite sure
that if he thought a neighboring marquis a humbug,
he would call him one. I have the strongest ground
for believing that if he thought a bishop a fool, he
would say so. Let us ever try to hold our prudence
free from the suspicion of baseness. I trust that as
we go on, we are not coming to practise sneaky arts
to the end of getting on. Sneakiness, and underhand
dealing, are doubtless to be reckoned among the arts
of self-advancement.  Honesty is, in many cases,
unquestionably the very worst policy. But though
honesty be so, honesty is the right thing, after all!
But honest men sometimes think to possess, together,
two inconsistent things. They think to possess the
high sense of scrupulous integrity; and at the same
time the favor, patronage, and profit, which can be
had only by parting with that.
We are all going on: a man here and there is also
getting on. As you look round upon the people who




118              GOING ON.
started with you, you will discern that even those who
are doing well in life, for the most part reached their
utmost elevation before very many years were gone;
and for a large tract of time past have not been
gaining. They are going on, in short: Time makes
sure that we all shall do that; but they are not
getting on. Their income is just the same now that
it was five or ten years since; and the estimation in
which they are held by those who know them has
neither grown nor lessened. But there is a man here
and there who is growing bigger as well as growing
older. He is coming, yearly, to be better known;
he is gaining in wealth, in influence, in reputation.
Every walk of life has its rising men. There are
country gentlemen who gradually elbow their way
forward among the members of their class, till they
stand conspicuously  apart from  them.  So  with
painters, authors, barristers, preachers.  Who are
they, among those whom I know, who are making
way, and rising in the world? And what is the
secret of their success? I must stop and think.




CHAPTER V.
CONCERNING  DISAGREEABLE  PEOPLE.
OI ~ —N the whole, it was very disagreeable.
i / "1  ~ Thus wrote a certain great travelIe
k<, ~and hunter, summing up an account of
his position as he composed himself to
rest upon a certain evening after a hard day's work.
And no doubt it must have been very disagreeable.
The night was cold and dark; and the intrepid
traveller had to lie down to sleep in the open air,
without even a tree to shelter him. A heavy shower
of hail was falling; each hailstone about the size of
an egg. The dark air was occasionally illuminated
by forked lightning, of the most appalling aspect;
and the thunder was deafening. By various sounds,
heard in the intervals of the peals, it seemed evident
that the vicinity was pervaded by wolves, tigers,
elephants, wild boars, and  serpents.  A  peculiar
motion, perceptible under a horsecloth which was
wrapped up to serve as a pillow, appeared to indicate
that a snake was wriggling about underneath it. The
bunter had some ground for thinking that it was a




120   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
very venomous one; as indeed in the morning it
proved to be; but he was too tired to look. And
speaking of the general condition of matters upon
that evening, the hunter stated, with great mildness
of language, that " it was very disagreeable."
Most readers would be disposed to say, that disagreeable was hardly the right word. No doubt, all
things that are perilous, horrible, awful, ghastly, deadly and the like, are disagreeable too. But when we
use the word disagreeable by itself, our meaning is understood to be, that in calling the thing disagreeable,
we have said the worst of it. A long and tiresome
sermon is disagreeable; but a venomous snake under
your pillow passes beyond being disagreeable. To
have a tooth stopped, is disagreeable; to be broken
on the wheel (though nobody could like it), transcends
that. If a thing be horrible and awful, you would not
say it was disagreeable. The greater includes the
less; as when a human being becomes entitled to
write D. D. after his name, he drops all mention of
the M. A. borne in preceding years.
Let this truth be remembered, by such as shall read
the following pages. We are to think about Disagreeable People. Let it be understood that (speaking
generally) we are to think of people who are no worse
than disagreeable. It cannot be denied, even by the
most prejudiced, that murderers, pirates, slave-drivers,
and burglars, are disagreeable. The cut-throat; the
poisoner; the sneaking blackguard who shoots his




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  121
landlord from behind a hedge, are no doubt disagreeable people; so very disagreeable that in this country
the common consent of mankind removes them from
human society by the instrumentality of a halter. But
disagreeable is too mild a word. Such people are all
that, and a great deal more. And accordingly, they
stand beyond the range of this dissertation. We are
to treat of folk who are disagreeable; and not worse
than disagreeable. We may sometimes, indeed, overstep the boundary line. But it is to be remembered,
that there are people who in the main are good people, who yet are extremely disagreeable. And a farther complication is introduced into the subject by the
fact, that some people who are far from good, are yet
unquestionably agreeable. You disapprove them; but
you cannot help liking them. Others, again, are substantially good; yet you are angry with yourself to
find that you cannot like them.
I take for granted that all observant human beings
will admit that in this world there are disagreeable
people. Probably the distinction which presses itself
most strongly upon our attention as we mingle in the
society of our fellow-men, is the distinction between
agreeable people and disagreeable. There are various
tests, more or less important, which put all mankind
to right and left. A familiar division is into rich and
poor. Thomas Paine, with great vehemence, denied
the propriety of that classification; and declared that




122   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
the only true and essential classification of mankind
is into male and female. I have read a story whose
author maintained, that, to his mind, by far the most
interesting and thorough division of our race is into
such as have been hanged and such as have not been
hanged; he himself belonging to the forme~i class.
But we all, more or less, recognize and act upon the
great classification of all human beings into the agreeable and the disagreeable. And we begin very early
to recognize and act upon it. Very early in life, the
little child understands and feels the vast difference
between people who are nice, and people who are not
nice. In schoolboy days, the first thing settled as to
any new acquaintance, man or boy, is on which side
he stands of the great boundary line. It is not genius,
not scholarship, not wisdom, not strength nor speed,
that fixes the man's place. None of these things is
chiefly looked to; the question is, Is he agreeable or
disagreeable? And according as that question is decided, the man is described, in the forcible language
of youth, as " a brick," or as " a beast."
Yet it is to be remembered, that the division between the agreeable and disagreeable of mankind, is
one which may be transcended. It is a scratch on the
earth; not a ten-foot wall. And you will find men
who pass from one side of it to the other; and back
again; probably several times in a week, or even in a
day. There are people whom you never know where
to have, They are constantly skipping from side to




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   123
side of that line of demarcation; or they even walk
along with a foot on each side of it. There are people who are always disagreeable; and disagreeable to
all men. There are people who are agreeable at some
times, and disagreeable at others. There are people
who are agreeable to some men and disagreeable to
other men. I do not intend by the last-named class,
people who intentionally make themselves agreeable
to a certain portion of the race, to which they think it
worth while to make themselves agreeable; and who
do not take that trouble in the case of the remainder
of humankind. What I mean is this: that there are
people who have such an affinity and sympathy with
certain other people; who so suit certain other people;
that they are agreeable to these other people; though
perhaps not particularly so to the race at large. And
exceptional tastes and likings are often the strongest.
The thing you like enthusiastically, another man absolutely loathes. The thing which all men like, is for
the most part liked with a mild and subdued liking.
Everybody likes good and well-made bread; but nobody goes into raptures over it. Fow persons like
caviare; but those who like it are very fond of it. I
never knew but one being who liked mustard with
apple-pie; but that solitary man ate it with avidity,
and praised the flavor with enthusiasm.
But it is impossible to legislate for every individual
case. Every rule must have exceptions from it; but
it would be foolish to resolve to lay down no more




124   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
rules. There may be, somewhere, the man who likes
Mr. Snarling; and to that man Mr. Snarling would
doubtless be agreeable.  But for practical purposes,
Mr. Snarling may justly be described as a disagreeable man, if he be disagreeable to nine hundred and
ninety-nine mortals out of every thousand. And with
precision sufficient for the ordinary business of life,
we may say that there are people who are essentially
disagreeable.
There are people who go through life, leaving an
unpleasant influence on all whom  they come near.
You are not at your ease in their society. You feel
awkward and constrained while with them. That is
probably the mildest degree in the scale of unpleasantness.  There are people who disseminate a much
worse influence. As the upas-tree was said to blight
all the country round it, so do these disagreeable folk
prejudicially affect the whole surrounding moral atmosphere. They chill all warmth of heart in those
near them; they put down anything generous or magnanimous; they suggest unpleasant thoughts and associations; they excite a diverse and numerous array
of bad tempers. The great evil of disagreeable people lies in this: that they tend powerfully to make
other people disagreeable too. And these people are
not necessarily bad people, though they produce a bad
effect. It is not certain that they design to be disagreeable. There are those who do entertain that
design; and they always succeed in carrying it out.




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  125
Nobody ever tried diligently to be disagreeable, and
failed. Such persons may indeed inflict much less
annoyance than they wished, they may even fail of
inflicting any pain whatever on others; but they make
themselves as disgusting as they could desire. And
in many cases, they succeed in inflicting a good deal
of pain. A very low, vulgar, petty, and uncultivated
nature, may cause much suffering to a lofty, noble,
and refined one; particularly if the latter be in a position of dependence or subjection. A wretched hornet
may madden a noble horse; a contemptible mosquito
may destroy the night's rest which would have recruited a noble brain. But without any evil intention; sometimes with the very kindest intention;
there are those who worry and torment you. It is
through want of perception; want of tact; coarseness
of nature; utter lack of power to understand you.
Were you ever sitting in a considerable company, a
good deal saddened by something you did not choose to
tell to any one, and probably looking dull and dispirited enough; and did a fussy host or hostess draw the
attention of the entire party upon you, by earnestly
and repeatedly asking if you were ill, if you had a
headache, because you seemed so dull and so unlike
yourself? And did that person time after time return
to the charge, till you would have liked to poison him?
There is nothing more disagreeable, and few things
more mischievous, than a well-meaning, meddling fool.
And- where there was no special intention, good or




126   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
bad, towards yourself, you have known people make
you uncomfortable through the simple exhibition to
you, and pressure upon you, of their own inherent disagreeableness. You have known people after talking
to whom for awhile, you felt disgusted with everything; and above all, with those people themselves.
Talking to them, you felt your moral nature being rubbed against the grain; being stung all over with nettles. You showed your new house and furniture to
such a man; and with eagle eye he traced out and
pointed out every scratch on your fine fresh paint,
and every flaw in your oak and walnut. He showed
you that there were corners of your big mirrors that
distort your face; that there were bits of your grand
marble mantel-pieces that might be expected soon to
scale away. Or you have known a man who, with no
evil intention, made it his practice to talk of you before your face, -as your other friends are accustomed
to talk of you behind your back. It need not be said
that the result is anything but pleasant. " What a
fool you were, Smith, in saying that at Snooks's last
night," your friend exclaims when you meet him next
morning. You were quite aware, by this time, that
what you said was foolish; but there is something
grating in hearing your name connected with the unpleasant name. I would strongly advise any man,
who does not wish to be set down as disagreeable,
entirely to break off the habit (if he has such a habit)
of addressing to even his best friends any sentence




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  127
beginning with "What a fool you were."  Let me
offer the like advice as to sentences which set out as
fbllows: " I say, Smith, I think your brother is the
greatest fool on the face of the earth." Stop that
kind of thing, my friend; or you may come to be
classed with Mr. Snarling.  You are probably a
manly fellow, and a sincere friend; and for the sake
of' your substantial good qualities, one would stand a
great deal. But over-frankness is disagreeable; and
it' you make over-frankness your leading characteristic, of course your entire character will come to be
a disagreeable one; and you will be a disagreeable
person.
Besides the people who are disagreeable through
malignant intention, and through deficiency of sensitiveness, there are other people who are disagreeable
through pure ill-luck. It is quite certain that there
are people whom evil fortune dogs through all their
life: who are thoroughly and hopelessly unlucky.
And in no respect have we beheld a man's ill-luck so
persecute him, as in the matter of making him (without the slightest evil purpose, and even when he is
most anxious to render himself agreeable), render
himself extremely disagreeable. Of course there must
be some measure of thoughtlessness and forgetfulness;
some lack of that social caution so indispensable in the
complication of modern society, which teaches a man
(so to speak) to try if the ice will bear him before
venturing his entire weight upon it; about people who




128   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
are unlucky in the way of which I am speaking. But
doubtless you have known persons who were always
saying disagreeable things, or putting disagreeable
questions;' either through forgetfulness of things which
they ought to have remembered, or through unhappily
chancing on forbidden ground. You will find a man,
a thoughtless but quite good-natured man, begin at a
dinner-table to relate a succession of stories very much
*to the prejudice of somebody; while somebody's daughter is sitting opposite him. And you will find the
man quite obtuse to all the hints by which the host or
hostess tries to stop him; and going on to particulars
worse and worse; till in terror of what all this might
grow to, the hostess has to exclaim, " Mr. Smith, you
won't take a hint; that is Mr. Somebody's daughter
sitting opposite you." It is quite essential that any
man, whose conversation consists mainly of observations not at all to the advantage of some absent acquaintance, should carefully feel his way before giving full scope to his malice and his invention, in the
presence of any general company. And before making any playful reference to halters, you should be
clear that you are not talking to a man whose grandfather was hanged. Nor should you venture any
depreciatory remarks upon men who have risen from
the ranks, unless you are tolerably versed in the family history of those to whom you are talking. You
may have heard a man very jocular upon lunatic asylums, to another who had several brothers and sisters




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   129
in one. And though in some cases, human beings may
render themselves disagreeable through a combination
of circumstances which really absolves them from all
blame; yet, as a general rule, the man who is disagreeable through ill-luck is at least guilty of culpable
carelessness.
You have probably, my reader, known people who
had the faculty of making themselves extremely
agreeable. You have known one or two men who,
whenever you met them, conveyed to you by a remarkably frank and genial manner, an impression
that they esteemed you as one of their best and dearest friends. A vague idea took possession of your
mind, that they had been longing to see you ever
since they saw you last: which in all probability was
six or twelve months previously. And during all
that period it may be regarded as quite certain, that
the thought of you had never once entered their
mind. Such a manner has a vast effect upon young
and inexperienced folk. The inexperienced man fan-'
cies that this manner, so wonderfully frank and friendly, is reserved specially for himself; and is a recognition of his own special excellences. But the man
of greater experience has come to suspect this manner, and to see through it. He has discovered that
it is the same to everybody: at least, to everybody
to whom it is thought worth while to put it on. And
he no more thinks of arguing the existence of any
9




130   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
particular liking for himself, or of any particular
merit in himself, from that friendly manner; than
he thinks of believing, on a warm summer day, that
the sun has a special liking for himself, and is looking so beautiful and bright all for himself. It is perhaps unjust to accuse the man, always overflowing in
geniality upon everybody he meets, of being an impostor or humbug. Perhaps he does feel an irrepressible gush of love to all his race; but why convey to
each individual of the race that he loves him more
than all the others?
Yet it is to be admitted, that it is always well that
a man should be agreeable. Pleasantness is always a
pleasing thing. And a sensible man, seeking by honest means to make himself agreeable, will generally
succeed in making himself agreeable to sensible men.
But although there is an implied compliment, to your
power if not to your personality, in the fact of a
man's taking pains to make himself agreeable to you;
it is certain that he may try to make himself so by
means of which the upshot will be, to make him intensely disagreeable. You know the fawning, sneaking manner which an occasional shopkeeper adopts.
It is most disagreeable to right-thinking people. Let
him remember that he is also a man; and let his
manner be manly as well as civil, It is an awful and
humiliating sight, a man who is always squeezing
himself together like a whipped dog whenever you
speak to him; grinning and bowing; and (in a moral




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  131
sense) wriggling about before you on the earth, and
begging you to wipe your feet on his head. You
cannot help thinking that the sneak would be a tyrant if he had the opportunity. It is pleasant to find
people in the humblest position, blending a manly independence of demeanor with the regard justly due to
those placed by Providence farther up the social scale.
Yet doubtless there are persons to whom the sneakiest manner is agreeable; who enjoy the flattery and
the humiliation of the wretched toady who is always
ready to tell them that they are the most beautiful,
graceful, witty, well-informed, aristocratic-looking, and
generally-beloved, of the human race. You must remember that it depends very much upon the nature
of a man himself, whether any particular demeanor
shall be agreeable to him or not. And you know
well that a cringing, toadying manner, which would
be thoroughly disgusting to a person of sense, may
be extremely agreeable and delightful to a self-conceited idiot. Was there not an idiotic monarch, who
was greatly pleased when his courtiers, in speaking
to him, affected to veil their eyes with their hands, as
unable to bear the insufferable effulgence of his countenance? And would not a monarch of sense have
been ready to kick the people who thus treated him
like a fool? And every one has observed that there
are silly women who are much gratified by coarse and
fulsome compliments upon their personal appearance,
which would be regarded as grossly insulting by a




132   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
woman of sense. You may have heard of country
gentlemen, of Radical politics, who had seldom wandered beyond their paternal acres (by their paternal
acres I mean the acres they had recently bought),
and who had there grown into a fixed belief that they
were among the noblest and mightiest of the earth;
who thought their parish clergyman an agreeable
man if be voted at the county election for the candidate they supported, though that candidate's politics
were directly opposed to those of the parson. These
individuals, of course, would hold their clergyman as
a disagreeable man, if he held by his own principles;
and quite declined to take their wishes into account
in exercising the trust of the franchise.  Now of
course a nobleman or gentleman of right feeling,
would regard the parson as a turncoat and sneak,
who should thus deny his convictions. Yes: there is
no doubt that you may make yourself agreeable to
unworthy folk, by unworthy means. A late notorious Marquis declared on his dying bed, that a twolegged animal of human pretensions, who had acted
as his valet, and had aided that hoary reprobate in
the gratification of his peculiar tastes, was "an excellent man." And you may remember how Burke
said that as we learn that a certain Mr. Russell made
himself very agreeable to Henry the Eighth, we may
reasonably suppose that Mr. Russell was himself (in a
humble degree) something like his master. Proba
bly to most right-minded men, the fact that a man




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  133
was agreeable to Henry the Eighth, or to the Marquis
in question, or to Belial, Beelzebub, or Apollyon.
would tend to make that man remarkably disagree.
able. And let the reader remember the guarded way
in which the writer laid down his general principle as
to pleasantness of'character and demeanor. I said
that a sensible man, seeking by honest means to
make himself agreeable, will generally succeed in
making himself agreeable to sensible men. I exclude from the class of men to be esteemed agreeable, those who would disgust all but fools or blackguards.  I exclude parsons who express heretical
views in theology, in the presence of a patron known
to be a free-thinker. I exclude men who do great
folk's dirty work. I exclude all toad-eaters, sneaks,
flatterers, and fawning impostors; from the schoolboy
who thinks to gain his master's favor by voluntarily
bearing tales of his companions, up to the bishop who
declared that he regarded it not merely as a constitutional principle but as an ethical fact, that the King
could do no wrong; and the other bishop who declared that the reason why George the Second died,
was that this world was not good enough for him, and
it was necessary to transfer him to heaven that he
might be the right man in the right place. Such persons may succeed in making themselves agreeable to
the man with whom they desire to ingratiate themselves, provided that man be a fool or a knave; but
they assuredly render themselves disagreeable, not to




134   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
say revolting, to all human beings whose good opinion
is worth the possessing. And though any one who is
not a fool will generally make himself agreeable to
people of ordinary temper and nervous system if he
wishes to do so; it is to be remembered that too intrusive attempts to be agreeable often make a man
very disagreeable; and likewise, that a man is the
reverse of agreeable if you see that he is trying by
managing and humoring you to make himself agreeable to you. I mean, if you can see that he is smoothing you down, and agreeing with you, and trying to
get you on your blind side, as if he thought you a
baby or a lunatic. And there is all the difference in
the world, between the frank hearty wish in man or
woman to be agreeable; and this diplomatic and indirect way. No man likes to think that he is being
managed as Mr. Rarey might manage an unbroken
colt. And though many human beings must in fact
be thus managed; though a person of a violent or a
sullen temper, or of a wrong head, or of outrageous
vanity, or of invincible prejudices, must be managed
very much as you would manage a lunatic (being, in
fact, removed from perfect sanity upon these points);
still, they must never be allowed to discern that they
are being managed; or the charm will fail at once.
I confess, for myself, that I am no believer in the
efficacy of'diplomacy and indirect ways in dealing
with one's fellow-creatures. I believe that a manly,
candid, straightforward course is always the best.




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  135
Treat people in a perfectly frank manner: with
frankness not put on, but real; and you will be
agreeable to most of those to whom you would desire to be so.
My reader, I am now about to tell you of certain
sorts of human beings, who appear to me as worthy
of being ranked among disagreeable people. I do not
pretend to give you an exhaustive catalogue of such.
Doubtless you have your own black beasts, your own
special aversions, which have for you a disagreeableness beyond the understanding or sympathy of others.
Nor do I make quite sure that you will agree with me
in all the views which I am going to set forth. It
is not impossible that you may regard as very nice
people, or even as quite fascinating and enthralling
people, certain people whom I regard as intensely
disagreeable. Let me begin with an order of human
beings, as to which I do not expect every one who
reads this page to go along with me; though I do not
know any opinion which I hold more resolutely than
that which I am about to express.
We all understand the kind of thing which is meant
by people who talk of Muscular Christianity. It is
certainly a noble and excellent thing to make people
discern that a good Christian need not be a muff
(pardon the slang term: there is no other that would
bring out my meaning). It is a fine thing to make
it plain that manliness and dash may coexist with
pure morality and sincere. piety. It is a fine thing tc




136   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
make young fellows comprehend that there is nothing
fine and manly in being bad; and nothing unmanly in
being good. And in this view, it is impossible to
value too highly such characters and such biographies
as those of Hodson of Hodson's Horse and of Captain Hedley Vicars. It is a splendid combination,
pluck and daring in their highest degree, with an
unaffected and earnest regard to religion and religious
duties: in short, muscularity with Christianity. A
man consists of body and soul: and both would be in
their ideal perfection, if the soul were decidedly
Christian, and the body decidedly muscular.
But there are folk whose admiration of the muscularity is very great; but whose regard for the
Christianity is very small. They are captivated by
the dash and glitter of physical pluck; they are quite
content to accept it without any Christianity; and
even without the most ordinary morality and decency.
They appear, indeed, to think that the grandeur
of the character is increased, by the combination of
thorough blackguardism with high physical qualifications; their gospel, in short, may be said to be that of
Unchristian Muscularity. And you will find various
books in which the hero is such a man; and while the
writer of the book frankly admits that he is in strict
morality an extremely bad man, the writer still recalls
his doings with such manifest gusto and sympathy,
and takes such pains to make him agreeable on the
whole, and relates with such approval the admiration




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  137
which empty-headed idiots express for him when he
has jumped his horse over some very perilous fence
or thrashed some insolent farmer, that it is painfully
apparent what is the writer's ideal of a grand and
imposing character. You know the kind of man who
is the hero of some novels: the muscular blackguard;
and you remember what are his unfailing characteristics. He has a deep chest. He has huge arms
and limbs: the muscles being knotted. He has an
immense moustache. He has (God knows why) a
serene contempt for ordinary mortals.- He is always
growing black with fury, and bullying weak men.
On such occasions, his lips may be observed to be
twisted into an evil sneer. He is a seducer and
liar: he has ruined various women, and had special
facilities for becoming acquainted with the rottenness
of society; and occasionally he expresses, in language
of the most profane, not to say blasphemous character,
a momentary regret for having done so much harm;
such as the Devil might sentimentally have expressed
when he had succeeded in misleading our first parents. Of course he never pays tradesmen for the
things with which they supply him. He can drink an
enormous quantity of wine without his head becoming
affected. He looks down with entire disregard on the
laws of God and man, as made for inferior beings. As
for any worthy moral quality; as for anything beyond
a certain picturesque brutality and bull-dog disregard
of danger; not a trace of such a thing can be found
about him.




138   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
We all know, of course, that such a person, though
not uncommon in novels, very rarely occurs in real
life; and if he occur at all, it is with his ideal perfections very much toned down. In actual life, such a
hero would become' known in the Insolvent Court, and
would fi'equently appear before the police magistrates.
He would eventually become a billiard-marker; and
might ultimately be hanged, with general approval.
If the man, in his unclipped proportions, did actually
exist, it would be right that a combination should be
formed to wipe him out of creation. He should be
put down: as you would put down a tiger or a rattlesnake if found at liberty somewhere in the Midland
Counties.  A  more hateful character, to all who
possess a grain of moral discernment, could not even
be imagined. And it need not be shown, that the
conception of such a character is worthy only of a
baby. However many years the man who deliberately and admiringly delineates such a person may
have lived in this world, intellectually'he cannot be
more than about seven years old.  And none but
calves the most immature can possibly sympathize
with him. Yet if there were not many silly persons
to whom such a character is agreeable, such a character would not be portrayed. And it seems certain
that a single exhibition of strength or daring will
to some minds be the compendium of all good qualities: or (more accurately speaking) the equivalent
for them.  A  muscular blackguard clears a high




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  139
fence; he does precisely that, neither more nor less.
And upon the strength of that single achievement, the
servants of the house where he is visiting declare that
they would follow him over the world. And you
may find various young women, and various women
who wish to pass for young, who would profess, and
perhaps actually feel, a like enthusiasm for the muscular blackguard. I confess that I cannot find words
strong enough to express my contempt and abhorrence
for the theory of life and character which is assumed
by the writers who describe such blackguards, and by
the fools who admire them. And though very far
from saying or thinking that the kind of human being
who has been described, is no worse than disagreeable,
I assert with entire confidence that to all right-thinking men, he is more disagreeable than almost any
other kind of human being. And I do not know any
single lesson you could instil into a youthful mind,
which would be so mischievous, as the lesson that the
muscular blackguard should be regarded with any
other feeling than that of pure loathing and disgust.
But let us have done with him. I cannot think of the
books which delineate him, and ask you to admire
him, without indignation more bitter than I wish to
feel in writing such a page.
And passing to the consideration of human beings
who though disagreeable, are good in the main; it
may be laid down, as a general principle, that any
person, however good, is disagreeable, from whom




140   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
you feel it a relief to get away. We have all known
people, thoroughly estimable, and whom you could not
but respect, in whose presence it was impossible to
feel at ease; and whose absence was felt as the withdrawal of a sense of constraint of the most oppressive
kind. And this vague, uncomfortable influence, which
breathes from some men, is produced in various ways.
Sometimes it is the result of mere stiffness and
awkwardness of manner; and there are men whose
stiffness and awkwardness of manner are such as
would freeze the most genial and silence the frankest. Sometimes it arises from ignorance of social
rules and proprieties; sometimes from incapacity to
take, or even to comprehend, a joke. Sometimes it
proceeds from a pettedness of nature, which keeps
you ever in fear that offence may be taken at the
most innocent word or act. Sometimes it comes of
a preposterous sense of his own standing and importance, existing in a man whose standing and importance are very small.  It is quite wonderful what
very great folk, very little folk will sometiries fancy
themselves to be. The present writer has had little
opportunity of conversing with men of great rank and
power. Yet he has conversed with certain men of
the very greatest; and he can say sincerely that he
has found head-stewards to be much more dignified
men than dukes; and parsons of no earthly reputation, and of very- limited means, to be infinitely more
stuck-up than archbishops. And though at first the




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  141
airs of stuck-up small men are amazingly ridiculous,
and so rather amusing; they speedily become so irritating, that the men who exhibit them cannot be
classed otherwise than with the disagreeable of the
earth.
Few people are more disagreeable than the man
who (you know) is, while you are conversing with
him, taking a mental estimate of you; more particularly of the soundness of your doctrinal views; with
the intention of showing you up if you be wrong, and
of inventing or misrepresenting something to your
prejudice if you be right. Whenever you find any
man trying (in a moral sense) to trot you out, and
examine your paces, and pronounce upon your general soundness; there are two courses you may follow. The one is, severely to shut him up; and sternly make him understand that you don't choose to be
inspected by him. Show him that you will not exhibit for his approval your particular views about the
Papacy, or about Moral Inability, or about Pelagianism or the Patripassian heresy. Indicate that you will
not be pumped; and you may convey, in a kindly
and polite way, that you really don't care a rush what
he thinks of you. The other course is, with deep
solemnity and an unchanged countenance, to horrify
your inspector by avowing the most fearful views.
Tell him that on long reflection, you are prepared to
advocate the revival of Cannibalism. Say that probably something may be said for Polygamy. Defend




142   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
the Thugs, and say something for Mumbo Jumbo.
End by saying that no doubt black is white, and twice
ten are fifty. Or a third way of meeting such a man,
is suddenly to turn upon him, and ask him to give
you a brief and lucid account of the views he is condemning. Ask him to tell you what are the theological peculiarities of' Bunsen; and what is the exact
teaching of Mr. Miaurice. Ile does not know, you
may be tolerably sure. In the case of the latter eminent man, I never met anybody who did know; and
I have the firmest belief that he does not know himself. I was told, lately, of an eminent foreigner, who
came to Britain to promote a certain public end. For
its promotion, the eminent man wished to conciliate
the sympathies of a certain small class of religionists.
He procured an introduction to a leading man among
them; a good, but very stupid and self-conceited man.
This man entered into talk with the eminent foreigner; and ranged over a multitude of topics, political
and religious. And at an hour's end the foreigner
was astonished by the good but stupid man suddenly
exclaiming: " Now, sir, I have been reckoning you
up; you won't do; you are a"   no matter what. It
was something that had nothing earthly to do with
the end to be promoted. The religious demagogue
had been trotting out the foreigner; and he had found
him unsound. The religious demagogue belonged to
a petty sect, no doubt; and he was trying for his
wretched little Shibboleth. But you may have seen




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   143
the like, even with leading men in National Churches.
And I have seen a pert little whippersnapper ask a
venerable clergyman what he thought of a certain
outrageous lay-preacher; and receive the clergyman's
reply that he thought most unfavorably of many of
the lay-preacher's doings, with a self-conceited smirk
that seemed to say to the venerable clergyman, "I
have been reckoning you up; you won't do."
People whom you cannot get to attend to you when
you talk to them, are disagreeable. There are men
whom you feel it is vain to speak to; whether you are
mentioning facts, or stating arguments. All the while
you are speaking, they are thinking of what they are
themselves to say next. There is a strong current, as
it were, setting outward from their minds; aOld it prevents what you say from getting in. You know, if a
pipe be full of water, running strongly one way, it is
vain to think to push in a stream running the other
way. You cannot get at their attention. You cannot
get at the quick of their mental sensorium. It is not
the dull of hearing whom it is hardest to get to hear:
it is rather the man who is roaring out himself, and so
who cannot attend to anything else. Now this is provoking. It is a mortifying indication of the little importance that is attached to what we are saying; and
there is something of the irritation that is produced in
the living being by contending with the passive resist
ance of inert matter. And there is something provoking even in the outward signs that the mind is in a




144   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
non-receptive state. You remember the eye that is
looking beyond you; the grin that is not at anything
funny in what you say; the occasional inarticulate
sounds that are put in at the close of your sentences,
as if to delude you with a show of attention. The
non-receptive mind is occasionally found in clever
men; but the men who exhibit it are invariably very
conceited. They can think of nothing but themselves.
And you may find the last-named characteristic strongly
developed, even in men with gray hair, who ought to
have learned better through the experience of a pretty
long life. There are other minds which are very receptive. They seem to have a strong power of suction. They take in, very decidedly, all that is said to
them. The best mind, of course, is that which combines both characteristics; which is strongly receptive
when it ought to be receiving; and which gives out
strongly when it ought to be giving out. The power
of receptivity is greatly increased by habit. I remember feeling awe-stricken by the intense attention
with which a very great Judge was wont, in ordinary
conversation, to listen to all that was said to him. It
was the habit of the judgment-seat, acquired through
many years of listening, with every faculty awake, to
the arguments addressed to him. But when you began to make some statement-to him, it was positively
alarming to see him look you full in the face, and listen with inconceivable fixedness of attention to all you
said. You could not help feeling that really the small




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   145
remark you had to make was not worth that great
mind's grasping it so intently, as he might have grasped
an argument by Follett. The mind was intensely receptive, when it was receiving at all. But I remember, too, that when the great Judge began to speak,
then his mind was, (so to speak,) streaming out; and
he was particularly impatient of inattention or interruption; and particularly non-receptive of anything
that might be suggested to him.
It is extremely disagreeable when a vulgar fellow,
whom you hardly know, addresses you by your surname with great familiarity of manner. And such a
person will take no hint that he is disagreeable; however stiff, and however formally polite, you may take
pains to be to him. It is disagreeable when persons,
with whom you have no desire to be on terms of intimacy, persist in putting many questions to you as to
your private concerns; such as your annual income
and expenditure, and the like. No doubt, it is both
pleasant and profitable for people who are not rich, to
compare notes on these matters with some frank and
hearty fiiend, whose means and outgoings are much
the same as their own. I do not think of such a case;
but of the prying curiosity of persons who have no
right to pry, and who, very generally, while diligently
prying into your affairs, take special care not to take
you into their confidence.  Such people, too, while
making a pretence of revealing to you all their secrets,
will often tell a very small portion of them, and make
10




146   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
various statements which you at the time are quite
aware are not true. There are not many things more
disagreeable than a very stupid and ill-set old woman,
who, quite unaware what her opinion is worth, expresses it vWith entire confidence upon many subjects
of which she knows nothing whatever, and as to which
she is wholly incapable of judging.  And the selfsatisfied and confident air with which she settles the
most difficult questions, and pronounces unfavorable
judgment upon people ten thousand times wiser and
better than herself, is an insufferably irritating phenomenon. It is a singular Tact, that the people I have
in view invariably combine extreme ugliness with
spitefulness and self-conceit.  Such a person will
make particular inquiries of you as to some near relative of your own; and will add, with a malicious and
horribly ugly expression of face, that she is glad to
hear how very much improved your relative now is.
She will repeat the sentence several times, laying
great emphasis and significance upon the very much
improved. Of course, the notion conveyed to any
stranger who may be present, is that your relative
must in former days have been an extremely bad
fellow. The fact probably is, that he has always, manl
and boy, been particularly well-behaved; and that
really you were not aware that he needed any special
improvement; save indeed in the sense that every
human being might be'and ought to be a great deal
better than he is,




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   147
People who are always vaporing about their own
importance, and the value of their own possessions,
are disagreeable.  We all know such people; and
they are made more irritating by the fact, that their
boasting is almost invariably absurd and false. I do
not mean ethically false, but logically false.  For
doubtless, in many cases, human beings honestly think
themselves and their possessions as much better than
other men and their possessions; as they say they do.
If thirty families compose the best society of a little
country town, you may be sure that each of the thirty
families in its secret soul looks down upon the other
twenty-nine; and fancies that it stands on a totally
different level. And it is a kind arrangement of
Providence, that a man's own children, horses, house,
and other possessions, are so much more interesting to
himself than are the children, horses, and houses of
other men, that he can readily persuade himself that
they are as much better in tact, as they are more
interesting to his personal feeling. But it is provoking when a man is always obtruding on 3you how highly he estimates his own belongings, and how much
better than yours he thinks them, even when this is
done in all honesty and simplicity; and it is infuriating when a man keeps constantly telling you things
which he knows are not true, as to the preciousness
and excellence of the gifts with which fortune has endowed him. You feel angry when a man, who has
lately bought a house, one in a square containing fifty,




148   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
all as nearly as possible alike, tells you with an air of
confidence that he has got the finest house in Scotland, or in England, as the case may be. You are irritated by the man who on all occasions tells you that
he drives in his mail-phaeton " five hundred pounds'
worth of horseflesh." You are well aware that he did
not pay a quarter of that sum for the animals in question; and you assume as certain that the dealer did
not give him that pair of horses for less than they
were worth. It is somewhat irritating when a man,
not remarkable in any way, begins to tell you that he
can hardly go to any part of the world without being
recognized by some one who remembers his striking
aspect, or is familiar with his famous name. " It costs
me three hundred a year, having that picture to look
at," said Mr. Windbag, pointing to a picture hanging on
a wall in his library. He goes on to explain that he
refuised six thousand pounds for that picture; which at
five per cent. would yield the annual income named.
You repeat Windbag's statement to an eminent artist.
The artist knows the picture.. He looks at you fixedly; and for all comment- on Windbag's story, says
(he is a Scotchman) HOOT TOOT. But the disposition
to vapor is deep set in human nature.  There are not
very many men or women whom I would trust, to give
an accurate account of their fitmily, dwelling, influence, and general position, to people a thousand miles
from  home, who were not likely ei er to be able to
verify the picture drawn.




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   149
It is hardly necessary to mention among disagree.
able people, those individuals who take pleasure in
telling you that you are looking ill; that you are
falling off, physically or mentally. " Surely you have
lost some of your teeth since I saw you last," said a
good man to a man of seventy-five years: "I cannot
make out a word you say, you speak so indistinctly."
And so obtuse, and so thoroughly devoid of gentlemanly feeling, was that good man, that when admonished that he ought not to speak in that fashion to a
man in advanced years, he could not for his life see
that he had done anything unkind or unmannerly. "I
dare say you are wearied wi' preachin' to-day; you
see you're gettin' frail noo," said a Scotch elder, in my
hearing, to a worthy clergyman. Seldom has it cost
me a greater effort than it did to refrain from turning
to the elder, and saying with candor, " What a boor
and what a fool you must be, to say that!" It was as
well I did not; the boor would not have known what
I meant. He would not have known the provocation
which led me to give him my true opinion of him.
" How very bald you are getting," said a really goodnatured man, to a friend he was meeting for the first
time in several years. Such remarks are for the most
part made by men who, in good faith, have not the
least idea that they are making themselves disagreeable. There is no malicious intention. It is a matter
of pure obtuseness, stupidity, selfishness, and vulgarity. But an obtuse, stupid, selfish, and vulgar person




1 50   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
is disagreeable. And your right course will be, to
carefully avoid all intercourse with such a person.
But besides people who blunder into saying unpleasant things, there are a few who do so of set intention. And such people ought to be cracked. They
can do a great deal of harm; inflict a great deal of
suffering. I believe that human beings in general
are more miserable than you think. They are very
anxious; very careworn; stung by a host of worries;
a good deal disappointed, in many ways. And in the
case of many people, worthy and able, there is a very
low estimate of themselves and their abilities; and a
sad tendency to depressed spirits and gloomy views.
And while a kind word said to such is a real benefit,
and a great lightener of the heart; an ingenious
malignant may suggest to such, things which are as a
stunning blow, and as an added load on the weary
frame and mind. I have seen, with burning indignation, a malignant beast (I mean man) playing upon
that tendency to a terrible apprehensiveness which is
born with many men. I have seen the beast vaguely
suggest evil to the nervous and apprehensive man.
" This cannot end here;" " I shall take my own measures now;" "A higher authority shall decide between
us;" I have heard the beast say; and then go away.
Of course I knew well that the beast could and would
do nothing; and I hastened to say so to the apprehensive man. But I knew that the poor fellow would
go away home; and brood over the beast's ominous




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   151
threats; and imagine a hundred terrible contingencies;
and work himself into a fever of anxiety and alarm.
And it is because I know that the vague threatener
counted on all that; and wished it; and enjoyed the
thought of the slow torment he was causing; that I
choose to call him a beast rather than a man. Indeed, there is an order of beings, worse than beasts,
to which that being should rather be referred. You
have said or done something, which has given offence
to certain of your neighbors. Mr. Snarling comes and
gives you a full and particular account of the indignation they feel, and of their plans for vengeance. Mr.
Snarling is happy to see you look somewhat annoyed;
and he kindly says, "Oh, never mind; this will blow
over, as other things you have said and done have blown
over."  Thus he vaguely suggests that you have given
great offence on many occasions, and made many bitter enemies. He adds, in a musing voice, "Yes, as
MANY other things have blown over." Turn the individual out; and cut his acquaintance. It would be
better to have a upas-tree in your neighborhood. Of
all disagreeable men, a man with his tendencies is the
most disagreeable. The bitterest and longest lasting
east wind, acts less perniciously on body and soul, than
does the society of Mr. Snarling.
Suspicious people are disagreeable, also people who
are always taking the pet. Indeed, suspiciousness and
pettedness generally go together.  There are many
men and women who are always imagining that some




152   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
insult is designed by the most innocent words and doings of those around them; and always suspecting that
some evil intention against their peace is cherished
by some one or other. It is most irritating to have
anything to do with such impracticable and silly mortals.  But it is a delightful thing, to work along with
a man who never takes offence: a frank, manly man,
who gives credit to others for the same generosity of
nature which lhe feels within himself; and who if he
thinks he has reason to complain, speaks out his mind
and has things cleared up at once. A disagreeable
person is he who frequently sends letters to you without paying the postage; leaving you to pay twopence
for each penny which he has thus saved. The loss of
twopence is no great matter; but there is something
irritating in the feeling that your correspondent has
deliberately resolved that he would save his penny at
the cost of your twopence. There is a man, describing himself as a clergyman of the Church of England,
(I cannot think he is one,) who occasionally sends me'
an abusive anonymous letter, and who invariably sends
his letters unpaid.  I do not mind about the man's
abuse, but I confess I grudge my twopence. I have
observed, too, that the people who send letters unpaid
do so habitually. I have known the same individual
send six successive letters unpaid. And it is probably
within the experience of most of my readers, that out
of (say) a hundred correspondents, ninety-nine invariably pay their letters properly; while time after time




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   153
the hundredth sends his with the abominable big 2
stamped upon it, and your servant walks in and
worries you by the old statement that the postman is
waiting.  Let me advise every reader to do what I
intend doing for the future: to wit, to refuse to receive
any unpaid letter. You may be quite sure that by so
doing you will not lose any letter that is worth having.
A class of people, very closely analogous to that of
the people who do not pay their letters is that of such
as are constantly borrowing small sums from their
friends, which they never restore. If you should ever
be thrown into the society of such, your right course
will be to take care to have no money in your pocket.
People are disagreeable, who are given to talking of
the badness of their servants, the undutifulness of their
children, the smokiness of their chimneys, and the deficiency of their digestive organs. - And though with
a true and close friend, it is a great relief, and a
special tie, to have spoken out your heart about your
burdens and sorrows, it is expedient, in conversation
with ordinary acquaintances, to keep these to yourself.
It must be admitted, with great regret, that people
who make a considerable profession of religion have
succeeded in making themselves more thoroughly disagreeable than almost any other human beings have
ever made themselves. You will find people, who not
merely claim to be pious and Christian people, but to be
very much more pious and Christian than others, who
are extremely uncharitable, unamiable, repulsive, stu



154   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
pid, and narrow-minded; and intensely opinionated and
self-satisfied. We know, from a very high authority, that
a Christian ought to be an epistle in commendation of
the blessed faith he holds. But it is beyond question,
that many people who profess to be Christians, are like
grim Gorgon's heads warning people off from having
anything to do with Christianity.  Why should a
middle-aged clergyman walk about the streets with a
sullen and malignant scowl always on his face, which
at the best would be a very ugly one? Why should
another walk with his nose in the air, and his eyes
rolled up till they seem likely to roll out? And why
should a third be always dabbled over with a clammy
perspiration, and prolong all his vowels to twice the
usual length? It is indeed a most woful thing, that people who evince a spirit in every respect the direct contrary of that of our Blessed Redeemer, should fancy
that they are Christians of singular attainments; and it
is more woful still, that many young people should be
scared away into irreligion or unbelief by the wretched delusion that these creatures, wickedly caricaturing
Christianity, are fairly representing it.  I have beheld more deliberate malice, more lying and cheating,
more backbiting and slandering, denser stupidity, and
greater self-sufficiency, among bad-hearted and wrongheaded religionists, than among any other order of human beings. I have known more malignity and slander conveyed in the form of a prayer, than should have
consigned any ordinary libeller to the pillory. I have




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.  155
known a person who made evening prayer a means of
infuriating and stabbing the servants, under the pretext
of confessing their sins. "Thou knowest, Lord, how
my servants have been occupied this day;" with these
words did the blasphemous mockery of prayer begin
one Sunday evening in a house I could easily indicate.
And then the man, under the pretext of addressing
the Almighty, raked up all the misdoings of the servants (they being present of course), in a fashion
which, if he had ventured on it at any other time,
would probably have led some of them to assault him.
"I went to Edinburgh," said a Highland elder, " and
was there a Sabbath. It was an awfu' sight? There,
on the Sabbath-day, you would see people walking
along the street, smiling AS IF THEY WERE PERFECTLY HAPPY!"  There was the gravamen of the poor
Highlander's charge. To think of people being or
looking happy on the Lord's day! And indeed to
think of a Christian man ever venturing to be happy
at all! "Yes, this parish was highly favored in the
days of Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown," said a spiteful
and venomous old woman, -with a glance of deadly
malice at a young lad who was present. That young
lad was the son of the clergyman of the parish, -one
of the most diligent and exemplary clergymen in
Britain. Mr. Smith and Mr. Brown were the clergymen who preceded him. And the spiteful old woman
adopted this means of sticking a pin into the young
lad, conveying the idea that there was a sad falling off




156   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
now. I saw and heard her, my reader. Now when
an ordinary spiteful person says a malicious thing,
being quite aware that she is saying a malicious thing,
and that her motive is pure malice, you are disgusted.
But when a spiteful person says a malicious thing, all
the while fancying herself a very pious person, and
fancying that in gratifying her spite, she is acting from
Christian principle, I say the sight is to me one of the
most disgusting, perplexing, and miserable, that ever
human eye beheld. I have no fear of the attacks of
enemies on the blessed Faith in which I live, and hope
to die. But it is dismal, to see how our holy religion
is misrepresented before the world, by the vile impostors who pretend to be its friends.
Among the disagreeable people who make a profession of religion, probably many are purely hypocrites. But we willingly believe that there are people, in whom Christianity appears in a wretchedly
stunted and distorted form, who yet are right at the
root. It does not follow that a man is a Christian,
because he turns up his eyes and drawls out his words;
and when asked to say grace, offers a prayer of twenty
minutes' duration. But again, it does not follow that
he is not a Christian, though he may do all these
things. The bitter sectary, who distinctly says that
a humble, pious man, just dead, has "gone to hell,"
because he died in the bosom of the Church, — however abhorrent that sectary may be in some respects, -
may be, in the main, within the Good Shepherd's fold,




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   157
wherein he fancies there are very few but himself.
The dissenting teacher who declared from  his pulpit
that the parish clergyman (newly come, and an entire
stranger to him) was " a servant of Satan," may possibly have been a good man, after all. Grievous defects
and errors may exist in a Christian character, which
is a Christian character still. And the Christian, horribly disagreeable and repulsive now, will some day,
we trust, have all that purged away.  But I do not
hesitate to say, that any Christian, by so far as he is
disagreeable and repulsive, deviates from the right
thing. Oh, my reader, when my heart is sometimes
sore through what I see of disagreeable traits in Christian character, what a blessed relief there is in turning
to the simple pages, and seeing for the thousandth
time The True Christian Character, - so different!
Yes, thank God, we know where to look, to find what
every pious man should be humbly aiming to be; and
when we see That Face, and hear That Voice, there
is something that soothes and cheers anrong the
wretched imperfections (in one's self as in others), of
the present:- something that warms the heart, and
that brings a man to his knees!
The present writer has a relative, who is Professor
of Theology in a certain famous University. With
that theologian I recently had a conversation on the
matter of which we have just been thinking.  The
Professor lamented bitterly the unchristian features
of character which may be found in many people




158   CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.
making a great parade of their Christianity.  He
mentioned various facts, which had recently come to
his own knowledge; which would sustain stronger
expressions of opinion than any which I have given.
But he went on to say, that it would be a sad thing
if no fools could get to heaven; nor any unamiable,
narrow-minded, sour, and stupid people. Now, said
he, with great force of reason, religion does not alter
idiosyncrasy. When a fool becomes a Christian, he
will be a foolish Christian. A narrow-minded man
will be a narrow-minded Christian; a stupid man, a
stupid Christian. And though a malignant man will
have his malignity much diminished, it by no means
follows that it will be completely rooted out. " When
I would do good, evil is present with me." "I find
a law in my members, warring against the law of my
mind; and enslaving me to the law of sin." But you
are not to blame Christianity for the stupidity and
unamiability of Christians. If they be disagreeable,
it is not the measure of true religion they have got,
that makes them so. In so far as they are disagreeable, they depart from the standard. You know, you
may make water sweet or sour; you may make it red,
blue, black; and it will be water still, though its purity
and pleasantness are much interfered with. In like
manner, Christianity may coexist with a good deal of
acid, - with a great many features of character very
inconsistent with itself. The cup of fair water may
have a bottle of ink emptied into it, or a little verjuice,




CONCERNING DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.   159
or even a little strychnine. And yet, though sadly
deteriorated, though hopelessly disguised, the fair water
is there - and not entirely neutralized.
And it is worth remarking, that you will find many
persons who are very charitable to blackguards, but
who have no charity for the weaknesses of really good
people. They will hunt out the act of thoughtless
liberality, done by the scapegrace who broke his
mother's heart, and squandered his poor sisters' little
portions; they will make much of that liberal act,such an act as tossing to some poor Magdalen a purse,
filled with money which was probably not his own;
and they will insist that there is hope for the blackguard yet. But these persons will tightly shut their
eyes against a great many substantially good deeds,
done by a man who thinks Prelacy the abomination
of desolation, or who thinks that stained glass and an
organ are sinful. I grant you that there is a certain
fairness in trying the blackguard and the religionist by
different standards. Where the pretension is higher,
the test may justly be more severe. But I say it is
unfair to puzzle out with diligence the one or two
good things in the character of a reckless scamp, and
to refuse moderate attention to the many good points
about a weak, narrow-minded, and uncharitable good
person.  I ask for charity in the estimating of all
human characters, - even in estimating the character
of the man who would show no charity to another. I
confess freely that in the last-named case, the exercise
of charity is extremely difficult.




CHAPTER VI.
OUTSIDE.
HERE is a tremendous difference between
being Inside and being Outside.  The
distance in space may be very small; but
the distance in feeling is vast.  Sometimes the outside is the better place, sometimes the
inside; but I have always thought that this is a case
in which there is an interruption of nature's general
law of gradation.  Other differences are shaded off
into each other.  Youth passes imperceptibly into
age; the evening light melts gradually into darkness;
and you may find some mineral production to mark
every step in the progress from lava to granite, which
(as you probably do not know) are in their elements
the same thing. But it is a positive and striking fact,
that you are outside or inside. There is no gradation
nor shading off between the two. I am sitting here
on a green knoll; the ground slopes away steeply on
three sides, down to a little river. The grass is very
rich and fresh; and it is lighted up with innumerable
buttercups and daisies. You can see that the old




OUTSIDE.                 161
monks, who used to worship in that lovely Gothic
chapel, brought these acres under cultivation in days
when what is now the fertile country round, was a
desolate waste. And the warm air of one of the last
days of May is just stirring the thick trees around.
But all this is because I am outside. There is an inside hard by where things are very different. Down
below this green knoll, but on a rock high above the
little river, you may see the ruins of an old feudal
castle. Last night I passed over the narrow bridge
that leads to the rock on which the ruins stand; and a
young fellow, moderately versed in its history, showed
me all that remains of the castle. You go away
down, stair after stair, and reach successive ranges
of chambers, all of stone, formerly guard-rooms and
kitchens. These chambers are sufficiently cheerful;
for though on one side far underground, on the other
side they are high above the glen and the river. The
setting sun was streaming into their windows; and
the fresh green of beeches and pines looked over from
the other side of the narrow gorge. But now the
young fellow mentioned that the dungeons were still
far beneath; and in a pitch-dark passage, he made
me feel a small doorway, black as night, going down
to the horrible dark recesses below, to which not a
ray of light was admitted, and to which not a breath
of the fragrant spring air without could ever come.
You could not but think what it must have been, long
ago, to be dragged through those dark passages, and
11




162                OUTSIDE.
violently thrust through that narrow door, and down
to the black abyss. You felt how thoroughly hopeless escape would be,- how entirely you were at the
mercy of the people who put you there. And coming
up from those dungeons, climbing the successive stairs,
you reached the daylight again; and descending the
steep walks of the garden, you reached a place just
outside the dungeons; which on this side are far
above ground. There was the pleasant summer sunset; there were the milk-white hawthorns and the
fragrant lilacs; there was an apple-tree, whose pink
and white blossoms were gently swayed by the warm
wind against the outside of the dungeon-wall. And,
almost hidden by green leaves, you could hear the
stream below, whose waters (it is to be confessed)
had suffered somewhat from the presence, a few miles
above, of various paper-mills. And here, I thought,
were the outside and the inside; only six feet of wall
between; but in all their aspect, and above all in the
feeling of the crushed captive within, a thousand miles
apart. Of course, there was no captive there now;
but all this scene was the same in the days when
those dungeons were fully inhabited. And doubtless,
many of those who were then thrust into those dismal
places liked them just as little Vs you and I should;
and were missed and needed by some outside just as
much as you or I could be.
In this case, you observe, it is better to be outside
than to be inside. But there are many cases in which
it is otherwise.




OUTSIDE.                 163
You may be outside physically; as you would be
if you were to fall, unnoticed, and in the night, overboard from a ship, - and it to pass on, and leave you
to perish in the black waters. Many human beings
have done that; an old school-fellow of mine did. It
must be a dreadful thing. It would be better, in such
a case, not to be able to swim; for then the suffering
would be the sooner over; and the mind would be in
such a bewildered, hurried state, that there would be
less room for the agony of thought. But in warmer
seas, where the chill of the water would not speedily
benumb into loss of power and consciousness, the
single hour through which, as Cowper tells us, an
unaided swimmer might sustain himself in life, would
seem like a lifetime. I know a man who supported
himself for a whole night, by the help of two oars,
after his vessel had gone down in the Indian Ocean.
His wife and child went with it; and after desperate
efforts to save them, he found himself in the water,
clinging to his two oars. Three times, through that
awful night, he cast the oars away from him, and
dived deep under the surface, hoping that he might
never come up; but the instinctive clinging to life
was too strong; and each time he faintly struggled
back to his oars again.
Then you may be outside morally. You may
somehow have turned out of the track in which those
who started with you are going on in life. Perhaps
through folly, perhaps through sin, you have got




164                 OUrSIDE.
beyond the pale. There is a narrow passage in a
certain city, a steep and narrow passage of evil odors,
through which many clergymen are wont to go to a
certain building, in which a great ecclesiastical council meets. In a dark recess, opening into that narrow
passage, and leading to various wretched dwellings, I
have beheld a deposed and degraded minister standing in the darkest shadow he could find, and watching
those who were once his brethren going up by the
way he once used to go, - but shrinking back from
their notice. Alas for the poor outsider, - so near
physically to the place where he used to be, but
morally so far away! Surely his case is worse than
that of the castaway, swept from the deck into the
boiling ocean. After that sad instance, we shall feel
the less sympathy for such moral outsiders as those
who suffer through the existence of lines of social
cleavage: the people who chafe at being excluded
from the society of the great and exclusive First
Circle of a little country town; or who complain
keenly that some wealthy or perhaps noble neighbor
keeps them on the outside of his dwelling. Probably
you have known people feel this moral exclusion very
bitterly. You may have heard a lady in some small
community complain with extreme severity that she
was thus made an outsider; and that, in the festive
tea-parties which went on in the halls of light around
her she was permitted to have no part. At the same
time she probably showed, with great force of state



OUTSIDE.                 165
ment and argument, that she was in all respects a
great deal better than the people inside that charmed
circle to whose outside she was condemned. You
could but sympathize with the individual in her sor
row, and advise her not to mind. Every one has
known the wrath and jealousies which have arisen
firom thus putting people morally outside, - from not
sending theni cards on the occasion of a marriage, -
from not inviting them to some entertainment. You
may remember a classical instance of the wrathful
spirit awakened in a human being stung by the sense
of being outside. Mr. Samuel Warren describes a
man as standing in Hyde Park on an afternoon in
the fashionable season, seeing all that gay life going
on, and feeling that he had nothing to do with it,
and bestowing on the whole system  of things his
extremest malison. Perhaps a worthier nature might
have looked on in kindly interest at a class of concerns and a mode of existence in which he had no
share; and hoped that all paths through this world,
however far apart in time, might yet end and meet in
the same happy place together. We may wish well,
my reader, — and I trust we shall wish well, - even to
those with whom we have little in common, -even to
those beyond the circle of whose sympathies we stand,
and beyond whose comprehension our great interests
lie.
Moral outsideness may coexist with physical insideness.  This truth is well known to unpopular




166                 OUTSIDE.
officers in regiments, who though physically inside
are morally outside; also to schoolboys who for some
offence have been temporarily sent to Coventry by
their young companions. And probably such find it a
heavy trial to be placed outside the pale of society, —
to sit on a form at school with thirty other boys, none
of whom  will speak to theln, —to be cut off from
joining in the games of the play-ground. There used
to be a vulgar expression current among Scotch
schoolboys, - probably it is current still, - which was
founded on this principle: that a human being though
physically an insider may be morally an outsider.
You spoke of being in with such a youthful companion, and out with such another. You are aware
how consignment to moral outsideness often serves
as a fearful punishment of offences to which laws
cannot reach. To be entirely repudiated and cast off
by the society amid which you live, whether lofty or
lowly, - to be made a social outlaw and outsider, - is
something not easily borne even by the most callous;
something which right-thinking men could support
only by the firm conviction that solemn principle
prompted the conduct which brought down this reprobation. It is not nearly so lonely a thing to dwell
in the wilderness, never seeing a human face, as it
would be to live in the town in which you were born
and brought up, and to see, as you walked its streets,
scores of faces you know well, but each averted as
you pass. You may have seen poor women bear




OUTSIDE.                 167
this, with what crucifixion of the whole nature they
only know; you may have beheld them face the unconsciousness of their presence on the part of old friends
with a disdainful smile, or meet it with the look that
betokened a breaking heart. I have witnessed this,
my reader, more than once; and I doubt not you
have done so too. As for men, they can stand all
this better.  They can always find a certain class who
are content to associate with them: a class of people
like themselves. And with a great injustice, not indeed without some reasons in its favor, you know how
even the most reputable society passes lightly in a
man what it visits with its severest reprobation in a
worhan. Yes; you may have witnessed a brazen
outsider, who ought never to have been suffered inside again, gradually elbowing himself, by force of
face, into weight in the senate of a certain moral
country.  You may have known an unrepenting
blackguard, once cast out by the society of the town
and the county, and who never afforded the faintest
reason why he should be let in, step by step getting
in again; till at length the aged reprobate was in high
favor in families abounding in girls, and saw clergymen of great pretensions seated at his hospitable
board. Yet, in the main, a man becomes an outsider
by deserving it. I mean an outsider with people with
whom he would wish to be an insider. With others,
it may be different. I have heard of a young midshipman who was made an outsider because he read




168                 OUTSIDE.
his Bible morning and evening; and because he would
not get drunk when the rest did. A man would be
made an outsider in certain parts of this empire,
unless he helped to screen the sneaking, cowardly
murderer who shoots his ltndlord fromn shelter of a
tree, because asked to pay his rent. And there are
parts of America in which you would become an
outsider unless you spoke in praise of the biggest and
blackest outrage on humanity that the sun looks down
on —I mean negro slavery. Of course, among thieves
you must say nothing against stealing, or they might
turn you out. But in the main, in this country,
people are put outside because it serves them rightly.
And the punishment is a fearfully severe one, reaching to sins and to people not otherwise easily punished.
You have known persons obliged, by this moral
outlawry, to go away from the district or the country
where all their interests lay; even great wealth and
rank have not sufficed to prevent a man's feeling
bitterly that lie was made an outsider.  You may
have seen the fair mansion and the noble trees which
their owner could never enjoy, because he durst not
show his face where he was known. There was once
a man of no small position, who was master of a pack
of fox-hounds, let us say in Ethiopia. On a certain
Sunday, that man chose to amuse himself by taking
out his hounds, and chasing a fox which he had
caught, - having cut off the poor fox's feet previously
to turning it out to be chased. Of course the brute




OUTSIDE.                 1 69
(I mean the master of hounds) was brought before
the magistrates of that part of Ethiopia, and heavily
fined. The law could do no more; and the punishment was most insufficient. The brute probably cared
very little for that. But he probably cared a good
deal when in a day or two he received a communication from all the princes and nobles of that district,
in which they told him that they withdrew from his
hunt and cut his acquaintance. Prompt and resolute
outsiding inflicted justice in the most satisfactory way.
I have more to say of moral outsiders; but at this
point I cannot help looking round, and thinking what
a blessing it sometimes is to be physically outside.
Not far away, there lies the great city. Inside it the
writer lives; and he judges it the best of cities; but
now he is beyond it; he is an outsider for three days
of perfect rest in the quiet country. It is often worth
while to go in, that you may fully appreciate the
blessing of coming out. Did you ever, reader, live
in July, on that most beautiful Frith of Clyde? After
a week in that pure air, and amid that scenery that
combines so wonderfully richness and magnificence,
you ceas.e fully to understand what a privilege you are
enjoying. But go up for a day to the hot, choky
Glasgow of July! Remain for five hours in that
sweltering atmosphere, hurrying from place to place
on business, and stunned by the ceaseless whirl of that
hearty and energetic town; and then go back to the
seaside! Oh, how delightful to get away into the




170                 OUTSIDE.
clear air and the quiet again!  And in this green
place, I think of the city already spoken of; and of
much work and worry there; and feel that here for a
little one is outside it all. I think of a certain Gothic
building, in which is now sitting an ecclesiastic council
which I much revere. I think of the hot atmosphere,
of the buzz, of the excitement, of the speeches so
very interesting and so very long. I observe from
the newspaper that yesterday two gentlemen spoke
four hours each. And then I look at that rich sycamore, with foliage so thick, and at the hawthorn
blossoms, and at the yellow broom, and at the green
grass (for there is "much grass in this place"), and
thank God for all!
Last night, on the little village green, I saw several
moral outsiders, — I mean members of a class from
which respectable folk would for the most part shrink
away. There were four poor fellows, acrobats or tumblers; and a girl who is a rope-dancer. They had
sent in advance a large bill, which was stuck on a
tree, to say there was a grand entertainment coming.
The entertainment hardly came up to its description.
Still the men did many really wonderful gymnastic
feats. They had a striking scene in which to display
their ability. It was a beautiful twilight; the little
green had fine large trees round it; in the distance
there was a great purple hill, and close by was the
gray old chapel. The only drawback was a very
cold wind. There was a large assemblage of country




OUTSIDE.                 171
folk, not very hearty or appreciative spectators; and
all evidently regarding themselves as on a totally different level from the poor wanderers. The four men
turned somersaults and the like; the poor girl, in her
sorry finery, stood by, wrapped in a large shawl till
the time of her performance should come. I observed
that when the hat went round, the rustic audience
evinced great economy in their gifts. The Fool, poor
fellow, his face bedaubed with coarse red and white,
and wearing a cap with two ears, simulated great
spirits, and made many jokes. I looked at him with
great pity, and wondered if any human. being ever
deliberately chooses that way of earning his bread, or
whether some men are gradually hedged up to it, without having had a chance of anything else. I was specially sorry for the poor girl, standing with the cold
wind blowing through her thin dress. The rustics
roared with laughter, as the fool quoted Shakspeare.
He was evidently a man of better education than the
rest. His most effective point was when he took up a
small looking-glass, which was to be given as a prize
in some way I did not make out, and, looking into
the glass, exclaimed, "AAh, that face! that fine old
face! He was a man, take him for all in all," — and
so forth. Not since I was a child have I seen such
people; and I was greatly touched by the sight of
them, and by thinking what kind of life they must
lead. I wondered if they ever went to church, or if
any clergyman cared for them when they might be




172                 OUTSIDE.
sick or dying. And if I had been able, I should assuredly, in defiance of all the laws of Political Economy, have seized them, and taken them  away from
their sorry occupation, and set them to respectable
work, and made them go regularly to church; and, in
short, brought them inside.
There is a curious feeling of the difference of being
inside and outside, when you are sitting in the cabin
of a ship at sea. It is so, even if you be making a
voyage no longer than that from Glasgow to Liverpool.
It is more so, if you be sailing on distant seas. Fancy
a snug little sleeping-eabin, and you lying there in a
comfortable berth placed against the side of the ship.
You lazily lay your head upon the end of the pillow
next the ship's side; about six inches distant from
you, but outside, there is a huge shark rubbing its
nose against the vessel. Your head and the horrible head of the strange monster are but a few inches
apart; happily you aire inside and the monster outside. Somehow it seems as if it were a more remarkable thing for a homely Scot, who went in his youth
to a Scotch parish school and a Scotch parish church,
to be eaten by a shark in a far-away place, than it
would be for almost any other human being to meet a
like end. The parish school and the Shorter Catechism are things wholly inconsistent with a man's living any other than a decent life, or mieeting any other
than a quiet Christian close. You know how pleasant
and refreshing it is, when you are walking along a




OUTSIDE.                173
dusty road in June, outside some beautiful park, to
come to a spot whence you have a view into a green
recess of the woods within. And probably you know
a city where, as you walk the glaring summer streets,
you can look in many places through iron rails into
depths of cool grass and verdant leaves that gladden
eyes and heart together. And if you pay a yearly
subsidy for a share in such a place, you know that
when the iron gate swings noisily into its place behind
you, and you pass from the pavement to the neat gravelled walk or the cool turf, though it be but for a quarter of an hour at the close of a busy afternoon, you
have felt that there is far more than a physical difference between the outside and the inside; you have
felt that breaths of balmy country air come back to
you, and the remembrance of pleasant country cares.
There are human beings, the possessors of fair domains, who seek by lofty walls to keep their fellowcreatures outside their belongings, - even to prevent
their fellow-creatures from refreshing their weary eyes
by looking upon green expanses which they are not
likely to tread. It is a narrow and unworthy mind
that feels it cannot fully enjoy its own possessions,
unless all mankind be kept definitively outside them!
But it testifies to a truly noble nature, when we see
what may be seen in many places now: the possessor
of a beautiful stretch of landscape around his dwelling cordially welcoming his humbler neighbors to its
paths and glades, - giving up the prettiest portion of




174                 OUTSIDE.
his park for a cricket-ground for the lads of the adjoining village, - and judging that his charming acres
look all the more charming when they cease to be a
charming solitude, and are lighted up by happy faces.
But a sweet country place is usually in the midst of a
sweet country; and there is no place where you value
green grass and green trees so much, as when you see
them in contrast to the streets of a town, and especially to the ugliest streets of a town. I know a spot
which, on a summer day, is peculiarly stifling and
dusty, — the dust being mainly the dust of coal.
There is a suburban railway station; there are various mills; there are houses of unattractive exterior;
everything is glaring in the sunshine; everything is
covered with dust. But you enter by a door in a
lofty wall, and you feel the difference between being
outside and inside. There is a curious, old-fashioned
house, surrounded by a pretty garden, laid out with
much taste. Everything is green, fresh, cool, quiet.
It would be a pleasant spot anywhere; but being
where it is, it is a true feast to the eyes. You enjoy
the inside so much more keenly, for the contrast with
the otutside. Green grass, green trees, clear water,
abundant flowers and blossoms, freshness and fragrance in the air. And outside, the coal-dust, the
glaring pavements, the railway station!
I suppose most people like to contrast insides and
outsides, that they may relish one or other the more.
Did you ever, my reader, sit in your warm, cheerful




OUTSIDE.                 175
library, on a cold winter night, away in the country,
which in winter (it must be confessed) looks dreadfully bleak to people accustomed to the town?  Your
curtains are drawn, and your lamp is lit; and there
are your familiar books all round, with their friendlylooking backs.  There is the blazing fire, and notwithstanding the condemnation of a certain great
Bishop, you do not think it wrong to possess various
easy-chairs. All this is pleasant. There is an air of
snugness and comfort, and you feel very thankful, it
is to be hoped, to the Giver -of all. But you do not
know, from the survey of the mere interior, how
pleasant it is.  Go away out, and look at the cold
wall outside your chamber.  There it is, dark with
the plashes of rain, which the howling blast bitterly
beats against it. There are the leafless trees, shivering in the blast. There is the stormy sky, with the
racking clouds, which the chilly moon is wading
through. If you try to make out the landscape as
a whole, there is nothing but a dense gloom, with a
spectral shape here and there, which you know to be
a gate or a tree. On a moonless night, the country is
terribly dark. It is dark to a degree that townfolk,
with their abundant street lamps, have no idea of.
After beholding all these things outside, come in
again, and you will understand in some measure
how well off you are. You will know the distance
there may be, between the two sides of a not very
thick wall.




176                OUTSIDE.
Less than a wall may make the distance. You
have probably travelled in a railway carriage through
a dark stormy night. If you are a quiet, stay-athome person, who do not travel so much that all railway travelling has come to be a mere weariness to
you, you will enjoy such a night with considerable
freshness of interest. And especially, you will feel
the distance between being outside and being inside.
Inside, the thick cushions; the two great powerful
lamps, which give abundant light; the warm rugs and
wraps; the hot water stool for your feet; the newspapers, and the new magazine; one or two pleasant
companions, who do not trouble you by talking, except at the stations; - the stations forty miles apart.
There you lie in luxury, with the feeling that you
may honestly do nothing, - that you may rest. And
looking through the window, there is the bleak, dark
landscape, with all kinds of strange shapes which you
cannot make out: the glare cast upon cuttings through
which -you tear, the fearful hissing and snorting of
a passing engine, the row of lighted windows of a
passing train; the lurid flame of distant furnaces,
the lights of sleeping towns. Yes, a night's travelling between Edinburgh and London is as wonderful
a thing as anything recorded in the "Arabian Nights"
if it were not that it has grown so cheap and common!
Looking out of the carriage-window over the tracts
on either side, and thinking how little parts you from




OUTSIDE.                 177
them, you may call to mind a certain ghastly journey by a night-train. A deliberate and cruel murderer, who had committed (it was believed) more
than one or two murders for gain, was very justly
sentenced to be hanged. He was tried and sentenced
in London; and then he was conveyed in a railway
carriage a journey of a hundred and forty miles to
the place of execution. He sat, manacled, between
two officers of justice, through these hours of travelling. It must have been an extraordinary journey!
It was a near glimpse of freedom for a man to have
when the tightest meshes of the law had grasped him.
There he was, inside,- a person going to a dreadful
death; and outside, stretching away and away, the free
fields; and only the two or three inches between that
inside and that outside! I can imagine how the poor
wretch thought, Oh, if I could but get into the middle of that thick wood; if I could but hide under that
ivied bridge; if I could but put a hundred yards
of midnight darkness between me and those terrible
keepers who have me in their charge! I can imagine how, as he felt rapid mile after mile bringing
him nearer the scaffold, he would wish for some terrible accident, some awful smash; nothing could come
amiss to him; nothing could make him worse! But
in such a case, of course, the little partition between
the inside and the outside,- the couple of inches of
timber and cloth, the eighth of an inch of glass,was the little indication of an awful gulf, that had
12




178                OUTSIDE.
been making for months and perhaps years. Some.
times, indeed, the grievous moral lapse that puts a
man in the cage of which he can never get out, - or
that puts him outside the pale through which he can
never afterwards get in, - may be the doing of a very
short time. The hasty blow, the terribly wrong turning, may have marked a change as definite as that
when the poor castaway is swept from the ship's deck
into the waves of the Atlantic.
In old days, when society was unsettled, it seems as
if one would have felt, more vividly than now, the
difference between being inside and being outside, in
the matter of safety. There must have been a pleasant feeling of security in looking over the battlements
of a great castle, and thinking that you were safe inside them.  The sense of danger with which men
must in those days have gone abroad, would be compensated by the special enjoyment of safety when
they were fairly inside some place of strength. Human nature is so made that even though you are
aware that no one desires to attack or injure you, still
there is a pleasure in thinking, that even if any one
had such a desire, he could not. You know how children like to imagine some outer danger, that they
may enjoy the sense of safety inside. It is with real
delight that your little boy, sitting on your knee, suddenly hides his face in your breast, exclaiming loudly
that there is a great bear coming to eat him. He
feigns a danger outside, that he may enjoy the feel



OUTSIDE.                 179
ing of being safe from it. So you will find a man
who has been laboring hard, going away for a little
rest to some remote quiet place. He tells you, no
one can get at him there. The truth is, nobody wants
to get at him; but like the child with the great bear,
he calls up some vague picture of a great number of
people coming to worry him about a great many matters, that he may have the pleasant feeling that he is
safe from them where he is. You can think of a man
who has committed some crime, flying from justice;
and as he puts mile after mile of desolate country
between him and the place from which he has fled,
thinking that surely he is safe in this retreat. You
can think of the forger, a few years since, who fled
across the Atlantic; fled from the American seaboard
and penetrated deeper and deeper into the backwoods,
till he.stopped in an utter solitude somewhere in the
Far West. You can think how, as week after week
went on, he began to feel as if he might breathe in
peace at last; and think of the poor wretch, sitting
one evening in his little log-house, when two London
detectives walked in, having tracked him all this way!
Did you ever see a foolish duck dive at a hole made
in the ice; and come up again under the ice at a hopeless distance from the opening? It is a sad thing to
see even that poor creature perishing, with only an
inch or two of transparent ice between it and the air.
You hasten to break a hole near it to let it escape;
but. by the time the hole is made, the duck is twenty




180                 OUTSIDE.
yards off. The duck I have seen; but it must be2a
fearful case when a human being gets into the like
position. You may have lately read how a man was
at the bottom of a deep well, when the earth near the
top fell together and shut him in. There were ready
hands to rescue him; and he was not so shut in but that
his voice could be heard hurrying his deliverers. He
told them  that the water was rising; that it was at
his knees, at his breast, at his neck; and the workers
above were too late to save him. I suppose it is quite
ascertained that in those wicked and cruel ages which
ignorant people call the good old times, it was not unusual to wall up a nun in a niche of a massive wall,
and leave her there to perish. Fade in pacem, were
the words that sentenced to this doom; which the
reader probably knows, mean not Depart in peace, but
Go to rest. Such was the kindly-repose provided in
those happy days. And another dismal inside is that
of which Samuel Rogers tells us the true-story; the
massive chest of oak in which a poor Italian girl hid.herself, which closed with a spring-lock, and never.chanced to be opened for fifty years. You can think
of the terrible rush of confused -misery in the poor
creature's heart when she felt herself shut in, and
heard the voices that seemed approaching her die
away. But half a century after, when the chest was
drawn out to the light and its lid.was raised, there
was no trace in the mouldering bones of the thrilling
anguish which had been endured within that little




OUTSIDE.                -181
space. It is a miserable.story. Yet perhaps it has
its moral analogies not less miserable. There are
human beings who by some wrong or hasty step have
committed themselves like the poor girl that perished,
- who have, in a moral sense, been caught, and who
can never get out.
Yes; it is a great question, Outside or Inside; and
now, my reader, you must let me remember, drawing
these desultory thoughts to a close, that the testing
question which puts all mankind to right and left, is
just the question, in its most solemn significance, which
may be set out in that familiar phrase. There is the
Christian fold, - there is the outer world; and we are
either within the fold of the Good Shepherd of souls,
or without it. It is not a question of degree, as it
might be if it founded on our own moral character and
deservings. It is the question, have we confided ourselves to the Saviour or not; are we right or wrong;
are we within or without? And the two great alternatives, we know, are carried out, without shading off
between, into the unseen world. We know that there,
when some have gone in to the feast, the door is shut;
and others may stand without, and find no admission.
Let us humbly pray, that He who came to seek and
to save that which was lost may find each reader of
this page, a lost sheep by nature, a poor wanderer in
the outer wilderness, - and draw all with the cords of
love within his fold. And let us humbly pray that at




182                 OUTSIDE.
the last, we may all, however our earthly paths have
varied, find entrance into that Golden City, which has
a wall great and high, whose building is of jasper, and
which shall exclude all sin and sorrow; through whose
gates, though not shut at all by day (and there shall
be no night there), " there shall in no wise enter into
it anything that defileth;" and where the blessed
inhabitants "shall go no more out," but be safe in
their Father's house forever!




CHAPTER VII.
GETTING ON.
VERYBODY is Going On. We are all
getting through our little span of daylight. We are spending the time that is
allotted to us, at the rate of three hundred and sixty-five days a year. We are all going on
through life, somehow, —not very cheerfully, if one
may judge by the careworn, anxious faces of most
middle-aged people you pass on the street. But some
people are not merely Going On; they are also Getting On, — which is a very different thing. All are
growing older; a man here and there is also growing
bigger. I mean bigger in a moral sense. As you and
I, my reader, look round on those early companions
who started with us in the race of life, we can discern
that great changes have passed upon many of them.
Some who started as cart-horses, of a very shaggy and
uncombed appearance, haye gradually assumed the aspect of thoroughbred, or at least of well-bred animals.
Some who set out as horses sixteen hands high, have
shrunk to the size of Shetland ponies. Certain who




184               GETTING ON.
started as calves, have not attained maturity with
advancing years; and instead of turning into consolidated oxen, they have only grown into enormous
calves. But without going into such matters, I am
sure you know that among your old companions there
are those who are shooting ahead of the rest, or who
have already shot ahead of them. There are those
who are pointed at as Rising Men. They are decidedly Getting On. I do not mean that they are becoming famous, or that they are becoming great men.
They have not had much chance of that. Their lot has
circumscribed their ambition. Their hearts do not beat
high for praise; but have known various perplexities as
to the more substantial question of the earning of bread
and butter. But they are quietly and surely progressing. They have now advanced a good deal beyond what
they were five or ten years since. Every profession
has its rising men. The Church, the Law, Medicine,
Commerce, Literature, have their men who are Getting On,- year by year Getting On. A great many
men find their level rather early in life; and remain
for many years much the same in standing. They are
not growing richer, as they grow older.  They are
not coming to be better known. They are not gaining a greater place and estimation in their walk of
life. Many a little shop-keeper at fifty-five is in
worldly wealth much as he was at thirty-five. He
has managed to rub on, sometimes with a hard struggle; it has been just enough to make the day provide




GETTING ON.                185
for the day's wants; and there has been no accumulation of money. Many a domestic servant, after many
years of toil, is not a whit better off than when she
was a hopeful girl. If she has been provident and
self-denying, she may have a few pounds in the Savings'-bank. Many a laboring man in the country has
been able each week to make the hard-earhed shillings
provide food and clothing for his children and their
mother; but he has laid up no store; he has not advanced; he lives in the same little cottage; and his
poor sticks of furniture are all the worse for their
wear; and his carefully-kept Sunday suit is not so
trim now as it used to be when he courted his hardfeatured wife in her fresh girlhood, and was esteemed
as a rustic beau. Many a faithful clergyman at sixty
is a poorer man than he was at thirty; or in any case
not richer.  It has cost many an anxious thought,
through these years, to make the ends meet; and that
hard task will cost its anxious thoughts to the end.
You who wish to have an efficient clergy, who will do
their work heartily and well, agitate against that
wicked and idiotic notion, that a clergyman is likely
to do his work best, if he be crushed down by the
pressure of poverty; if his wife be worn into her
grave by sorry schemings to make the little means go
their farthest; and if his poor little children have to
run about without shoes and stockings. There are
certain opinions which I should not think of meeting
by argument; but rather by the severest application




186              GETTING ON.
of the cat of ninetails. And one of these is the opinion of the old fool (he was a Scotch Judge) who said
that " a puir church would be a pure church."
But returning from this digression, let me repeat,
that however hard it may be to explain how some men
get on while others do not, there can be no question as
to the fact that some men do get on while others do
not. People get on in many ways; as you will understand, if you look back a few years, and compare
what some of your friends were a few years since
with what they are now. There is A, whom you remember in his early days at college, an ungainly cub
with a shock head of red hair and a tremendous
Scotch accent. That man has taken on polish; he
has got on; he has seen the world; he is an accomplished gentleman. There is B, ten years since a poor
curate; now risen to the charge of an important
parish. There is C; he has married a rich wife; he
has a fine house; he has several horses, various dogs,
and many pigs; he has made so great a rise in life,
that you would say that sometimes when he comes
down-stairs in the morning, he must think that he is
the wrong man. There is D; some years ago he
tried in vain for a certain very small appointment;
the other day he was offered one of the most valuable
in the same profession, and declined it. There is E;
he tried to write for the magazines. His early articles
were ignominiously rejected. The other day he got a
thousand pounds for one edition of a few of the re



GETTING ON.                187
jected articles. You know how, in running the race
of life, some one individual shows his head a little in
front, gradually increases his lead, and finally distances all competition. Once upon a time, there was
a staff of newspaper reporters attached to a certain
London journal. One of them, not apparently cleverer than the rest, drew bit by bit ahead, till he
reached the wool-sack. And when he presided in thegreat assembly whose speeches he was wont to report,
he must unquestionably have felt that he had Got On.
Indeed, I have heard that homely phrase applied to
him by an old Scotch lady who knew him in his
youth; and so who could never speak of his success
in life save in modified terms. "Our minister," said
the old lady to me, " had two sons. One went to India. As for John, he went to London; and he got on
very well."  No doubt John had got on; for he was
at that time Chief Justice of England. If you look
at "The Reliques of Father Prout," you will find a
large picture, containing portraits of the contributors
to a well-known London magazine, thirty years ago.
There is a portrait of a comparatively unnoted man,
with a glass stuck in his eye.  He was an outsider
then; and had given little sign of what he was to be
to-day. The portrait is of Mr. Thackeray. You may
have heard the name before. This very day, I was
told about a man who forty years since opened a little shop, stocked chiefly with coarse towels. So my
informant averred.  If so, the demand for coarse




188               GETTING ON.
towels in a certain great town must have been enor.
mous, or the individual in question must have been
most fortunate in drawing general attention to his
coarse towels; for he drew ahead of other dealers in
towels, and became one of the greatest merchantprinces of England.  But without taking extreme
cases, you know that within more modest limits, there
are people who are steadily Getting On. While one
man lives for thirty years in the same house, and
maintains the same general appearance; his next
neighbor ascends the scale of fashion; gets time after time a better house, till he attains a grand country mansion; and from the total absence of any save
the conveyance common to mankind, attains to the
phaeton, the brougham, and the family chariot. One
preacher does his "duty steadily and respectably, year
after year; and no one thinks anything particular
about him. Another tears like a rocket to the highest elevation of the preacher's precarious popularity.
His church-doors are mobbed; his fame overspreads
the land; his portrait is in the shop-windows; his
sermons sell by scores of thousands.
How is it that men Get On? How is it that in
every walk of life, there are those who draw ahead of
their competitors? It is a very simple and primary
notion, not likely to be entertained unless by youthful
and unsophisticated minds in remote rural districts,
that the most deserving men Get On the best. To




GETTING ON.               189
gain any advantage or eminence, indeed, which is not
bestowed by high-handed patronage, a man must have
a certain amount of merit. The horse -that wins the
Derby must unquestionably be able to gallop at a very
great pace. Of course, if the Derby prize were given
by patronage, it might occasionally fall to a horse with
only three legs. And there are places in the Church
and the Law which are filled up by unchecked patronage; and in which a perfectly analogous state of matters may be discerned. It would be insulting some
men to suggest that they were placed where they
are because they were the best men eligible; or
even because they were fit to be placed there at
all. You may have known instances in which a man
was put in a certain place, because he was the worst
man, or one of the worst men, that could be found.
But even in cases where the eminence is not arbitrarily given, - where it is understood to be earned by the
man himself, and not allotted to him by some other
man,- it is a simple and unsophisticated notion, that
the best man gets the best place. The winner of the
Derby must be able to gallop very fast; but nine
times out of ten, he is by no means the best horse that
starts. A bad place at starting; an unlucky push
from a rival in mid career; the awkward straining of
a muscle; a little nervousness or want of judgment in
the jockey who rides him; and the best horse is
beaten by a very inferior one, more lucky or better
handled. I am obliged to say, as the result of all my




190              GETTING ON.
observation of the way in which human beings Get
On, that human beings get on mainly by Chance, or
Luck. I use the words in their ordinary meaning.
I mean that human beings Get On or fail to Get On,
in a fashion that looks fortuitous. There must be
merit, in walks where men have to make their own
way; but that a man may get on, he must be seconded
by Good Luck, or at least not crossed by Ill Luck.
We must speak of things, you know, as they appear
to our ignorance. I know there is a Hig-her Hand;
and I humbly recognize that. I know that " Promotion cometh neither from the East, nor from the West,
nor from the South; but God is the Judge; he putteth down one, and setteth up another." We all feel
that. I believe that these words of the Psalmist give
us the entire philosophy of Getting On. It is a matter of God's sovereignty; and God's sovereignty, as it
affects human beings, we speak of as their Good or
Ill Luck. Of course, there is no chance in the matter; everything is tightly arranged and governed;
and doubtless, if we could see aright, we should see
that there are wise and good reasons for all; but as
we do not know the reasons, and as we cannot foresee
the arrangement, we fall back on a word which expresses our ignorance; and which states the fact of
the apparent arbitrariness of the government of Providence. Nothing can be more certain than the fact,
that there are men who are lucky; and other men
who are unlucky. The unlucky, perhaps, need it all;




GETTING ON.                191
and the lucky can stand it all; but there is the fact.
And we know that there are blessed compensations,
not known to onlookers, which may make the thorn in
the flesh or the crook in the lot a true blessing; which
cause men thankfully to say that it was good for them
that they were afflicted and disappointed; good for
them that they did not Get On. The wise man Jabez,
you remember, knew that God might " bless indeed,"
while to other eyes He did not seem to bless at all.
And so his prayer was, not that he might absolutely
Get On; but that he might Get On or fail to do so as
God saw best. "Oh, that thou wouldst bless me
indeed! "  And so, speaking in ordinary language,
let me say that I hold by the Psalmist. It is God's
sovereignty. Fiat Voluntas Tua!  The thing that
makes men Get On in this world, is mainly their
luck; and in a very subordinate degree, their merit
or desert.
Life is a lottery. No doubt there is no real chance
in life; but then there is no real chance in any lottery.
I do not hesitate to say that what we deserve has very
little to do with our Getting On. And all human scheming and labor have very little to do with the actual result in Getting On. And for this reason, I find a great
defect in all that I have seen written as to the arts of
self-advancement, whether these arts be honest and
commendable, or otherwise. It is easy to point out a
number of honorable means which tend to help a man
on, and a number of contemptible tricks and dodges




192                GETTING ON.
which tend towards worldly wealth and influence. But
the practical use of all these directions is nullified by
the fact, that some fortuitous accident may come across
all the hard work and self-denial of the worthy man,
or all the dirty trickery of the diplomatic cheat; and
make all perfectly futile.  Honest industry and perseverance, also resolute selfishness, meanness, toadyism,
and roguery, tend to various forms of worldly success.
But you can draw no assurance from  these general
principles, as to what either may do for yourself. Out
of a hundred men, the Insurance tables will tell you
very nearly how many will live for five or ten years to
come; but not the slightest assurance can be conveyed
by these tables to any individual man of the hundred
as to his expectations of life. I have a practical lesson
to draw from all this, by and by; but here let it be repeated, that as a general rule, it is not the most deserving who Get On, but the most lucky.  My reader, if
you have met success in life yourself, you know this
well.  The man who has succeeded knows this far
better than the man who has failed. The writer states
his principle the more confidently, because he knows
he has himself got on infinitely better than he deserves. He looks back on the ruck with which he
started, and he sees that he has drawn ahead of some
who deserved at least as well; who deserved far better. The writer says earnestly that it is not the most
deserving who get on the best; not because he thinks
he has got less than he deserves, but because he knows




GETTING ON.                193
he has got an immense deal more. For these things
he knows Whom to thank; and he desires to be thankful.
Chance, then (which means God's Providence),
advances people in many ways. A man publishes a
book. It meets great success. There is no particular.
reason. Other books as good, and some books a great
deal better, prove entire failures. A man goes to the
bar, and shortly a stream of briefs begins to set in towards his chambers. Men of equal ability, and eager
to excel in their profession, wait wearily on year after
year. A man goes into the Church; he is put in conspicuous places, where his light is not.,hid under a
bushel; he gets large preferments, no one can exactly
say why. He fills respectably the place where he is
put; but doubtless there are many who would fill it
iust as well. You will find a man chance upon a general reputation for great learning, of which he never
gave the slightest. proof. Somehow it became the fashion to speak of him as the possessor of unexplored
mines of information. Then you know how a man
then and.there becomes a privileged person, you cannot say how. A privileged person means a man who
is permitted to say and do the silliest and most insolent things, and to evince the most babyish pettedness
of temper, — things for which anybody else would be
kicked,.or esteemed as an idiot; but when the priviIeged man does all this, every one sets himself to
smooth the creature down if he be petted, and to ap13




194              GETTING ON.
plaud his silly jokes if he be jocular. I do not know
any more signal instance of the arbitrary allotment of
things in this world, than this. It has been truly said
that one man may steal a horse, while another must
not look over the gate. To a certain extent, it is a
matter of natural constitution. You remember how
the dog was accustomed, without rebuke, to jump upon
his master's knee; while the donkey was chastised severely on endeavoring to do the same thing. You will
find a man who is always being stroked down and flattered by the members of some public body, to which
he never rendered any particular service. One can
understand Why the great Duke of Wellington, even
when he had grown an extreme obstruction to army
business and reform, should be deferred to by the
nation for which he had done so much; but you may
have known people treated, with the like deference,
who had never done anything through life but diligently aim at securing the greatest advantage of the,
greatest number; which (it is wellknown) is Number
One. Then there are men who Get On, even to places
of very great dignity, because somehow they have got
into the track, and are pushed on with very little motive force of their own.  It would be invidious to
mention striking instances of this: but it would be
very easy. Other men Get On, by being appointed,
with little competition, to some position which at the
time is not worth much, but which grows important
and valuable. And a worthier way of Getting On, is




GETTING ON.                195
when a man, by his doings and character, makes a
position important, which in other hands would not
be so.
The Chance (as already explained) which rules
events in this life, never appears more decidedly than
in making the diligent efforts of some men successful,
and of other men futile.  We can see the arts which
men use, thinking to advance themselves; and no doubt
these arts often tend directly to that end; but then
Chance comes in to say whether these arts shall signally fail or splendidly succeed. I have known a la*borious student get up many pages of Greek for an
examination; all his pages most thoroughly, save two
or three which were hastily read over. And upon the
examination-day, sure enough he was taken upon the
pages he did not know well, while his competitor was
taken on his pet page, which he knew by heart. And
there were scores of pages which that competitor had
never looked at, but he trusted his Luck, and it did not
fail him.
It may be assumed as certain, that all men would
like to Get On. If you see a number of cabs upon a
stand, you.may be quite sure that any one of them
would take a fare if it could get it. And a man, in
all ordinary cases, by entering any profession, becomes
as a cab upon the stand waiting for a fare. If he
stand idle in the market-place all day, it may be taken
for granted that it is because no man has hired him.




196              GETTING ON.
And though we may have quite outgrown our early
ambitions; though we may never have had much ambition; though we may be quite contented with our
present position and circumstances; still, we should
all like to Get On. We do not talk of ambition, in
the case of commonplace folk like ourselves; and
though the "love of fame" has been called the "universal passion," I believe that it is practically confined
to a very little fraction of mankind. We call it ambition when Mr. Disraeli goes in for leader of the
House of Commons; or when Napoleon twists his
way to a throne. We do not call it ambition when a
clergyman would like a larger congregation to preach
to, or another hundred or two a year of income. We
do not speak of ambition in such cases; it is only that
people would like to Get On a little. We like to
think that we are Getting On; that we live in a better house than we used to do; that our little library
is gradually growing; that our worldly means are improving; that we are a little wiser and better than
we used to be. But though we may take for granted,
that all men would like to Get On, we may be assured
that there are many who would not take much trouble
to do so.  Their wishes are moderate i they have
learned to be content. They will not fret themselves
into a fever; they will not push. And much less will
they sneak, or cheat, or wriggle. If success comes,
they are pleased; but they are not vexed though it
do not come. They look with interest, and with some




GETTING ON.               197
amusement, at the diplomatic schemes of their friends,
who enter themselves in the race of ambition. They
see that pertinacious pushing will make a man Get
On, unless he be very unlucky or very incapable.
But they do not think it worth while pertinaciously
to push. They see that judicious puffing, on your
own part and that of your friends, is a helpful thing;
but they shrink from puffing themselves, or firom
hearing their friends puff them. Puffting is a great
power; as Mr. Barnum  and others know. It is a
great thing, to have friends to back you and puff you.
One man publishes a book. He does not know a soul
who ever printed a line. There is not a human being
to say a good word of his book for friendship's sake.
Another author has a host of literary friends; and
when his book comes out, they raise a sough of applause through the -press. And all this is very natural; and is not unfair. Only the unlucky man who
has got no friends will probably grumble. Yet all
this will not always succeed. I have known two
books come out together. One was written by a man
who had no writing friends; the other by a man who
had many. The former was reviewed widely and
favorably; the other was very little noticed by the
reviewers. But you cannot always force things upon
the reading public. The unreviewed book sold splendidly; the other hardly sold at all. The unreviewed
book enriched its author; the other slightly impoverished its author. All this, of course, was Luck again.




198               GETTING ON.
I have already stated what appears to me the great
defect in all treatises on the arts of self-advancement
and self-help. There appears to me a fallacy at the
foundation of all their instructions. They all say, in
one form or other, " Do so and so, and you will Get
On." Some of these treatises recommend fair and
worthy means; as industry, self-denial, perseverance,
honesty, and the like. Others of them recommend
unworthy means; as selfishness, unscrupulousness, impudence, toadyism, sneakiness, and the like. But they
fail to allow for Chance or Providence. They fail to
bring out the utter uncertainty which attends all arts
for Getting On. No mortal can say how a man is to
Get On. A poor Scotch lad, walking the London
streets, fell into a cellar and broke his leg.  That
made his fortune. The wealthy owner of the cellar
took him up, and pushed him on; and he rose to be
Lord Mayor of London and an eminent member of
Parliament. A certain man (and a good man too)
became a Bishop through accidentally attracting the
notice of a disreputable peeress who was in high favor
with a disreputable monarch, who once reigned (let
us say) in the centre of Africa. The likeliest arts,
whether honest or dishonest, may fail utterly. And
the lesson, I think, is this: Do your duty quietly and
honestly; Don't push, don't puff; Don't set your
heart upon any worldly end; it is not worth while;
if success comes, well; if it does not come, you do
not mind much. "Seekest thou great things for thy



GETTING ON.                199
self? seek them  not!"  There never were words
written more worthy of being remembered and acted
on by all men. There is no use in being ambitious.
Being ambitious just means setting your whole heart on
Getting On; and in this world people seldom get the
thing on which they set their heart. And no matter
how you may labor to attain your end, you cannot make
sure of attaining it. You may probably see it carried
away by some easy-going man who cared very little for
it, dand took very little trouble to get it. Read Mr.
Smiles' excellent book on " Self-Help."  It will do
you good to read it. It will spur you to do your best,
to see what other men have done. But remember,
you are in God's hands. The issue is with Him. It
no more follows that if you work like George Stephenson or Lord Eldon, you will get on as they did;
than that if you eat the same thing for breakfast as
the man who gets the great prize in a lottery, you
will get the prize like him. Still, Mr. Smiles will do
you good. Unless luck sets very greatly against you,
you may, by honestly doing your best, Get On fairly.
Your chance of Getting On to the highest point of
success is just about the same as your chance of being
smashed altogether. It is not great. And remember,
my friend, that it is not worldly success that is the
best thing we can get in this world. There is something far better. And perhaps it may be by forbidding that you should Get On, that God may discipline
you into that. I should feel very great interest in




200               GETTING ON.
reading the lives of a number of men who honestly
did their best, and failed; yet who were not soured
by failure; men who, like St. Paul, bore the painful
weight through life, and bore it kindly and humbly;
getting great good and blessing out of it all. Let us
always keep it in our remembrance, that there issomething far better than any amount of worldly success, which may come of worldly failure.
Still, remembering all this, it is interesting to look
at the various arts and devices by which men hlave
Got On. Judicious puffing is a great thing. But it
must be very judicious. Some people irritate one by
their constant stories as to their own great doings. I
have known people who had really done considerable
things; yet who did not get the ciedit they deserved,
just because they were given to vaporing of what
they had done. It is much better to have friends
and relatives to puff you; to record what a splendid
fellow you are, and what wonderful events have befallen you. Even here, if you become known as one
of a set who puff each other, your laudations will do
harm instead of good. It is a grand thing to have
relations and friends who have the power-to actually
confer material success. Who would not wish to be
DOWB, that so he might be "taken care of?" You
have known men at the Bar, to whom some powerful
relative gave a tremendous lift at starting in their
profession. Of course this would in some cases only
make their failure more apparent, unless they were




GETTING ON.                201
really equal to the work to which they were set.
There is. a cry against Nepotism.  It will not be
shared in by the Nepotes. It must be a fine thing to be
one of them. Unhappily, they must always be a very
small minority; and thus the cry against them will be
the voice of a great majority. I cannot but observe
that the names of men who hold canonries at cathedrals, and.other valuable preferments in the Church,
are frequently the same as the name of the Bishop of
the diocese. I do not complain of that. It is the
plain intention of Providence that the children should
suffer for their fathers' sins, and gain by their fathers'
rise. It is utterly impossible to start all human beings
for the race of life, on equal terms. It is utterly
impossible to bring all men up to a rope stretched
across the course, and make all start fair. If a man be
a drunken blackguard, or a heartless fool, his children
must suffer for it; must start at a disadvantage. No
human power can prevent that. And on the other
hand, if a man be industrious and able, and rise to
great eminence, his children gain by all this. Robert
Stephenson had a splendid start,.because old George
his father got on so nobly. Lord Stanley entered
political life at an immense advantage, because he was
Lord Derby's son. And if any reader of this page
had some valuable office to give away, and had a son,
brother, or nephew, who deserved it as well as anybody else, and who he could easily think deserved it
a great deal better than anybody else, I have little




202               GETTING ON.
doubt that the reader would give that valuable office
to the son, brother, or nephew. I have known, indeed, magnanimous men who acted otherwise, who in
exercising abundant patronage suffered no nepotism;
it was a positive disadvantage to be related to these
men; they would not give their relatives ordinary
justice. The fact of your being connected with them
made it tolerably sure that you would never get
anything they had to give. All honor to such men!
Yet they surpass average humanity so far, that I do
not severely blame those who act on lower motives.
I do not find much fault with a certain Bishop who
taught me theology in my youth, because I see that
he has made his son a canon in his cathedral. I
notice, without indignation, that the individual who
holds the easy and lucrative'office of Associate in
certain Courts of Law, bears the same name with the
Chief Justice.  You have heard how Lord Ellenborough was once out riding on horseback; when word
was brought him of the death of a man who held a
sinecure office with a revenue of some thousands a
year. Lord Ellenborough had the right of appointment to that office.  He instantly resolved to appoint his son. But the thought struck him, that he
might die before reaching home, - he might fall from
his horse; or the like. And so the eminent Judge
took from his pocket a piece of paper and a pencil,
and then and there wrote upon his saddle a formal
appointment of his son to that wealthy place. And as




GETTING ON.               203
it was a place which notoriously was to be given, not
to a man who should deserve it, but merely to a
man who might be lucky enough to get it, I do not
know that Lord Ellenborough deserved to be greatly
blamed. In any case, his son, as he quarterly pocketed the large payment for doing nothing, would
doubtless hold the blame of mankind as of very little
account.
But whether you Get On by having friends who
cry you- up, or by having friends who can materially
advance you, of course it is your luck to have such
friends. We all know that it is " the accident of an
accident" that makes a man succeed to a peerage or
an estate. And though trumpeting be a great fact
and power, still your luck comes in to say whether the
trumpet shall in.your case be successful. One man,
by judicious puffing, gets a great name; another,
equally deserving, and apparently in exactly the same
circumstances, fails to get it. No doubt the dog who
gets an ill name, even if he deserves the ill name,
deserves it no more than various other sad dogs who
pass scot free. Over all events, all means and ends in
this world, there rules God's inscrutable sovereignty.
And to our view, that direction appears quite arbitrary. "One shall be taken, and the other left."
"Jacob have I loved and Esau have I hated." " Hath
not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump
to make one vessel unto honor, and another unto
dishonor?"  A  sarcastic London periodical lately




204               GETTING ON.
declared that the way to attain eminence in a certain
walk of life, was to "combine mediocrity of talent with
family affliction."  And it is possible that instances
might be indicated in which that combination led to
very considerable position. But there are many more
cases in which the two things coexisted in a very high
degree, without leading to any advancement whatsoever. It is all luck again.
A way in which small men sometimes Get On, is
by finding ways to be helpful to bigger men. Those
bigger men have occasional opportunities of helping
those who have been helpful to them. If you yourself, or some near relation of yours, yield effectual
support to a candidate at a keenly-contested county
election, you may possibly be repaid by influence in
your favor brought to bear upon the. Government of
the day. From a bishopric down to a beadleship, I
have known such means serve valuable ends. It is a
great thing to have any link, however humble, and
however remote, that connects you with a Secretary
of State, or any member of the Administration. Political tergiversation is a great thing. Judicious ratting, at a critical period, will generally secure some
one considerable reward. In a conservative institution to stand almost alone in professing very liberal
opinions; or in a liberal institution to stand almost
alone in professing conservative opinions; will probably cause you to Get On. The leaders of parties are
likely to reward those who among the faithless are




GETTING ON.                205
faithful to them; and who hold by them under diffi.
culties. Still, luck comes in here. While some will
attain great rewards by professing opinions very inconsistent with their position, others by doing the same
things merely bring themselves into universal ridicule
and contempt. It is a powerful thing, to have abundant impudence; to be quite ready to ask for whatever
you want. Worthier men wait till their merits are
found out; you don't. You may possibly get what
you ask; and then you may snap your fingers in the
face of the worthier man. By a skilful dodge, A got
something which ought to have come to B. Still, A
can drive in dignity past B, covering him with, mud
from his chariot-wheels. There was a man in the last
century who was made a bishop by George III., for
having published a poem oil the death of George II.
That poem.declared that George II. was removed by
Providence to heaven, because he was too good for this
world. You know what kind of man George II. was;
you know whether even Bishop Porteus could possibly
have thought he was speaking the truth in publishing
that most despicable piece of toadyism. Yet Bishop
Porteus was really a good man, and died in the odor
of sanctity. He was merely a little yielding. Honesty would have stood in the way of his Getting On;
and so honesty had to make way for the time. Many
people know that a certain Bishop was to have been
made Archbishop of Canterbury; but that he threw
away his chance by an act of injudicious honesty. On




206              GETTING ON.
one occasion, he opposed the Court, under very strong
conscientious convictions of duty. If he had just sat
still, and refrained from bearing testimony to what he
held for truth, he would have Got On much farther
than he ever did. I am very sure the good man
never regretted that he had acted honestly!
Judicious obscurity is often a reason for advancing
a man. You know nothing to his prejudice. Eminent men have always some enemies; there are those
who will secretly hate them just because they are
eminent; and no one can say how or when the most
insignificant enemy may have an opportunity to put a
spoke in the wheel, and upset the coach in which an
eminent man is advancing to what would have
crowned his life. While nothing can be more certain
than that if you know nothing at all about a man, you
know no harm of him. There are many people who
will oppose a man seeking for any end, just because
they know him. They don't care about a total stranger gaining the thing desired; but they cannot bear
that any one they know should reach it. They cannot make up their mind to that. You remember a
curious fact brought out by Cardinal Wiseman in his
" Lives of the Last Four Popes." There are certain
European kings who have the right to veto a Pope.
Though the choice of the conclave fall on him, these
kings can step in and say, No. They are called to
give no reason. They merely say, Whoever is to be
Pope, it shall not be that man. And the Cardinal




GETTING ON.               207
shows us, that as surely as any man seems likely to
be elected Pope who has ever been Papal Ambassador at the court of any of those kings, so surely does
the king at whose court he was veto him! In short,
the king is a man; and he cannot bear that any one
he knows should be raised to the mystical dignity of
the Papacy. But the monarch has no objection to
the election of a man whom he knows nothing about.
And as the more eminent cardinals are sure to have
become known, more or less intimately, to all the
kings who have the right to veto, the man elected
Pope is generally a very obscure and insignificant
Cardinal. Then there is a pleasant feeling of superiority and patronage in advancing a small man, a man
smaller than yourself. You may have known men
who were a good deal consulted as to the filling up of
vacant offices in their own profession, who made it
their rule strongly to recommend men whose talent
was that of decent mediocrity, and never to mention
men of really shining ability. And if you suggest to
them the names of two or three persons of very high
qualifications, as suitable to fill the vacant place, you
will find the most vigorous methods instantly employed to make sure that whoever may be successful, it shall not be one of these. "Oh, he would
never do!"
It is worth remembering, as further proof, how little
you can count on any means certainly conducing to
the end of Getting On, that the most opposite courses




208               GETTING ON.
of conduct have led men to great success. To be the
toady of a great man is a familiar art of self-advancement. There once was a person who by doing extremely dirty work for a notorious peer, attained a
considerable place in the government of this country.
But it is a question of luck, after all. Sometimes it
has been the making of a man, to insult a Duke, or to
bully a Chief Justice. It made him a popular favorite;
it enlisted general sympathy on his side; it gained him
credit for nerve and courage. But public feeling, and
the feeling of the dispensers of patronage in all walks
of life, oscillates so much, that at different times, the
most contradictory qualities may commend a man for
preferment. You may have known a man who was
much favored by those in power, though he was an
extremely outspoken, injudicious, and almost reckless
person. It is only at rare intervals that such a man
finds favor; a grave, steady, and reliable man, who
will never say or do anything outrageous, is for the
most part preferred. And now and then you may find
a highly cultivated congregation, wearied by having had
for its minister for many years a remarkably correct
and judicious though tiresome preacher, making choice
for his successor of a brilliant and startling orator,
very deficient in taste and sense. A man's luck, in all
these cases, will appear, if it:cbring him into notice just,at the time when his special characteristics are held
in most estimation. If for some specific purpose, you
desire to have a horse which has only three legs, it is




GETTING ON.                209
plain that if two horses present themselves for your
choice, one with three legs and the other with four,
you will select and prefer the animal with three. It
will be the best, so far as it concerns you. And its
good luck will appear in this: that it has come to your
notice just when your liking happened to be a somewhat peculiar one. In like manner, you may find
people say, In filling up this place at the present time,
we don't want a clever man, or a well-informed man,
or an accomplished and presentable man; we want a
meek man, a humble man, a man who will take snubbing freely, a rough man, a man like ourselves.  And
I have known many cases, in which, of several competitors, one was selected just for the possession ot
qualities which testified his inferiority to the others.
But then, in this case, that which was absolutely the
worst, was the best for the particular case. The people
wanted a horse with three legs, and when such an animal presented itself they very naturally preferred him
to the other horses which had four legs. The horses
with four legs naturally complained of the choice, and
thought themselves badly used when the screw was
taken in preference. They were wrong. There are
places for which a rough man is better than a smooth
one; a dirty man than a clean one; in the judgment
(that is) of the people who have the filling up of the
place. I certainly think their judgment is wrong. But
it is their judgment, and of course they act upon it.
As regards the attainment of very great and unusual
14




210               GETTING ON.
wealth, by business or the like, it is very plain how
much there is of luck. A certain degree of business
talent is of course necessary, in the man who rises in a
few years from nothing to enormous wealth; but it is
Providence that says who shall draw the great prize;
for other men with just as much ability and industry
entirely fail. Talent and industry in business may
make sure; unless in very extraordinary circumstances,
of decent success; but Providence fixes who shall make
four hundred thousand a year. The race is not to the
swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor riches to men of
understanding; that is, their riches are not necessarily
in proportion to their understanding.  Trickery and
cheating, not crossed by ill-luck, may gain great wealth.
I shall not name several instances which will occur to
every one. But I suppose, my friend, that you and
I would cut off our right hand before we should Get
On in worldly wealth by such means as these. You
must make up your mind, however, that you will not
be envious when you see the fine house, and the horses
and carriages of some successful trickster. All this
indeed might have been had; but you would not have
it at the price. That worldly success is a great deal
too dear, which is to be gained only by sullying your
integrity! And I gladly believe that I know many
men, whom no material bribe would tempt to what is
mean or dishonest.
There is something curious in the feeling which
many people cherish towards an acquaintance who be



GETTING ON.               211
comes a successful man. Getting On gives some people
mortal offence. To them, success is an unpardonable
crime. They absolutely hate the man that Gets On.
Timon, you remember, lost the affection of those who
knew him, when he was ruined; but depend upon it,
there are those who would have hated Timon much
worse had he suddenly met some great piece'of good
fortune. I have already said that these envious and
malicious people can better bear the success of a man
whom they do not know. They cannot stand it, when
an old school-companion shoots ahead.' They cannot
stand it, when a man in their own profession attains to
eminence. They diligently thwart such an one's plans,
and then chuckle over their failure, saying, with looks
of deadly malice, "Ah, this will do him a great deal
of good  "
But now, my reader, I am about to stop. Let me
briefly sum up my philosophy of Getting On. It is
this: A wise man in this world will not set his heart
on Getting On, and will not push very much to Get
On. He will do his best, and humbly take with
thankfulness what the Hand above sends him.  It is
not worth while to push. The whole machinery that
tends to earthly success, is so capricious and uncertain
in its action, that no man can count upon it, and no
wise man will. A chance word, a look, the turning of
a straw, may make your success or mar it. A man
meets you on the street and says, Who is the person




212               GETTING ON.
for such a place, great or small? You suddenly think
of somebody, and say He is your man, and the thing
is settled. A hundred poor fellows are disappointed.
You did not know about them, or their names did not
occur to you. You put your hand into a hat, and drew
out a name. You stuck a hook into your memory, and
this name came out. And that has made the man's
Tortune. And the upshot of the whole matter is, that
such an infinitude of little fortuitous circumstances
may either further or prevent our Getting On; the
whole game is so complicated, that the right and happy
course is humbly to do your duty and leave the issue
with God. Let me say it again: " Seekest thou great
things for thyself?  Seek them not! " It is not worth
while. All your seeking will not make you sure of
getting them; the only things you will make sure of
will be fever and toil and suspense. We shall not
push, or scheme, or dodge, for worldly success. We
shall succeed exactly as well, and we shall save ourselves much that is wearisome and degrading. Let ustrust in God, my friend, and do right; and we shall
Get On as much as He thinks good for us. And it is
not the greatest thing to Get On. I mean, to Get On
in matters that begin and end upon this world. There
is a progress in which we are sure of success, if we
earnestly aim at it; which is the best Getting On of
all. Let us"' grow in grace." Let us try by God's
aid to grow better, kinder, humbler, more patient, more
earnest to do good to all. If the germ of the better




GETTING ON.               213
life be implanted in us by the Blessed Spirit, and
tended by Him day by day; if we trust our Saviour
and love our God, then our whole existence, here and
hereafter, will be a glorious progress from good to
better. We shall always be Getting On!




CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE LAND'S END.
UST a quarter of an hour ago, an aged
man, the most intelligent and pleasant of
hostlers, zealous in Methodism, and skilled
*oiM   in the characteristics of horses, said to
the present writer, " Stand on that rock." And as he
said the words, he pointed to a little flat expanse of
granite, three or four feet square. The present writer
obeyed. And then the aged and intelligent man added,
emphatically and solemnly, " Now, sir, you are standing on THE LAND'S HEND."
When I used continually to read the life of that
great and good man, Dr. Arnold, (to whom, and to
whose biographer, many thousands of human beings
owe some of the most healthful influence that ever
went to ameliorate their heart and life) I remember
thinking, a good many times, that one subject in a list
of subjects for English verses to be prescribed to the
boys of the sixth class, was a most suggestive one. It
was, as the intelligent reader has anticipated, The
Land's End.




AT THE LAND'S END.             215
One had a vague idea, that a great many fine things
were to be said upon that subject. But if I ever
thought what they were, I am sorry to say that they
have quite vanished from remembrance now. At present, I can only look and feel, in a very confused
fashion. For this is the Land's End. HIere I am, on
the extreme verge of England; this paper is laid on a
rough granite rock, in a little recess which keeps off
the wind. All this little headland is granite, shattered
and splintered as if by lightning. The granite is in
many places covered with lichens; and here and there
a bright sprig of heather looks out from a little nook
in which it has been able to root itself. The sea is
roaring eighty feet below..Eighty feet make all the
elevation; of course the mere height is very poor
when compared with that of many bits of the Scotch
coast. The descent to the sea is perpendicular; the
sea below is not deep just at this point. Out, a mile
and a half from shore, you might see the Longships
Rocks; detached islets rising in a line, very sharply
out of the sea, and running up almost into spires. On
one of them is a light-house. Three men live in it. A
few years ago, a young man who had been absent from
his family for twelve years, came back to visit his old
home hard by. His father was one of the keepers of
the light-house, and as it was his turn to take charge of
the lights that month, he could not come ashore to see
his son till a few days should pass. The morning after
the son's arrival, it was too stormy to go out to the




216           AT THE LAND'S END.
light-house to visit his father, and he came to this spot
to have as near a view as might be of the place where
his father was. He fell over the rocks and was killed.
It is a touching story; if you cannot see why, I need
not attempt to show you.
Off on the right, at three miles' distance, is a blacklooking promontory, called Cape Cornwall. When you
visit the place, my reader, the old man will tell you it
is the only cape in' England. There are heads; there
are points; there is a ness; but there is no other cape.
You would think that Cape Cornwall reaches into the
sea farther than the Land's End itself; but your eye
deceives you. It falls short of its more famous neighbor by several hundred yards. Looking down from
this recess, you may see a number of rocks, greater
and less, rising out of the sea; each with a ring of
white foam at its base. Far out, you may just trace
the outline of Scilly; for the day is not very clear.
When you come to this spot, my friend, you will
have all the sights shown you by that most intelligent
old man already mentioned; that is, of course, if he
and you are spared to meet. You will see, very near
the End, the deep marks of a horse's hoofs in the turf,
within two feet of the verge. A stupid and blustering
idiot once made a bet that he would ride on horseback
to the Land's End; meaning to the very extremity of
the little rocky headland. He forced his horse down
the steep and rugged descent from the heathery plateau




AT THE LAND'S END.             217
above, and upon the neck of turf-covered rock that
joins the headland to  ie shore. But when the h6rse
reached this slippery neck, he testified how much more
sense he had than the blustering idiot who rode him,
by refusing to go any farther. The blustering idiot
goaded him with whip and spur; and slipping upon
the short turf, the poor creature fell; and clung by
his fore feet in the marks you see, before making the
awful plunge below. The fall Was not into water, but
upon sharp rocks; and the poor horse miserably perished. I lamented the horse's fate; and I could not
but conclude that had his master been smashed instead
of himself, the nobler creature of the two would have
been saved; and the loss to mankind would have been
inappreciably small.  It is fifty-five years since the
horse's hoofs clung to that last hope; but the deep
marks have been diligently kept clear, and they remain
as when the horse was wickedly killed; serving as a
monument of his sad fate, and of what a brainless fool
his master was. After standing on the rocky table
which is emphatically styled the HEND, YOU will clamber down a rough path, and lie down at all your length
on a very overhanging crag. -Here your head will
project much over the sea; and the intelligent old man
will keep a tight hold of your feet. And now, looking away to the right, you will discern the reason why
you were brought to this precarious position. You
will see that the rocky neck joining the End to the
shore, is penetrated clear through by a lofty Gothic




218          AT THE LAND'S END.
arch, through which the waves fret in foam. You
will be told of another lesser arch, which you cannot
see. These have been worn in the lapse of ages; and
some day, if the world stands, the superincumbent rock
will fall, and the Land's End will become a little rocky
islet. You can see many traces in the rocks near,
of the like having happened before. Doubtless the
Cornwall coast once reached at least as far seaward as
those Longships Rocks. And coming up from this
spot, you will reach the neck once more; and here the
old man (skilful hostler and zealous Methodist), if he
thinks you a fit person so to distinguish; if he sees
you are a man or a woman who can sympathize with
him and understand him; will point with reverence
to a square block of granite that looks through the
turf; and tell you that a good man whose memory he
holds very dear, and whose memory can be indifferent
to no human being who reverences simple-hearted
devotion to the best good of his fellow-creatures, has
been before you here. "John Wesley stood on that
stone, and made verses of poetry," said the old man to
me; and I am glad to say that he then went on, with
much simple solemnity, to repeat the verses from end
to end. I doubt not you know them. They are the
verses in which the good man tells us how, standing
physically " between two seas;" standing on this narrow neck with the Atlantic chafing on either hand
beneath; he remembered that he, and every human
being with him, stands morally and spiritually between




AT THE LAND'S END.             219
two oceans more solemn than that; and prayed humbly that the pilgrimage might end well for all. The
writer is a churchman; churchman both by head and
by heart; but when he heard again the simple lines
(which he confesses struck him as extremely poor
when tried by merely aesthetic rules), he could not
but stand reverentially on the stone where Wesley's
feet had stood; and think of the old man, with his
white hair, his kindly face, his warm heart, and his
beautifully-starched bands; and heartily ask, in a
fashion very familiar to us all, for more of Wesley's
single-minded spirit.
And now I have sent the old man away, thanking
him very much for the intelligent and interesting way
in which he told his story; and I wait here by myself.
I have written these lines which you have read, since
he departed. At a spot like this, a party of visitors
along with you is fatal to your feeling the genius of
the place; and after the most intelligent guide has
told you all he can tell, it is a relief to get rid of him.
I want to feel that I am here. And first, I am aware
that I am not disappointed. I went many miles round
to-day to see the Logan Rock. The Logan Rock is
an imposition. It is a delusion and a snare. You
are told it is a mass of granite weighing eighty tons;
and that it is so balanced by nature on a pivot of
stone, that a touch from the hand can make it rock
back and forward. To rock back and forward is
apparently an idea conveyed in Cornish speech by




220           AT THE LAND'S END.
the verb to log; and the Rock, though its name be
spelled as above, is called the Loggin Rock, to describe
its nature. You drive or walk ten miles from Penzance, by fearfully steep roads the last miles, till you
come to a very dirty little village at the top of a hill.
I have seldom seen more squalid cottages. I wish I
knew the name of the proprietor of the estate on
which they are built. A man, who has been-lounging
about on the road to the village, approaches as you
stop at the door of the neat little inn; and the driver
of the vehicle which has borne you fiom Penzance
introduces him as your guide. You follow him along
a well-defined path, through fields of ripening grain,
for about half a mile. Then you come upon a rocky
height, from which you discern the sea below you on
two sides, within two hundred yards. You can indistinctly trace the outline of the walls of an ancient fortress upon that rocky height. Then you scramble
down upon a little isthmus, as at the Land's End; the
isthmus spreads into a little headland, made of huge
blocks of granite. On either hand below you can see
a beach of silvery white sand. As you are scrambling
down the descent to the isthmus, you observe a man
leisurely walking up the opposite ascent; and you
become aware of the extent to which the division of
labor is carried in that little Cornish village. One
man is your guide to the Rock; his business is to conduct you along a path you could not possibly miss,
even without a guide. A second man waits your arri.




AT THE LAND'S END.             221
val at the Rock; his business is to give it a push with
his shoulder, and set it loggin.' The Rock is a large
mass, which may possibly weigh eighty tons; it certainly does not look as if it did. It lies on the landward slope of the headland which you reach by the
isthmus.' And when the man puts his shoulder to it,
and gives it a push, you may, if you shut one eye, and
look very sharply with thy other, see the rock move a
distance of perhaps one inch; possibly two. Let me
strongly advise the reader to spare himself the trouble
of going to see that sight.
But sitting on a rock at the Land's End, you will
not feel disappointed. The interest here is not the
factitious one of seeing a large stone moved an inch
or two. It is the interest of looking at a wild piece
of rocky coast, round whose name there clusters a
crowd of associations. How familiar the name is;
how often, when a child, you pointed this place out
on the map; how many times you have wondered
what it would be like; and wondered if you would
ever see it! A quarter of a mile out to sea, just below, there is a black-looking rock; on that rock at this
minute there are sitting twelve cormorants. Now and
then one of them skims off over the sea. The day
has become overcast; there is not a soul near. You
cannot help having an eerie kind of feeling. You
think it wonderful to find yourself here.
Sitting here, I think of a passage in the works of
the most pleasing of English essayists, whom the




222          AT THE LAND'S END.
writer is so happy as to call his friend. You will
find the passage in "Friends in Council." In it, mention is made of an old lady, who firmly believed that
three pounds given by her were equal to about five
pound ten given by anybody else. Her money had
cost so much thought and so much rigid saving to ge'
it together. Sixpence by sixpence had been got to
gether through patient self-denial; each separate shilling had formed the matter of long consideration.
And the old lady felt it hard that the result of all
this should be hardly and unsympathetically expressed
by such words as three pounds. Of course the philosophic reader knows that it was merely that the poor
old lady felt an interest in what was her own, which
she could not feel in what belonged to anybody else.
Had she been a person of greater enlightenment, she
would have read in all her own little anxieties and
schemings, the reflection of what was passing in the
minds of those around her; and she would have concluded not that three pounds of her own were equal
to six pounds of a neighbor's; but rather that three
pounds, no matter to whom belonging, made a serious
and important thing. But the poor old lady's feeling
was natural. I am not able, at the present moment,
quite to repress a feeling entirely like it. It seems to
me a far stranger thing that I should be here, than it
would be that any one of a great many people I' know
should be here. They are venturesome folk. They go
about a great deal. Nothing strikes them as very re



AT THE LAND'S END.            223
markable. When Mr. Smith said in my hearing, that
something or other happened when he was going into
Jerusalem, I could not but look at Mr. Smith with
great respect. But Mr. Jones, who has been everywhere himself, was quite free from any such feeling.
You would hear or read quite coolly, my fiiend, that
A or B had been at the Land's End. It is no great
matter. But come yourself to this very spot where I
am sitting; look round on this scene on which I have
cast my eyes since I wrote the last sentence; and if
you be a homely person who have never been beyond
the limits of Britain, and who lead a quiet life from
day to day somewhere in a quiet rural parish in Scotland, you will feel it curious to find yourself here.
And if you be a sensible person, you will not think it
a fine thing to pretend that you do not feel it so.
You remember what Sydney Smith said of Scotland. He said, no doubt, many things on that subject; but the thing to which I refer is the statement that Scotland is "the knuckle-end of England."
There is a certain degree of truth in the statement.
After you have spent a little while in Surrey, or Sussex, or Wiltshire, in a very richly wooded part of
either county; if you get into an express train on the
North-Western Railway on the morning of a summer
day, and travel on by daylight through Staffordshire
and Lancashire, through Cumberland and Lanarkshire, till you arrive at Glasgow, you will be aware
that Sydney Smith's metaphor corresponds with your




224          AT THE LAND'S END.
own feeling. You will be aware that as you travel
towards the North, the trees are gradually growing
smaller, the fields less rich, the whole landscape barer
and bleaker; you will remember that nightingales do
not sing north of Leeds, and you will think of other
little traces of something like a physical decadence.
But the impression made upon you will vary according to the line of country you pass through. I could
take you to tracts in Scotland where the trees and
hedges and fields are as rich, and the air as soft and
pleasant, as anywhere in Britain; and where you add
to the charms of the sweet English landscape, the
long summer twilights which England wants. The
true knuckle-end of England is here. And you will
feel that, if you come to this place through the rich
plains traversed by the Great Western Railway; or
(better still) by that railway which comes by Salisbury, Sherborne, and Honiton to Exeter, through a
country where at every turn you feel you are looking on a landscape which is your very ideal of beautiful England; and where churches and churchyards
abound, so incomparably lovely in architecture and
situation, that on a pleasant summer day one could
hardly wish for better than to sit down on an ancient
tombstone, and look for an hour at the'fair piece of
gray Gothic, at the green ivy, and the great elms.
And the churches come so frequently, that one cannot
but think of the happy life of duty and leisure which
may well be led by the unambitious country parson




AT THE LAND'S END.             225
there. His population is probably so small that he is
free from that constant sense of pressure under which
the clergy in many places are now compelled to live.
He may write his sermon without being worried by
the thought of a dozen things waiting to be attended
to; and he may sit down under a large tree in the
churchyard and meditate, without knowing that meditation is a luxury in which he has not time to indulge.
But come on towards the West, and you will find the
gradual approach to the knuckle-end. The juiciness
and richness of the leg of mutton, pass slowly into
tendon, skin, and bone. In Devonshire, you have
Scotch irregularity of outline in the landscape; but
there is English luxuriance in the hedges and wildflowers; and more than English softness in the air.
You enter Cornwall, over Brunel's wonderful but remarkably ugly suspension bridge at Saltash; and you
very soon feel that you have reached a tract entirely
different from the ideal English country. The land
is remarkably diversified in surface; steep ups and
downs everywhere; and now and then, as you fly
along in the railway train, you pass over a deep narrow gorge, spanned by the flimsiest wooden bridge
that ever formed part of a line of railway. Sometimes these gorges are of vast depth. They occur
perpetually; and they are always crossed by the like
unsubstantial structures. For many miles after entering Cornwall, the country is very richly wooded.
You may see all kinds of forest trees growing luxu.
15




226           AT THE LAND'S END.
riantly; and many orchards, thickly crowded with
apple-trees. But after you have passed Truro, there
is a total change. The engine pants and struggles, as
it hardly draws the train up inclines of extraordinary
steepness; and you begin to see all round you heather
and granite; great bare stretches of country with tin
mines here and there, and rare woods of stunted pine.
The railway brings you to Penzance, a pretty little
town ten miles from the Land's End, which has the advantage of a climate of wonderful mildness.  Granite
is the stone here; almost every building is formed of
it. The town js situated at one side of a considerable
bay. Across the bay, three miles off, is St. Michael's
Mount, rising out of the sea. St. Michael's Mount,
it will be remembered, was in former days the residence  of the Giant Cormoran, whose destruction
formed the first recorded exploit of Jack the GiantKiller. You leave Penzance and journey westward;
probably in a phaeton drawn by a black horse. There
is a rich country for the first two or three miles; then
you enter a district very bleak and desolate. The
cottages are rude and squalid; the churches, all of
granite, are rhre and large; and look as if they were
accustomed to be battered by heavy storms.  You
pass through the last village, which is about a mile
from the sea; and then you go along a lane, through
a great field whose surface is made of granite, heather,
and yellow furze as short as heather. You see the
sea before you, stretching far away; but the ground




AT THE LAND'S END.            227
over which you are going swells so much, that it hides
the rocky shore.  Passing through that final large
field, you might expect to come upon a sandy beach
at last. At length you stand before a little cottage,
an inscription on which tells you that it claims to be
THE LAND'S END HOTEL: and here you will find
the intelligent ostler, who guides you down a rough
slope, not very steep, of granite, furze, and heather,
till, after two hundred yards, you come upon the blunt
promontory, whose extremity is by preeminence the
End. The End does not reach into the sea so much
as a hundred yards beyond the regular coast line.
And the End is not the boldest portion of that rocky
coast. Its height, as has been said, is about eighty
feet perpendicular; while the rocks on either hand
must be in many places at least a hundred and fifty.
And now, looking back on the way you have come,
you feel how gradually the scene around you grew
barer, as you came on. It was like a bad man growing old. Trees and hedges were left behind; cornfields and cottages with little gardens; for the beautiful churches of Somersetshire, you have only that
rude and stern erection which you passed a little
since; and now you have come to this, that you have
no more than granite, and furze, and desolate sea. It
is a most interesting spot to come to visit for a little
while; but it would be a terrible thing to be condemned to live here for the remainder of your life.
I cannot but think here of the unloved and unhonored




228           AT THE LAND'S END.
later days of some hoary reprobate; who, in a moral
sense, has had his Somersetshire, then his Cornwall,
and last his Land's End. And even though a man
be not a reprobate, I believe that all life, apart from
the presence of religion, is a going down hill. It is
leaving behind, from year to year, the trees and flowers; leaving the soft green fields and the rich hedgerows; till you come at length to wastes of furze and
heather; and end at last in stern rocks and pathless
sea.
It was of this that the writer thought longest, sitting
at the lonely Land's End; and this was something,
let me confess, that never once occurred to me when
reading Arnold's life, and musing on his theme for
English verses. Another thing which will probably
occur to the reader, when he shall visit the same
place, will be, what a solitary and small being he
himself will be there. The writer's home, at this
moment, is seven hundred and forty miles away.
Probably it is a good deal less, if you could go in a
direct line; but such is the tale of the miles which
he has traversed to reach the spot. And you will
know, my friend, how misty and how far away your
daily life and your home will seem, when you sit
down by yourself in any lonely place, with all your
belongings hundreds of miles distant.  Going away
alone, you truly leave great part of yourself behind.
Your mere individuality is a very small thing in size.
Great men, such as kings and nobles, have occasion.




AT THE LAND'S END.            22a
ally had this truth disagreeably impressed upon them.
A man with a magnificent estate must feel as though
those green glades and magnificent trees were a portion of himself, and as if you must see all these things,
and add them to himself, before you can understand
how big an object he really is. But small men feel
that too. They feel as though, to reckon what they
are, you must add to the little object that sense reveals
to you, the path they have come through life; the
labor they have come through; the griefs and joys
they have felt; the atmosphere and the surroundings
amid which they live at home. I thought of this, one
afternoon last winter. The ground was covered with
snow; it had grown almost dark; going down a steep
street, in which were a good many passers-by, I beheld the dim form of a poor fellow who had but one
arm. There he was, a little figure, walking along as
fast as he could, going home. You would have said,
a more thoroughly insignificant atom of humanity
could hardly be. But I knew all about that man's
humble home; and I knew how much depended on
him there. Not many weeks before, his poor careworn wife had died; and at that minute he was going
home to his children, four little things, the eldest but
seven years old, to whom he now had to be all. Anything befalling that insignificant man, would be to
those four children an infinitely more important event
than the separation of the Northern and Southern
States of America. If we knew more about our




230           AT THE LAND'S END.
humblest fellow-creatures, my reader; if we knew
what they have borne and done, and what they have
yet to bear and do; if round the unnoted little personality there were even the dim suggestion of its cares
and belongings; we should feel more sympathy for
every man;-we should regard no mortal as insignificant. I sometimes find people who talk of the great
majority of their fellow-creatures as CADS; people
who, in another country, would doubtless stand up
vigorously for slavery. Let me say, that when I call
to mind what I have known of those whom some
heartless fools would call so; - when I think of their
sufferings, their cares, their patience, their resignation,
their sacrifices for one another;-my feeling towards
the fools to whom I have alluded, passes from contempt, and turns to indignation. Would that we had
all some of the truly Christian spirit of the heathen
poet, who told us how much of sympathy with everything human he felt as incumbent upon him, forasmuch as he himself was a man!
But now, my friend, I must go. I shall never see
the Land's End any more. But I have had it all to
myself for these two hours; and it has become a possession forever. Yesterday it was a vague name;
now, it is a clear picture, and it will always be so. It
is not in the least like what I had expected. No person nor place you ever saw, is the least like what you




AT THE LAND'S END.           231
expected. But now, I seem to have known it for a
long time. And it is like parting from a friend to bid
it good-by. But the black horse has rested, and has
been fed; and I have far to go to-day.
Good-by!




CHAPTER IX.
CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
OU know how a little child of three or
four years old kicks and howls if it do
not get its own way. You know how
quietly a grown-up man takes it, when
ordinary things fall out otherwise than he wished. A
letter, a newspaper, a magazine, does not arrive by
the post on the morning on which it had been particularly wished for, and counted on with certainty. The
day proves rainy, when a fine day was specially desirable. The grown-up man is disappointed; but he
soon gets reconciled to the existing state of facts.' He
did not much expect that things would turn out as he
wished them. Yes; there is nothing like the habit
of being disappointed, to make a man resigned when
disappointment comes, and to enable him to take it
quietly. And a habit of practical resignation grows
upon most men, as they advance through life.
You have often seen a poor beggar, most probably
an old man, with some lingering remains of respectability in his faded appearance, half ask an alms of a




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.          233
passer-by; and you have seen him,'at a word of repulse, or even on finding no notice taken of his request, meekly turn away; too beaten and sick at
heart for energy; drilled into a dreary resignation by
the long custom of finding everything go against him
in this world. You may have known a poor cripple,
who sits all day by the side of the pavement of a certain street, with a little bundle of tracts in his hand
watching those who pass by, in the hope that they
may give him something. I wonder, indeed, how the
police suffer him to be there; for though ostensibly
selling tte tracts, he is really begging. Hundreds of
times in the long day, he must see people approaching; and hope that they may spare him a half-penny;
and find ninety-nine out of each hundred pass without
noticing him. It must be a hard school of Resignation. Disappointments without number have subdued
that poor creature into bearing one disappointment
more with scarce an appreciable stir of heart. But
on the other hand, kings, great nobles, and the like,
have been known, even to the close of life, to violently
curse and swear if things went against them; going
the length of stamping and blaspheming even at rain
and wind, and branches of trees and plashes of mud,
which were of course guiltless of any design of giving
offence to these eminent individuals. There was a
great monarch, who when any little cross-accident
befell him, was wont to fling himself upon the floor;
and there to kick and scream and tear his hair. And




234        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
around him, meanwhile, stood his awe-stricken attendants; all doubtless ready to assure him  that there
was something noble and graceful in his kicking and
screaming, and that no human being had ever before
with such dignity and magnanimity torn his hair. My
friend Mr. Smith tells me that in his early youth he
had a (very slight) acquaintance with a great Prince,
of elevated rank and of vast estates. That great
Prince came very early to his greatness; and no one
had ever ventured, since he could remember, to tell
him he had ever said or done wrong. Accordingly,
the Prince had never learned to control himself; nor
grown accustomed to bear quietly what he did not
like. And when any one, in conversation, related to
him something which he disapproved, he used to start
from his chair, and rush up and down the apartment,
furiously flapping his hands together, till he had thus
blown off the steam produced by the irritation of his
nervous system. That Prince was a good man; and
so aware was he of his infirmity, that when in these
fits of passion, he never suffered himself to say a single
word; being aware that he might say what he would
afterwards regret. And though he could not wholly
restrain himself, the entire wrath he felt passed off in
flapping. And after flapping for a few minutes, he
sat down again, a reasonable man once more. All
honor to him! For my friend Smith tells me that
that Prince was surrounded by toadies, who were
ready to praise everything he might do, even to his




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.          235
flapping. And in particular, there was one humble
retainier, who, whenever his master flapped, was wont
to hold up his hands in an ecstasy of admiration, exclaiming, " It is the flapping of a god, and not of a
man! "
Now all this lack of Resignation on the part of
princes and kings comes of the fact, that they are so
far like children that they have not become accustomed to be resisted, and to be obliged to forego what
they would like. Resignation comes by the habit of
being disappointed, and of finding things go against
you. It is, in the case of ordinary human beings, just
what they expect. Of course, you remember the adage: "Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he
shall not be disappointed." I have a good deal to say
about that adage. Reasonableness of expectation is a
great and good thing; despondency is a thing to be
discouraged and put down as far as may be. But
meanwhile let me say, that the corollary drawn from
that dismal beatitude'seems to me unfounded in fact.
I should say just the contrary. I should say, " Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he will very likely
be disappointed." You know, my reader, whether
things do not generally happen the opposite way from
that which you expected. Did you ever try to keep
off an evil you dreaded, by interposing this buffer?
Did you ever think you might perhaps prevent a
trouble from coming, by constantly anticipating it;
keeping, meanwhile an under-thought that things




236        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
rarely happened as you anticipate them; and thus
your anticipation of the thing might possibly keep
it away? Of course you have; for you are a human
being. And in all common cases, a watch might as
well think to keep a skilful watchmaker in ignorance
of the way in which its movements are produced, as a
human being think to prevent another human being
from knowing exactly how he will think and feel in
given circumstances. We have watched the working of our own watches far too closely and long, my
friends, to have the least difficulty in understanding
the great principles upon which the watches of other
men go. I cannot look inside your breast, my reader,
and see the machinery that is working there; I mean
the machinery of thought and feeling. But I know
exactly how it works, nevertheless; for I have long
watched a machinery precisely like it.
There are a great many people in this world who
feel that things are all wrong, that they have missed
stays in life, that they are beate, — and yet who don't
much mind. They are indurated by long use. They
do not try to disguise from themselves the facts.
There are some men who diligently try to disguise
the facts, and who in some measure succeed in doing
so. I have known a self-sufficient and disagreeable
clergyman who had a church in a large city. Five
sixths of the seats in the church were quite empty;
yet the clergyman often talked of what a good congregation he had, with a confidence which would have




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.           237
deceived any one who had not seen it I have known
a church where it was agony to any one with an ear
to listen to the noise produced when the people were
singing; yet the clergyman often talked of what splendid music he had. I have known an entirely briefless
barrister, whose friends gave out that the sole reason
why he had no briefs was that he did not want any.
I have known students who did not get the prizes for
which they competed; but who declared that the reason of their failure was, that though they competed
for the prizes, they did not wish to get them. I have
known a fast young woman, after many engagements
made and broken, marry as the last resort a brainless
and penniless blackguard; yet all her family talk in
big terms of what a delightful connection she was
making. Now, where all that self deception is genuine, let us be glad to see it; and let us not, like Mr.
Snarling, take a spiteful pleasure in undeceiving those
who are so happy to be deceived. In most cases, indeed, such trickery deceives nobody. But where it
truly deceives those who practise it, even if it deceiva
nobody else, you see there is no true Resignation. A
man who has made a mess of life has no need to be
resigned, if he fancies he has succeeded splendidly.
But I look with great interest, and often with deep
respect, at the man or woman who feels that life has
been a failure, -a failure, that is, as regards this world,
-and yet who is'quite resigned. Yes; whether it be
the unsoured old maid, sweet-tempered, sympathetic




238        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
in others' joys, God's kind angel in the house of sorrow, -or the unappreciated genius, quiet, subdued,
pleased to meet even one who understands him amid
a community which does not, - or the kind-hearted
clever man to whom eminent success has come too
late, when those were gone whom it would have made
happy: I reverence and love, more than I can express, the beautiful natures I have known thus subdued and resigned!
Yes; human beings get indurated. When you
come to know well the history of a great many people,
you will find that it is wonderful what they have
passed through. Most people have suffered a very
great deal, since they came into this world. Yet, in
their appearance, there is no particular trace of it all.
You would not guess, from looking at them, how hard
and how various their lot has been. I once knew a
woman, rather more than middle-aged. I knew her
well, and saw her almost every day, for several years,
before I learned that the homely Scotchwoman had
seen distant lands, and had passed through very
strange ups and downs, before she settled into the
quiet orderly life in which I knew her. Yet when
spoken to kindly, by one who expressed surprise that
all these trials had left so little trace, the inward feeling, commonly suppressed, burst bitterly out; and she
exclaimed, "It's a wonder that I'm  living at all!"
And it is a wonder that a great many people are liv



CONCERNING RESIGNATION.          239
ing, and looking so cheerful and so well as they do,
when you think what fiery passion, what crushing sorrow, what terrible losses, what bitter disappointments,
what hard and protracted work, they have gone
through. Doubtless, great good comes of it. All
wisdom, all experience, comes of suffering. I should
not care much fQr the counsel of the man whose life
had been one long sunshiny holiday. There is greater
depth in the philosophy of Mr. Dickens, than a great
portion of his readers discern. You are ready to
smile at the singular way in which Captain Cuttle
commended his friend Jack Bunsby as a man of extraordinary wisdom; whose advice on any point was of
inestimable value. " Here's a man," said Captain
Cuttle, " who has been more beaten about the head
than any other living man! " I hail the words as the
recognition of a great principle. To Mr. Bunsby, it
befell in a literal sense; but we have all been (in a
moral sense) a good deal beaten about the head and
the heart before we grew good for much. Out of the
travail of his nature; out of the sorrowful history of
his phst life; the poet or the moralist draws the deep
thought and feeling which find so straight a way to
the hearts of other men. Do you think Mr. Tennyson would ever have been the great poet he is, if he
had not passed through that season of great grief
which has left its noble record in "In Memoriam "?
And a youthful preacher, of vivid imagination and
keen feeling, little fettered by anything in the nature




240        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
of good taste, may by strong statements and a fiery
manner draw  a mob of unthinking hearers; but
thoughtful men and women will not find anything in
all that, that awakens the response of their inner
nature in its truest depths; they must have religious
instruction into which real experience has been transfused; and the worth of the instruction will be in
direct proportion to the amount of real experience
which is embodied in it. And after all, it is better to
be wise and good than to be gay and happy, if we
must choose between the two things; and it is worth
while to be severely beaten about the head, if that is
the condition on which alone we can gain true wisdom.
True wisdom is cheap at almost any price. But it does
not follow at all that you will be happy (in the vulgar
sense) in direct proportion as you are wise. I suppose most middle-aged people, when they receive the
ordinary kind wish at New-Year's time of a Happy
New Year, feel that happy is not quite the word; and
feel that, too, though well aware that they have abundant reason for gratitude to a kind Providence. It is
not here that we shall ever be happy; that is, completely and perfectly happy. Something will always
be coming to worry and distress. And a hundred sad
possibilities hang over us; some of them only too certainly and quickly drawing near. Yet people are
content, in a kind of way. They have learned the
great lesson of Resignation.




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.           241
There are many worthy people who would be quite
fevered and flurried by good fortune, if it were to
come to any very great degree. It would injure their
heart. As for bad fortune, they can stand it nicely,
they have been accustomed to it so long. I have
known a very hard-wrought man, who had passed,
rather early in life, through very heavy and protracted
trials. I have heard him say, that if any malicious
enemy wished to kill him, the course would be to
make sure that tidings of some signal piece of prospe'rity should arrive by post on each of six or seven successive days. It would quite unhinge and unsettle
him, he said. His heart would go; his nervous system would break down. People to whom pieces of
good luck come rare and small, have a great curiosity
to know how a man feels when he is suddenly told
that he has drawn one of the greatest prizes in the
lottery of life. The kind of feeling, of course, will depend entirely on the kind of man. Yet very great
prizes, in the wvay of dignity and duty, do for the most
part fall to men who in some measure deserve them,
or who at least are not conspicuously undeserving of
them and unfit for them. So that it is almost impossible that the great news should elicit merely some unworthy explosion of gratified self-conceit. The feeling
would in almost every case be deeper, and worthier.
One would like to be sitting at breakfast with a truly
good man, when the letter from the Prime Minister
oPmes in, offering him the Archbishopric of Canter16




242        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
bury. One would like to see how he would take it.
Quietly, I have no doubt. Long preparation has fitted the man who reaches that position for taking it
quietly. A recent Chancellor publicly stated how he
felt when offered the Great Seal. His first feeling,
that good man said, was of gratification that he had
fairly reached the highest reward of the profession to
which he had given his life; but the feeling which
speedily supplanted that, was an overwhelming sense
of his responsibility and a grave doubt as to his qualifications. I have always believed, and sometimes
said, that good fortune, not so great or so sudden as
to injure one's nerves or heart, but kindly and equable, has a most wholesome effect upon human character. I believe that the happier a man is, the better
and kinder he will be. The greater part of unamiability, ill-temper, impatience, bitterness, and uncharitableness, comes out of unhappiness. It is because a
man is so miserable, that he is such a sour, suspicious,
fractious, petted creature. I was amused, this morning, to read in the newspaper an account of a very
small incident which befell the new Primate of England on his journey back to London after being enthroned at Canterbury. The reporter of that small
incident takes occasion to record that the Archbishop
had quite charmed his travelling companions in the
railway carriage by the geniality and kindliness of his
manner. I have no doubt he did. I am sure he is a'truly good Christian man. But think of what a splen



CONCERNING RESIGNATION.          243
did training for producing geniality and kindliness he
has been going through for a great number of years.
Think of the moral influences which have been bearing on him for the last few weeks. We should all be
kindly and genial, if we had the same chance of being
so. But if Dr. Longley had a living of a hundred
pounds a year, a fretful, ailing wife, a number of halffed and half-educated little children, a dirty miserable
house, a bleak country round, and a set of wrongheaded and insolent parishioners to keep straight, I
venture to say he would have looked, and been, a
very different man, in that railway carriage running
up to London. Instead of the genial smiles that delighted his fellow-travellers (according to the newspaper story), his face would have been sour and his
speech would have been snappish; he would have
leaned back in the corner of a second-class carriage,
sadly calculating the cost of his journey, and how part
of it might be saved by going without any dinner.
Oh, if I found a four-leaved shamrock, I would undertake to make a mighty deal of certain people I know!
I would put an end to their weary schemings to make
the ends meet. I would cut off all those wretched
cares which jar miserably on the shaken nerves. I
know the burst of thankfulness and joy that would
come, if some dismal load, never to be cast off, were
taken away. And I would take it off. I would clear
up the horrible muddle. I would make them happy;
and in doing that, I know that I should make them
good I




244        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
But I have sought the four-leaved shamrock for a
long time, and never have found it; and so I am growing subdued to the conviction that I never shall. Let
us go back to the matter of Resignation, and think a
little longer about that.
Resignation, in any human being, means that things
are not as you would wish, and yet that you are content. Who has all that he wishes? There are many
houses in this world in which Resignation is the best
thing that can be felt any more. The bitter blow has
fallen; the break has been made; the empty chair is
left (perhaps a very little chair); and never more,
while Time goes on, can things be as they were fondly
wished and hoped. Resignation would need to be cultivated by human beings; for all round us there is a
multitude of things very different from what we would
wish. Not in your.house, not in your family, not in
your street, not in your parish, not in your country,
and least of all in yourself, can you have things as you
would wish. And you have your choice of two alternatives. You must either fret yourself into a nervous
fever, or you must cultivate the habit of Resignation.
And very often, Resignation does not mean that you
are at all reconciled to a thing, but just that you feel
you can do nothing to mend it. Some friend, to whom
you are really attached, and whom you often see,
vexes and worries you by some silly and disagreeable
habit, -some habit which it is impossible you should
ever like, or ever even overlook; yet you try to make




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.          245
up your mind to it, because it cannot be helped, and
you would rather submit to it than lose your friend.
You hate the East-wind; it withers and pinches you,
in body and soul; yet you cannot live in a certain
beautiful city without feeling the East-wind many days
in the year. And that city's advantages and attractions are so many and great, that no sane man, with
sound lungs, would abandon the city merely to escape
the East-wind. Yet, though resigned to the East-wind,
you are anything but reconciled to it.
Resignation is not always a good thing. Sometimes
it is a very bad thing. You should never be resigned
to things continuing wrong, when you may rise and
set them right. I dare say, in the Romish Church,
there were good men before Luther, who were keenly
alive to the errors and evils that had crept into it, but
who, in despair of making things better, tried sadly to
fix their thoughts upon other subjects; who took to illuminating missals, or constructing systems of logic, or
cultivating vegetables in the garden of the monastery,
or improving the music in the chapel,- quietly resign,
ed to evils they judged irremediable. Great reformers
have not been resigned men. Luther was not resigned; Howard was not resigned; Fowell Buxton
was not resigned; George Stephenson was not resigned. And there is hardly a nobler sight than that
of a man who determines that he will NOT make up
his mind to the continuance of some great evil; who
determines that he will give his life to battling




246        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
with that evil to the last; who determines that either
that evil shall extinguish him, or he shall extinguish it! I reverence the strong, sanguine mind,
that resolves to work a revolution to better things, and
that is not afraid to hope it can work a revolution!
And perhaps, my reader, we should both reverence it
all the more that we find in ourselves very little like
it. It is a curious thing, and a sad thing, to remark
in how many people there is too much Resignation.
It kills out energy.  It is a weak, fretful, unhappy
thing. People are reconciled, in a sad sort of way,
to the fashion in which things go on. You have seen
a poor, slaternly mother, in a way-side cottage, who
has observed her little children playing in the road
before it, in the way of passing carriages, angrily
ordering the little things to come away from  their
dangerous and dirty play; yet when the children disobey her, and remain where they were, just saying no
more, making no farther effort. You have known a
master tell his man-servant to do something about
stable or garden; yet when the servant does not do it,
taking no notice: seeing that he has been disobeyed,
yet wearily resigned, feeling that there is no use in
always fighting. And I do not speak of the not tnfrequent cases in which the master, after giving his
orders, comes to discover that it is best they should
not be carried out, and is very glad to see them disregarded; I mean when he is dissatisfied that what he
has directed is not done, and wishes that it were done,




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.          247
and feels worried by the whole affair; yet is so devoid
of energy as to rest in a fretful Resignation. Sometimes there is a sort of sense as if one had discharged
his conscience by making a weak effort in the direction
of doing a thing; an effort which had not the slightest
chance of being successful. When I was a little boy,
many years since, I used to think this; and I was led
to thinking it by remarking a singular characteristic
in the conduct of a school companion. In those days,
if you were chasing some other boy who had injured
or offended you, with the design of retaliation; if you
found you could not catch him, by reason of his superior speed, you would have recourse to the following
expedient.  If your companion was within a little
space of you, though a space you felt you could not
make less, you would suddenly stick out one of your
feet, which would hook round his, and he, stumbling
over it, would fall. I trust I am not suggesting a
mischievous and dangerous trick to any boy of the
present generation. Indeed I have the firmest belief
that existing boys know all we used to know, and
possibly, more. All this is by way of rendering intelligible what I have to say of my old companion. He
was not a good runner. And when another boy gave
him a sudden flick with a knotted handkerchief, or the
like, he had little chance of catching that other boy.
Yet I have often seen him when chasing another, before finally abandoning the pursuit, stick out his foot
in the regular way, though the boy he was chasing




248        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
was yards beyond his reach. Often did the present
writer meditate on that phenomenon, in the days of
his boyhood. It appeared curious that it should afford
some comfort to the evaded pursuer, to make an offer
at upsetting the escaping youth,-an offer which could
not possibly be successful. But very often, in after
life, have I beheld, in the conduct of grown-up men
and women, the moral likeness of that futile sticking
out of the foot. I have beheld human beings who
lived in houses always untidy and disorderly, or whose
affairs were in a horrible confusion and entanglement,
who now and then seemed roused to a feeling that this
would not do; who querulously bemoaned their miserable lot, and made some faint and futile attempt to set
things right; attempts which never had a chance to
succeed, and which ended in nothing. Yet it seemed
somehow  to pacify the querulous heart.  I have
known a clergyman in a parish with a bad population,
seem suddenly to waken up to a conviction that he
must do something to mend matters, and set a-going
some weak little machinery, which could produce no
appreciable result, and which came to a stop in a few
weeks. Yet that faint offer appeared to discharge the
claims of conscience, and after it the clergyman remained a long time in a comatose state of unhealthy
Resignation. But it is a miserable and a wrong kind
of Resignation which dwells in that man, who sinks
down, beaten and hopeless, in the presence of a recognized evil. Such a man may be in a sense resigned,
but he cannot possibly be content.




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.          249
If you should ever, when you have reached middle
age, turn over the diary or the letters you wrote
in the hopeful though foolish days when you were
eighteen or twenty, you will be aware how quietly
and gradually the lesson of Resignation has been
taught you. You would have got into a terrible state
of excitement, if any one had told you then that you
would have to forego your most cherished hopes and
wishes of that time, and it would have tried you even
more severely to be assured that, in not many years
you would not care a single straw for the things and
the persons who were then uppermost in your mind
and heart. What an entirely new set of friends and
interests is that which now surrounds you, and how
completely the old ones are gone! Gone, like the
sunsets you remember in the summers of your childhood, -gone, like the primroses that grew in the
woods where you wandered as a boy. Said my friend
Smith to me a few days ago, " You remember Miss
Jones and all about that? I met her yesterday, after
ten years. She is a fat, middle-aged, ordinary-looking
woman. What a terrific fool I was!"  Smith spoke
to me in the confidence of friendship, yet I think he
was a little mortified at the heartiness with which I
agreed with him on the subject of his former folly.
IHe had got over it completely, and in seeing that he
was (at a certain period) a fool, he had come to discern that of which his friends had always been aware.
Of course early interests do not always die out. You




250        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
remember Dr. Chalmers, and the ridiculous exhi.
bition about the wretched little likeness of an early
sweetheart, not seen for forty years, and long since in
her grave. You remember the singular way in which
he signified his remembrance of her, in his famous
and honored age. I don't mean -the crying, nor the
walking up and down the garden-walk, calling her by
fine names. I mean the taking out his card, -not
his carte, you could understand that; but his visiting-card bearing his name, -and sticking it behind
the portrait with two wafers. Probably it pleased
him to do so, and assuredly it did harm to no one
else.  And we have all heard of the like things.
Early affections are sometimes, doubtless, cherished
in the memory of the old. But still, more material
interests come in, and the old affection is crowded out
of its old place in the heart. And so those comparatively fanciful disappointments sit lightly. The romance is gone. The midday sun beats down, and
there lies the dusty way. When the cantankerous and
unamiable mother of Christopher North stopped his
marriage with a person at least as respectable as herself, on the ground that the person was not good
enough, we are told that the future professor nearly
went mad, and that he never quite got over it. But
really, judging from his writings and his biography,
he bore up under it, after a little, wonderfully well.
But looking back to the days which the old yellow
letters bring back, you will think to yourself, Where




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.           251
are the hopes and anticipations of that time?  You
expected tQ be a great' man, no doubt. Well, you
know you are not. You are a small man, and never
will be anything else, yet you are quite resigned. If
there be an argument which stirs me to indignation at
its futility, and to wonder that any mortal ever regarded it as of the slightest force, it is that which is
set out in the famous soliloquy in Cato, as to the
Immortality of the Soul. Will any sane man say,
that if in this world you wish for a thing very much,
and anticipate it very clearly and confidently, you are
therefore sure to get it? If that were so, many a
little schoolboy would end by driving his carriage
and four, who ends by driving no carriage at all. I
have heard of a man whose private papers were found
after his death all written over with his signature as
he expected it would be when he became Lord Chancellor. Let us say that his peerage was to be as
Lord Smith. There it was, SMITH, C., SMITH, C.,
written in every conceivable fashion, so that the signature, when needed, might be easy and imposing.
That man had very vividly anticipated the woolsack,
the gold robe, and all the rest. It need hardly be
said he attained none of these. The famous argument, you know, of course, is that man has a great
longing to be immortal, and that therefore he is sure
to be immortal.  Rubbish! It is not true that any
longing after immortality exists in the heart of a hundredth portion of the race. And if it were true, it




252        CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
would prove immortality no more than the manifold
signature of SMITH, C., proved that Smitl was indeed
to be Chancellor. No; we cling to the doctrine of a
Future Life, —we could.not live without it; but we
believe it, not because of undefined longings within
ourselves, not because of reviving plants and flowers,
not because of the chrysalis and the butterfly, but
because "our Saviour, Jesus Christ, hath abolished
death, and brought life and immortality to light
through the gospel!"
There is something very curious and very touching,
in thinking how clear and distinct, and how often recurring, were our early anticipations of things that
were never to be. In this world, the fact is for the
most part the opposite of what it should be to give
force to Plato's (or Cato's) argument; the thing you
vividly anticipate is the thing that is least likely to
come. The thing you'don't much care for, the thing
you don't expect, is the likeliest. And even if the
event prove what you anticipated, the circumstances and the feeling of it will be quite different from
what you anticipated. A certain little girl three years
old was told that in a little while she was to go with
her parents to a certain city a hundred miles off, a city
which may be called Altenburg as well as anything
else. It was a great delight to her to anticipate that
journey, and to anticipate it very circumstantially. It
was a delight to her to sit down at evening on her
father's knee, and to tell him all about how it would




CONCERNING RESIGNATION.           253
be in going to Altenburg. It was always the same
thing. Always, first, how sandwiches would be made;
how they would all get into the carriage (wlhich would
come round to the door), and'drive away to a certain
railway station; how they would get their tickets, and
the train would come up, and they would all get into a
carriage together, and lean back in corners, and eat
the sandwiches, and 16ok out of the windows, and so
on. But when the journey was actually made, every
single circumstance in the little girl's anticipations
proved wrong. Of course, they were not intentionally
made wrong. Her parents would have carried out to
the letter, if they could, what the little thing had so
clearly pictured and so often repeated. But it proved
to be needful to go by an entirely different way and in
an entirely different fashion. All those little details,
dwelt on so much and with so much interest, were
things never to be. It is even so with the anticipations
of larger and older children. How distinctly, how
fully, my friend, we have pictured out to our minds
a mode of life, a home and the country round it, and
the multitude of little things which make up the habitude of being, which we long since resigned ourselves
to knowing could never prove realities! No doubt, it
is all right and well. Even St. Paul, with all his gift
of prophecy, was not allowed to foresee what was to
happen to himself. You know how he wrote that he
would do a certain thing, "as soon as I shall see how
it will go with me! "




254         CONCERNING RESIGNATION.
But our times are in the Best Hand. And the one
thing about our lot, my reader, that we may think of
with perfect contentment, is that they are so.  I know
nothing more admirable in spirit, and few things more
charmingly expressed, than that little poem by Mrs.
Waring which sets out that comfortable thought. You
know it, of course. You should have it in your
memory; and let it be one of the first things your children learn by heart.  It may well come next after "O
God of Bethel:" it breathes the self-same tone.  And
let me close these thoughts with one of its verses:
There are briers besetting every path,
Which call for patient care:
There is a cross in every lot,
And an earnest need for prayer:
But a lowly heart that leans on Thee,
Is happy anywhere I




CHAPTER X.
CONCERNING THINGS WHICH CANNOT GO ON.
F course, in the full meaning of the words,
Ben Nevis is one of the Things that cannot Go On. And among these, too, we
may reckon the Pyramids. Likewise the
unchanging ocean; and all the everlasting hills, which
cannot be removed, but stand fast forever.
But it is not such things that I mean by the phrase;
it is not such things that the phrase suggests to ordinary people. It is not things which are passing, indeed, but passing so very slowly, and with so little
sign as yet of their coming end, that to human sense
they are standing still. I mean things which even we
can discern have not the element of continuance in
them,- things which press it upon our attention as one
of their most marked characteristics, that they have
not the element of continuance in them. And you
know there are such things. Things too good to last
very long. Things too bad to be borne very long.
Things which as you look at, you say to yourself, Ah,
it is just a question of time! We shall not have you
long!.




25 6          CONCERNING THINGS
This, as it appears to me, my reader, is the essential quality which makes us class anything among the
Things which cannot Go On: it is that the thing
should not merely be passing away, or even passing
away fast; but that it shall bear on its very face, as
the first thing that strikes us in looking at it, that it is
so. There are passing things that have a sort of perennial look, - things that will soon be gone, but that
somehow do not press it upon us that they are going.
If you had met Christopher North, in his days of affluent physical health, swinging along with his fishingrod towards the Tweed, you might, if you had reflected, have thought that in truth all that could not
go on. The day would come when that noble and
lovable man would be very different; when he would
creep along slowly, instead of tearing along with that
springy pace; when he would no longer be able to
thrash pugnacious gypsies, nor to outleap flying tailors; when he would not sit down at morning in his
dusty study, and rush through the writing of an article as he rushed through other things, impetuously,
determinedly, and with marvellous speed, and hardly
an intermission for rest; when mind and body, in
brief, would be unstrung. But that was not what you
thought of, in the sight of that prodigal strength and
activity. At any rate, it was not the thought that'
came readiest. But when you see the deep color on
the cheek of a consumptive girl, and the too bright
eye; when you see a man awfully overworking him



WHICH CANNOT GO ON.            257
self; when you see a human being wrought up to a
frantic enthusiasm in some cause, good or bad; when
you find a lady declaring that a recently acquired servant, or a new-found friend, is absolute perfection;
when you see a church, crowdeil to discomfort, passages and all, by people who come to listen to its popular preacher; when you go to hear the popular
preacher for yourself, and are interested and carried
away by a sermon, evincing such elaborate preparation as no man, with the duty of a parish resting upon
him, could possibly find time for in any single week,
-and delivered with overwhelming vehemence of
voice and gesture; when you hear of a parish in
which a new-come clergyman has set a-going an
amount of parochial machinery which it would need
at least three and probably six clergymen to keep
working; when you see a family living a cat and dog
life; when you see a poor fellow, crushed down by
toil and anxiety, setting towards insanity; when you
find a country gentleman, with fifteen hundred a year,
spending five thousand; when you see a man submitting to an insufferable petty tyranny, and commanding
himself by a great effort, repeated several times a day,
so far as not just yet to let fly at the tyrant's head;
when you hear of King Bomlba ga,,ggingr and murdering his subjects, amid the reprobation of civilized
mankind; when you see the stoker of an American
steamer sitting upon his safety-valve, and observe
that the indicator shows a pressure of a hundred
17




258           CONCERNING THINGS
and fifty pounds on the square inch of his boiler,
then, my friend, looking at such things as these, and
beholding the end impending and the explosion imminent, you would say that these are Things which
cannot Go On.
And then, besides the fact that in the case of very
many of the Things which cannot Go On, you can
discern the cause at work that must soon bring' them
to an end; there is a further matter to be considered.
Human beings are great believers in what may be
called the doctrine of Average. That is a deep conviction, latent in the ordinary mind, and the result of
a11 its experience, that anything very extreme cannot
last. If you are sitting on a winter evening in a
chamber of a country house which looks to the northeast, and if a tremendous batter of wind and sleet
suddenly dashes against the windows with a noise loud
enough to attract the attention of everybody, I am
almost sure that the first thing that will be said, by
somebody or other, in the first momentary lull in
which it is possible to hear, will be, " Well, that cannot last long." We have in our minds, as regards all
things moral and physical, some idea of what is the
average state of matters; and whenever we find any
very striking deviation from that, we feel assured that
the deviation will be but temporary. When you are
travelling by railway, even through a new and striking country, the first few miles enable you to judge
what you may expect. The country may be very dif



WHICH CANNOT GO ON.            259
ferent indeed from that which you are accustomed to
see, day by day; but still, a little observation of it
enables you to strike an average, so to speak, of that
country. And if you come suddenly to anything
especially remarkable, - to some enormously lofty viaduct, whence you look down upon the tops of tall trees
and upon a foaming stream, or to some tunnel through
a huge hill, or to some bridge of singular structure,
or to some tract wonderfully wooded or wonderfully
bare, —you involuntarily judge that all this is something exceptional, that it cannot last long, that you
will soon be through it, and back to the ordinary jogtrot way.
And now, my friend, let me recall to mind certain
facts connected with the great order of Things which
cannot Go On; and let us compare our experience
with regard to these.
Have you a residence in the country, small or great?
Have you ever had such a residence? If you have
one, or ever have had one, I have no doubt at all but
there is or was a little gravelled walk, which you were
accustomed often to walk up and down. You walked
there, thinking of things painful and things pleasant.
And if nature and training made you the human being for a country life, you found that that little grarelled path could do you a great deal of good. When
you went forth, somewhat worried by certain of the
little cares which worry at the time but are so speedily
forgotten, and walked up and down, you found that




260           CONCERNING THINGS
at each turn you took, the path, with its evergreens at
either hand, and with here and there a little bay of
green grass running into the thick masses of green
boughs and leaves, gently pressed itself upon your attention, -a patient friend, content to wait your time.
And in a little space, no matter whether in winter or
in summer, the path with its belongings filled your
mind with pleasant little thoughts and cares, and
smoothed your forehead and quieted your nervous
system. I am a great believer in grass and evergreens and gravelled walks. Was it not pleasant,
when a bitter wind was blowing outside your little realm,
to walk in the shelter of the yews and hollies, where
the air felt so snug and calm; and now and then to
look out beyond your gate, and catch the bitter East
on your face,,and then turn back again to the warm,
sheltered walk! Beautiful in frost, beautiful in snow,
beautiful in rain, beautiful in sunshine, are clumps of
evergreens, is green grass; and cheerful and healthful to our whole moral nature is the gravelled walk
that winds between!
But all this is by the way. It is not of gravelled
walks in general that I am to speak, but of one
special phenomenon concerning such walks, and bearing upon my proper subject. If you are walking up
and down a path, let us say a hundred and fifty yards
long, talking to a friend, or holding conversation with
yourself,-and if at each turn you take, you have to
bend your head to pass under an overhanging bough, —




WHICH CANNOT GO ON.             261
here is what will happen. To bend your head for
once, will be no effort. You will do it instinctively,
and never think about the matter. To stoop even
six times, will not be much. But if you walk up and
down for an hour, that constant evading of the overhanging bough will become intolerably irksome. For
a little, it is nothing; but you cannot bear it, if it is a
thing that is to go on. Here is a fact in human nature. You can stand a very disagreeable and painful
thing for once; or for a little while. But a very small
annoyance, going on unceasingly, grows insufferable.
No annoyance can possibly be slighter than that a
drop of cold water should fall upon your bare head.
But you are aware that those ingenious persons, who
have investigated the constitution of man with the
design to discover the sensitive places where man can
feel torture, have discovered what can be got out of
that falling drop of water.  Continue it for an hour;
continue it for a day; and it turns to a refined agony.
It is a thing which cannot go on long, without driving
the sufferer mad. No one can say what the effect
might be, of compelling a human being to spend a
week, walking, through all his waking hours, in a path
where he'had to bend his head to escape a branch
every minute or so. You, my reader, did not ascertain by experiment what would be the effect. However pretty the branch might be, beneath which you
had to stoop, or round which you had to dodge, at
every turn, that branch must go. And you cut away




2 62          CONCERNING THINGS
the blossoming apple-branch; you trained in another
direction the spray of honeysuckle; you sawed off the
green bough, beautiful with the soft beechen leaves.
They had become things which you could not suffer
to go on.
Have you ever been misled into living in your
house, during any portion of the time in which it was
being painted? If so, you remember how you had to
walk up and down stairs on planks, very steep and
slippery; how, at early morning, a sound pervaded
the dwelling, caused by the rubbing your doors with
stones, to the end of putting a smoother surface upon
the doors; how your children had to abide in certain
apartments underground, to be beyond the reach of
paint and brushes and walls still wet.  The discomfort was extreme. You could not have -made up your
mind to go on through life, under the like conditions;
but you bore it patiently, because it was not to go on.
It was as when you shut your eyes, and squeeze
through a thicket of brambles, encouraged by the hope
of reaching the farther side. So when you are obliged
to ask a man to dinner, with whom you have not an
idea or sympathy in common. Suppressing the tendency to yawn, you force yourself to talk about things
in which you have not the faintest interest; and you
know better than to say a word upon the subjects for
which you really care.  You could not stand this,
were it not that from time to time you furtively glance
at the clock, and think that the time of deliverance is




WHICH CANNOT GO ON.             263
drawing near. And on the occasion of a washing-day,
or a change of cook, you put up without a murmur
with a dinner to which you could not daily subdue
your heart. We can go on for a little space, carried
by the impetus previously got, and by the hope of
what lies before us. It is like the dead points in the
working of a steam-engine. You probably know that
many river steamboats have but a single engine, and
that there are two points, each reached every few
seconds, at which a single engine has no power at all.
The paddle-wheels continue to turn, in virtue of the
strong impetus already given them.  Now, it is
plain to every mind, that if the engine remained for
any considerable period at the point where it is absolutely powerless, the machinery driven by the engine
would stop. But, in practice, the difficulty is very
small, because it is but for a. second or two that the
engine remains in this state of paralysis.  It does
quite well for a little, but is a state that could not go
on.
Any very extreme feeling, in a commonplace mind,
is a thing not likely to go on long. Very extravagant
likes and dislikes, very violent grief, such as people
fancy must kill them, will, in most cases, endure not
long. In short, anything that flies in the face of the
laws which regulate the human mind, anything which
is greatly opposed to Nature's love for the Average,
cannot, in general, go on. I do not forget, that there
are striking exceptions. There are people who never




264           CONCERNING THINGS
quite get over some great grief or disappointment;
there are people who form a fixed resolution, and hold
by it all through life. I have seen more than one or
two men and women, whose whole soul and energy
were so devoted to some good work, that a stranger,
witnessing their doings for a few days and hearing
their talk, would have said, " That cannot last. It
must soon burn' itself out, zeal like that!" But if you
had made inquiry, you would have learned that all
that had gone on unflagging, for ten, twenty, thirty
years. There must have been sound and deep principle there at the first; to stand the wear of such a
time; and you may well believe that the whole nature
is now confirmed irretrievably in the old habit; you
may well hope that the good Christian and philanthropist who has gone on for thirty years will go on as
long as he lives,- will go on forever.  But, as a
general rule, I have no great faith in the stability of
human character; and I have great faith in the law
of Average. People will not go on very long, doing
what is inconvenient for them to do. And I will back
Time against most feelings and most resolutions in
human hearts.  It will beat them in the end. You
are a clergyman, let us suppose. Your congregation
are fond of your sermons. They have got into youi
way; and if so, they probably like to hear you preach
better than anybody else; unless it be the two or three
very great men. A family, specially attached to you,
moves from a house near the church to another two




WHICH CANNOT GO ON.             265
or three miles away. They tell you, that nothing
shall prevent their coming to their accustomed places
every Sunday still: they would come, though the
distance were twice as great. They are perfectly sincere.  But your larger experience of such cases
makes you well aware that time and distance and
mud and rain and hot sunshine will beat them.
Coming to churcla over that inconvenient distance,
is a thing that cannot go on; it is a thing that ought
not to go on; and you make up your mind to the
fact.  You cannot vanquish the laws of Nature.
You may make water run up-hill, by laborious pumping. But you cannot go on pumping forever; and
whenever the water is left to its own nature, it will
certainly run down-hill.  All such declarations as
"I shall never forget you;" "I shall never cease
to deplore your loss;" "I can never hold up my head
again;" may be ethically true; but time will prove
them logically false. The human being may be quite
sincere in uttering them; but he will change his mind.
I do not mean to say that it is very pleasant to"
have to think thus; or that much good can come of
dwelling too long upon the idea. It is a very chilling
and sorrowful thing, to be reminded of. all this in the
hard, heartless way in which some old people like to
drive the sad truth into the young. It is very fit and
right that the girl of twenty, broken-hearted now because the young individual she is fond of is gone off
to Australia, should believe that when he returns in




266           CONCERNING THINGS
five years he will find her unchanged, and should
resent the remotest suggestion that by that time she
will probably think and feel quite differently.. It is fit
and right that she should do all this, even though a
prescient eye could discern that in two years exactly
she will be married to somebody else, - and married,
too, not to some old hunx of great wealth whom her
parents have badgered her into marrying against her
will, but (much worse for the man in Australia, who
has meanwhile taken to drinking) married with all her
heart to some fine young fellow, very suitable in age
and all other respects. Yet, certain though the general principle may be, a wise and kind man or woman
will not take much pleasure in imparting the sad lesson, taught by experience, to younger hearts. No good
can come of doing so. Bide your time, my friend,
and the laws of nature will prevail.  Water will not
long run up-hill.  But while the stream  is quite
happy and quite resolute in flowing up an incline of
one in twenty, there is no good in standing by it, and
in roaring out that in a little while it will get tired of
that. Experience tells us several things, which are
not quite to the credit of our race; and it is wrong
to chill a hopeful and warm heart with these. We
should be delighted to find that young heart falsifying
them by its own history: let it do so if it can.
And it is chilling and irritating to be often reminded
of the refrigerating power of Time upon all warm feels
ings and resolutions. I have known a young clergy



WHICH CANNOT GO ON.             267
man, appointed early in life to his first parish, and
entering upon his duty with tremendous zeal. I think
a good man, however old, would rejoice at such a
sight, would delightedly try to direct and counsel all
that hearty energy, and to turn all that labor to the
best account. And even if he thought within himself
that possibly all this might not quite last, I don't think
he would go and tell the young minister so. And the
aged man would thankfully remember, that he has
known instances in which all that has lasted; and
would hope that in this instance it might last again.
But I have known a cynical, heartless, time-hardened
old man (the uncle, in fact, of my friend Mir. Snarling) listen with a grin of mingled contempt and malignity to the narration of the young parson's doings;
and explain the whole phenomena by a general principle, inexpressibly galling and discouraging to the
young parson. " Oh," says the cynical, heartless old
individual, "new brooms sweep clean!"  That was
all. The whole thing was explained and settled. I
should like to apply a new knout to the old individual,
and see if it would cut smartly.
And then we are to remember, that though it be
only a question of time with the existence of anything,
that does not prove that the thing is of no value. A
great part of all that we are enjoying consists of
Things which cannot Go On. And though the wear
that there is in a thing be a great consideration in
reckoning its worth; and more especially, in the case




268            CONCERNING THINGS
of all Christian qualities, be the great test whether or
not they are genuine; yet things that are going, and
going very fast, have their worth.  And it is very fit
that we should enjoy them while they last, without
unduly overclouding our enjoyment of them by the
recollection of their evanescence. "Why," said an
eminent divine, -   why should we pet and pamper
these bodies of ours, which are soon to be reduced to
a state of mucilaginous fusion? " There was a plausibility about the question; and for about half a minute it tended to make you think, that it might be
proper to leave off taking your daily bath, and brushing your nails and teeth; likewise that instead of patronizing your tailor any further, it might be well to
assume a horse-rug; and also that it might be unworthy to care for your dinner, and that for the future
you should live on raw turnips. But of course, anything that revolts common sense, can never be a part
of Christian doctrine or duty. And the natural reply
to the rhetorical question I have quoted would of
course be, that after these mortal frames are so fused;
we shall wholly cease to care for them; but that
meanwhile we shall suitably tend, feed, and clothe
them, because it is comfortable to do so; because it is
God's manifest intention that we should do so; because great moral and spiritual advantage comes of
our doing so; and because you have no more right to
disparage and neglect your wonderful mortal frame,
than any other talent or gift confided to you by God.




WHICH CANNOT GO ON.              269
Why should we neglect, or pretend to neglect, these
bodies of ours, with which we are commanded to glorify God; which are bought with Christ's blood;
which, even through the last lowliness of mortal dissolution,'even when turned to dust again, are "still united to Christ;" and which are to rise again in glory
and beauty, and be the redeemed soul's companion
through eternity? And it is a mere sophism to put
the shortness of a thing's continuance as a reason why
it should not be cared for while it lasts. Of course, if
it last but a short time, all the shorter will be the time
through which we shall care for it. But let us make
the best of things while they last; both as regards our
care for them and our enjoyment of them.
That a thing will soon be done with, that the cloud
will soon blow by, is a good reason for bearing
patiently what is painful. But it is very needless to
thrust in this consideration, to the end of spoiling the
enjoyment of what is pleasant. I have seen people,
when a little child, in a flutter of delighted anticipation, was going away to some little merrymaking, anxious to put down its unseemly happiness by severely
impressing the fact, that in a very few hours all the
pleasure would be over, and lessons would begin
again. And I have seen, with considerable wrath, a
cloud descend upon the little face at the unwelcome
suggestion. What earthly good is to come of this
piece of stupid, well-meant malignity? It originates,
doubtless, in that great fundamental belief in many




270           CONCERNING THINGS
narrow minds, that the more uncomfortable you are
the likelier you are to be right; and that God is
angry when he sees people happy. Unquestionably,
most of the little enjoyments of life are very transient.
All pleasant social gatherings; all visits to cheerful
country houses; all holidays; are things which cannot go on. No doubt, that is true; but that is no
reason why we should sulkily refuse to enjoy them
while they last. There is no good end secured, by
persisting in seeing " towers decayed as soon as built."
It is right, always latently, and sometimes expressly,
to remember that they must decay; but meanwhile,
let us be thankful for their shelter and their beauty.
Sit doWn, happily, on a July day, beneath the green
shade of your beeches; do not needlessly strain what
little imagination you have, to picture those branches
leafless, and the winter wind and clouds racking overhead. Enjoy your parcel of new books when it
comes, coming not often; cut the leaves peacefully,
and welcome in each volume a new companion; then
carefully decide the fit place on your shelves where to
dispose the pleasant accession to your store; and do
not worry yourself by the reflection that when you
die, the little library you collected may perhaps be
scattered; and the old, friendly-looking volumes fall
into no one knows whose hands; perhaps be set forth
on out-door book-stalls; or be exhibited on the top of
a wall, with a sack put over them when it begins to
rain, as in a place which I have seen. "W That is the




WHICH CANNOT GO ON.             271
use of washing my hands," said a little boy in my
hearing; " they will very soon be dirty again!"  Refuse, my reader, to accept the principle implied in the
little boy's words, however specious it may seem.
Whitewash your manse, if you be a Scotch minister,
some time in April; paint your house in town, however speedily it may again grow black. Write your
sermons diligently; write them on the very best paper
you can get, and in a very distinct and careful hand;
and pack them with attention in a due receptacle. It
is, no doubt, only a question of time how long they
will be needed, before the day of your departure shall
make them no more than waste paper. Yet, though
things which cannot go on, you may hope to get no
small use out of them, to others and to yourself, before
the time when the hand that travelled over the pages
shall be cold with the last chill; and the voice that
spoke these words shall be hushed forever.  We
know, obscurely, what we shall come to; and by
God's grace we are content, and we hope to be prepared; but there is no need to overcast all life with
the ceaseless anticipation of death. You may have
read how John Hampden's grave was opened, at the
earnest desire of an extremely fat nobleman who was
his injudicious admirer. The poor wreck of humanity
was there; and, as the sexton said, " We propped him
up with a shovel at his back, and I cut off a lock of
his hair."  I hold with Abraham, who "buried his
dead from his sight;" I hold with Shakspeare, who




272           CONCERNING THINGS
desired that no one should disturb him in his lowly
bed, till He shall awaken him whose right it is to do
so. Yet I read no lesson of' the vanity of Hamnpden's
life, in that last sad picture of helplessness and humiliation. He had come to that; yet all this does not
show that his life was not a noble one while it lasted,
though now it was done. He had his day; and he
used it; whether well or ill let wiser men judge.
And if it be right to say that he withstood tyranny,
and helped to lay the foundation of his country's liberties, the whim of Lord Nugent and the propping up
with the shovel can take nothing away from that.
You understand me, my friend. You know the
kind of people who revenge themselves upon human
beings who meanwhile seem happy, by suggesting the
idea that it cannot last. You see Mr. A., delighted
with his beautiful new church; you know how Miss
B. thinks the man to whom she is to be married next
week the handsomest, wisest,- and best of mankind;
you behold the elation of Mr. C. about that new pair
of horses he has got; and if you be a malicious blockhead, you may greatly console yourself in the spectacle of the happiness of those individuals, by reflecting,
and perhaps by saying, that it is all one of those things
that cannot go on. Mr. A. will in a few months find
no end of worry about that fine building; Miss B.'s
husband, at.present transfigured to her view, will settle into the very ordinary being he is; and Mr. C.'s




WHICH CANNOT GO ON.            273
horses will prove occasionally lame, and one of them a
permanent roarer. Yet I think a wise man may say,
I am aware I cannot go on very long; yet I shall do
my best in my little time. I look at the right hand
which holds my pen. The pen will last but for a
short space; yet that is no reason why I should slight
it now. The hand may go on longer. Yet, warm as
it is now, and faithfully obeying my will as it has
done, through all those years, the day is coming when
it must cease from its long labors.. And, for myself, I
am well content that it should be so. Let us not
strive against the silent current, that bears us all away
and away. Let us not quarrel with the reminders we
meet on many country gravestones, addressed unto us
who are living from the fathers who have gone before.
Yet you will think of Charles Lamb. He said (but
nobody can say when Elia meant what he said), " I
conceive disgust at those impertinent and unbecoming
familiarities, inscribed upon your ordinary tombstones.
Every dead man must take upon himself to be lecturing me with his odious truism, that' Such as he now
is I must shortly be.' Not so shortly, friend, perhaps,
as thou imaginest. In the mean time I am alive. I
move about. I am worth twenty of thee. Know thy
betters! "
You may look on somewhat further, in a sweet
country burying-place. Dear old church-yard, once
so familiar, with the old oaks and the gliding river,
and the purple hill looking over; where the true
18




274           CONCER NING THINGS
heart of Jeanie Deans has mouldered into dust; I
wonder what you are looking like to-day! Many a.time have I sat, in the quiet summer day, on a flat
stone, and looked at the green graves; and thought
that they were Things that could not Go On! There
were the graves of my predecessors; the day would
come when old people in the parish would talk, not
unkindly, of the days, long ago, when some one was
minister whose name is neither here nor there. But
it was a much stranger thing to think, in that silent
and solitary place, of the great stir and bustle there
shall be in it some day! Here it has been for centuries; the green mossy stones and the little grassy undulations. But we know, from the best of all authority, that "the hour is coming" which shall make a
total change. This quiet, this decay, this forgetfulness, are not to Go On!
We look round, my reader, on all our possessions,
and all our friends, and we discern that there are the
elements of change in all. "I am content to stand
still," says Elia, "at the age to which I am arrived, - I
and my friends; to be no younger, no richer, no handsomer. I do not want to be weaned by age, or drop
like mellow fruit into the grave." There are indeed
moods of mind in which all thoughtful men have possibly yielded to a like feeling; but I never heard but
of one other man whose deliberate wish was just to go
on in this round of life forever. Yet, though content
to be in the wise and kind hands in which we are, we




WHICH CANNOT GO ON.             -275.feel it strange to find how all things are going. Your
little children, my friend, are growing older, - growing
out of their pleasant and happy childhood; the old
people round you are wrinkling up and breaking down.
And in your constitution, in your way.of life, there are
things which cannot go on. There is some little physical malady, always rather increasing; and you cannot
always be enlarging the doses of the medicine that is
to correct it, or the opiates which make you sleep. I
confess, with sorrow, that when I see an extraordinarily tidy garden, or a man dressed with special trimness, I cannot help looking forward to a day when all
that is to cease; when the man will be somewhat slovenly, -when the garden will be somewhat weedy. I
think especially of the garden; and the garden which
comes most home to me is the manse garden. It was
a marvel of exquisite neatness and order; but a new
minister comes, who does not care for gardening, and
all that goes. And though rejoicing greatly to see a
parish diligently worked, yet sometimes I behold the
parochial machinery driven with such a pressure of
steam, that I cannot but think it never will last. I
have known men who never could calmly think;who
lived in a hurry and a fever. There are places where
it costs a constant effort, not always a successful effort,
to avoid coming to such a life; but let us strive against
it. Let us not have constant push and excitement
and high pressure. I hate to feel a whir around me,
as of a huge cotton-mill. Let us." study to.be quiet!"




276           CONCERNING THINGS
And I have observed that clergymen who set that feverish machinery a-going, generally find it expedient to
get away from it as speedily as may be, so as to avoid
the discredit of its breaking down in their hands,being well aware that it is a thing which cannot go on.
We cannot always go on at a tearing gallop, with every
nerve tense. Probably we are doing so a great deal
too much. If so, let us definitively moderate our pace
before the pace kills us.
"It's a long lane that has no turning," says the proverb, testifying to the depth of human belief in the
Average, testifying to our latent conviction that anything very marked is not likely to go on. A great
many people, very anxious and unhappy and disappointed, cherish some confused hope that surely all
this has lasted so long, things must be going to mend.
The night has been so long, that morning must be
near, even though there be not the least appearance of
the dawn as yet. If you have been a briefless barrister, or an unemployed physician, or an unbeneficed
clergyman for a pretty long time, even though there
be no apparent reason now, more than years since,
why success should come, you are ready to think that
surely it must be coming now, at last. It seems to be
overdue, by the theory of Average. Yet it is by 1.o
means certain that there is a good time coming, because
the bad time has lasted long. Still, it is sometimes so.
I have known a man very laborious, very unfortunate,
with whom everything failed; and after some years of




WHICH CANNOT GO ON.            277
this, I have seen a sudden turn of fortune come. And
with exactly the same merit and the same industry as
before, I have beheld him succeed in all he attempted,
and gain no small eminence and reputation. " It behoved him to dree his weird," as was said by Meg
Merrilies; and then the good time came. If you are
happy, my reader, I wish your happiness may last.
And if you are meanwhile somewhat down and depressed, let us hope that all this may prove one of the
Things which cannot Go On!
"Shall I go on?" said Sterne, telling a touching
story, familiar to most of us; and he answered his
question by adding " No."  " It is good" said an eminent author, "to make an end of a thing which might
go on forever." And, on the whole, probably this
Essay had better stop. And, at this genial season of
kind wishes and old remembrances, we may fitly
enough consider that these New Year's days cannot
very often return to any. All this habitude of being
cannot very long go on. Yet, in our little' span here,
we may gain possessions which never will fail. It is
not a question of Time, with that which grows for
Eternity! God grant each of us, always more assuredly, that Better Part which can Go On forever!




CHAPTER XI
CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING:
WITH SOME THOUGHTS ON TAMPERING WITH THE
COIN OF THE REALM.
BEHELD, as in a Vision, the following
remarkable circumstances:
There was a large picture, by that
great artist Mr. Q. R. Smith, hung up in
a certain public place. It appeared to me that the
locality partook of the nature of a market-place in a
populous city: and numbers of human beings beheld
the picture. A little vulgar boy passed, and looked
at it: his words were these: "My eye!  A'n't it
spicy? Rather!"  A blooming maiden gazed upon
it, and her remark was as follows: " Sweetly pretty!I"
But a man who had long painted wagons for agricultural purposes, and who had recently painted a signboard, after looking at the picture for a little, began
to improve it with a large brush, heavily loaded with
coarse red and blue, such as are used for painting
wagons. Another man came, a house-painter: and




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  279
he touched the picture, in several parts, with a brush
filled with that white material which is employed for
finishing the ceiling of rooms which are not very
carefully finished. These persons, though horribly
spoiling the picture, did honestly intend to improve
it; and they fancied they had much improved it.
Finally there came a malicious person, who was himself an artist; and who envied and hated the first artist for painting so well. As for this man, he busied
himself upon the principal figure in the picture. He
made its eyes horribly to squint. He put a great
excrescence on its nose. He painted its hair a lively
scarlet. And having hideously disfigured the picture,
he wrote beneath it, Q. R. Smith, pinxit. And he
pointed out the canvas to all his friends, saying,
" That's Smith's picture: isn't it beautiful?"
Into this Vision I fell, sitting by the evening fire.
The immediate occasion of this Vision was, that I had
been reading a little volume, prettily printed and
nicely bound, purporting to be "The Children's Garland from the Best Poets, selected and arranged by
Coventry Patmore."  There I had been pleasantly
reviving my recollection of many of the pieces, which
I had been taught to read and repeat as a boy at
school. And as I read, a sense of wonder grew,
gradually changing to a feeling of indignation. I said
to myself, Surely Mr. Coventry Patmore's modesty
has led him to take credit on his title-page for much
less than he deserves. He has not merely selected
and arranged these pieces from the Best Poets: he




280'CONCERNING- CUTTING AND CARVING.
has also (according to his own ideas) improved them,
We have (I thought), in this volume, the picture of
Q. R. Smith, touched up with red and whitewash,
and having the eyes and nose altered by the painter
of signboards. Or, to speak more accurately, in reading this volume, we are requested to walk through a
gallery of paintings by great masters, almost all improved, in many places, by the same painter of wagonwheels, with the same large brush filled with coarse
red. As wb go on with the book, we come upon
some poem which we have known all our lives, and
every word of which is treasured and sacred in our
memory. But we are made to feel that this is indeed
our old friend: but his nose is cut off, and one of his
eyes is put out. Such was my first hasty and unjust
impression. Every poem of those I remembered
from childhood had a host of verbal variations from
the version in which I knew it. In Southey's wellknown verses about " The Bell on the Inchcape
Rock," I counted thirty-seven. There were a good
many in Campbell's two poems; one called "The
Parrot," and the other about Napoleon and the British sailor. So with Cowper's " Royal George:" so
with Macaulay's " Armada."  So with Scott's " Young
Lochinvar:" so with Byron's " Destruction of Sennacherib:" so with Wordsworth's poem as to the dog
that watched many weeks by his dead master on
Helvellyn: so with Goldsmith's "Good people all,
of every sort:" so with Mrs. Hemans' " Graves
of a Household." Mr. Patmore tells us in his




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  281
Preface, that "in a very few instances he has ventured to substitute a word or phrase, where that
of the author has made the piece in which it occurs unfit for children's reading." But, on my first
reading of his book, it appeared that he had made
alterations by scores, most of them so trivial as to be
very irritating.  But I proceeded to investigate.  I
compared MIr. Patmore's version of each poem with
the version of each poem contained in the last edition
of its author's works. And though I found a few
variations, made apparently through careless transcribing: and though I was annoyed by considerable
disregard of the author's punctuation and capitals;
still it appeared that in the main- Mr. Patmore gives
us the pieces as their authors left them: while the
versions of them, given in those books which are put
into the hands of children, have, in almost every case,
been touched up by nobody knows whom. So that
when Mr. Patmore's book falls into the hands of men
who made their first acquaintance with many of the
pieces it contains in their schoolboy days, and who
naturally prefer the version of them which is surrounded by the associations of that season: SIr. Patmore will be unjustly'accused of having cut and
carved upon the dear old words. Whereas, in truth,
the present generation has reason to complain of having been introduced to the wrong things in youth: so
that now we cannot righltly appreciate the right
things. And for myself, my first unjust suspicion of




282   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
Mr. Patmore, speedily dispelled by investigation, led
me to many thoughts upon the whole subject of literary honesty and dishonesty in this matter.
It seems to me quite essential that a plain principle of common faithfulness should be driven into
those persons who edit and publish the writings of
other men. If you pretend to show us Raphael's picture, let it be exactly as Raphael left it. But if your
purpose be to exhibit the picture as touched up by
yourself, do not mendaciously call the picture a
Raphael. Call it what it is: to wit, Raphael altered
and improved by Snooks. If you take a sovereign,
and drill several holes in it, and fill them up with
lead, you will be made to feel, should you endeavor to
convey that coin into circulation, that though you may
sell it for what it is worth as a sovereign plugged with
lead, you had better not try to pass it off upon people
as a genuine sovereign. All this is as plain as may
be. But there are many collectors and editors of little poems, who take a golden piece by Goldsmith,
Wordsworth, Campbell, or Moore: and punch out a
word here and there, and stick in their own miserable
little plug of pinchbeck. And then, having thus debased the coin, they have the impudence to palm it
off upon the world with the superscription of Goldsmith, Wordsworth, Campbell, or Moore. It is needful, I think, that some plain principles of literary
honesty should be instilled into cutting and carving
editors.  Even Mr. Palgrave, in his " Golden Treas



CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING. 283
ury," is not free from some measure of blame; though
his sins are as nothing compared with those of the
editors of school collections and volumes of sacred
poetry. Mr. Palgrave has not punched out gold to
stick in pinchbeck: but in one or two glaring instances, he has punched out gold and left the vacant
space. Every one knows that exquisite little poem
of Hood's, "The Death Bed."  That poem consists
of four stanzas. Mr. Palgrave gives us in his book a
poem which he calls " The Death Bed;" and puts at
the end of it the honored name of Hood. But it is
not Hood's " Death Bed: " any more than a sovereign with one half of it cut off would be a true sovereign. Mr. Palgrave gives us just two stanzas:
Hood's first and last; leaving out the two intermediate
ones. In a note, whose tone is much too confident
for my taste, Mr. Palgrave attempts to justify this
tampering with the coin of the realm. He says that
the omitted stanzas are very ingenious, but that ingenuity is not in accordance with pathos. But what we
want is Hood with his own peculiar characteristics:
not Hood with the corners rubbed off to please even
so competent a critic as Mr. Palgrave. In my judgment, the two omitted stanzas are eminently characteristic of Hood. I do not think they are very ingenious: they express simple and natural feelings: and
they are expressed with a most touching and pathetic
beauty. And on the whole, if you are to give the
poem to the world as Hood's, they seem to have an




284 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
especial right to stand in it. If you give a picture
of a bison, surely you should give the hump: even
though you may think the animal would be more
graceful without it. We want to have the creature
as God made it: with the peculiarities God gave it.
The poems which are cut and carved to the extrenlest degree are hymns.  There is indeed some
pretext of reason here: for it is necessary that hymns
should be made, in respect of the doctrines they
set forth, to fit the views of the people who are to
sing them. Not that I think that this justifies the
practice of adulterating the text.  But in the few
cases where a hymn has been altered so completely
as to become virtually a new composition; and a much
better composition than it was originally: and where
the authorship is a matter really never thought of by
the people who devoutly use the hymn; something is
to be said for this tampering. For the hymn is not
set forth as a poem written by this man or that:
but merely as a piece which many hands may have
brought into its present shape; and which in its present shape suits a specific purpose. You don't daub
Raphael's picture with wagon paint; and still exhibit
it as a Raphael. You touch it up according to your
peculiar views: and theni exhibit it saying merely, Is
not that a nice picture? It is nobody's in particular.
It is the joint doing of many men, and perhaps of
many years. But where hymns are presented in a
literary shape, and as the productions of the men who




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING. 285
wrote them, the same law of honesty applies as in the
case of all other literary work. I observe, with very
great satisfaction, that in the admirable "Book of
Praise" lately published by Sir Roundell Palmer, that
eminent lawyer has made it his rule " to adhere
strictly, in all cases in which it could be ascertained
to the genuine uncorrupted text of the authors themselves." And Sir Roundell Palmer speaks with just
severity of the censurable, but almost universal, practice of tampering with the text.
I confess that till I examined Mr. Patmore's volume, I had no idea to what an extent this literary
clipping of the coin had gone, even in the matter of
poetry for clipping and altering which there is no
pretext of reason. It appears to me a duty, in the
interest of truth, to protest against this discreditable
cutting and carving. There are various editors of
school-books, and other collections of poetry for the
young, who seem incapable of giving the shortest
poem by the greatest poet, without improving it here
and there with their red brush. No statue is presented to us without first having its nose knocked off.
And of course there is no necessity here for squaring
the poems to some doctrinal standard. It is a pure
matter of the editor's thinking, that he can improve
the compositions of Campbell, Wordsworth, Moore,
Goldsmith, Southey, Scott, Byron, Macaulay, or Poe.
So that in the case of every one of these manifold alterations the question is just this simple one: Whether




286   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
Wordsworth or some pushing Teacher of Elocution is
the best judge of what Wordsworth should say:
whether we are to hold by these great poets, believing
that they most carefully considered their most careful
pieces; or to hold by anybody who chooses to alter
them. There is something intensely irritating in the
idea of Mr. Smith, with his pencil in his hand, sitting
down with a volume of Wordsworth, every word in
every line of which was carefully considered by. the
great poet, and stands there because the great poet
thought it the right word; and jauntily altering a word
here and there. The vision still returns to me of the
sign-painter touching up Raphael. But I have no doubt
whatsoever that Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown thinks himself quite equal to improving Wordsworth. The selfsufficiency of human beings is wonderful. I have
heard of a man who thought he could improve things
better than anything of Wordsworth's. Probably you'
never heard of the youthful Scotch divine who lived
in days when stupid bigotry forbade the use of the
Lord's Prayer in the pulpits of the Scotch church.
That young divine went to preach for an aged clergyman who was somewhat wiser than his generation:
and who accordingly told the young divine in the
vestry before service that the Lord's Prayer was
habitually used in that church. "Is it necessary,"
said the young divine, "that I should use the Lord's
Prayer?"  "Not at all," replied the aged clergyman,
"if you can use anything better."  But the young




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING,  287
divine was true to his party: and he used certain
petitions of his own, which he esteemed as improvements on the Lord's Prayer.
You Inay be quite sure that in the compositions of
any careful writer, you could not alter many words
without injury to the writer's style. You could make
few alterations which the writer would approve. In
a careful style, rely on it, there was some appreciable
reason present to the author's mind for the employment of almost every word; and for each word's coIning in just where it does. This is true even of prose.
And I should fancy that few men would long continue
to write for any periodical the editor of which was
wont to cut and carve upon their articles. You remember how bitterly Southey used to complain of the
way in which Lockhart altered his. But all this holds
good with infinitely greater force in the case of poetry: especially in the case of such short gems as
many of those in Mr. Patmore's volume. The prose
writer, however accurate, covers his pages a day: each
sentence is carefully weighed; but weighed rapidly.
But the poet has lingered long over.every word in his
happiest verse. How carefully each phrase has been
considered: how each phrase is fitted to all the rest!
I declare it seems to me, there is something sacred in
the best stanzas of a great poet. It is profanation to
alter a word. And you know how to the sensitively
strung mind and ear of the author a single wrong note
makes discord of the whole: the alteration of a word




288   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
here and there may turn the sublime to the ridiculous.
And such alterations may be made in all good faith,
by people whose discernment is not sharpened to this
particular use.  There was a pretty song, popular
some years ago, which was called " What are the wild
waves saying?"  The writer had many times heard
that song: but he hardly recognized its name when he
heard it once asked for by the title of "What are the
mad waves roaring?"  Let us have the poet's work
as he left it. You do not know how painfully the
least verbal alteration may jar upon a. sensitive ear.
I hold that so sacred is the genuine text of a great
poet, that even to the punctuation; and the capital
letters, however eccentric their use may be; it should
be esteemed as sacrilege to touch it. Let me say
here that no man who does not know the effect upon
poetry of little typographical features is fit to edit any
poet.  It seems to me that Mr. Coventry Patmore
fails there. It is plain that he does not perceive,
with the sensitiveness proper to the editor of another
man's poetry, what an effect upon the expression of a
stanza or a line is produced by typographical details.
Mr. Patmore not unfrequently alters the punctuation
which the authors (we may suppose) adopted after
consideration; and which has grown, to every true
reader of poetry, as much a part of the stanza as its
words are. Every one knows how much importance
Wordsworth attached to the use of capital letters.
Now, in the poem entitled "Fidelity" (" Children's




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  289
Garland,") Mr. Patmore has at nine different places
substituted a small letter for Wordsworth's capital:
considerably to  the destruction  of the expression
of the piece: and at any rate to the clipping of the
coin Wordsworth left us. In the last verse of Poe's
grand poem, "The Raven," Mr. Patmore has, in six
lines, made five alterations: one quite uncalled for;
four for the worse. Poe wrote demon: Mr. Patmore
chooses to make it dcemon.  Poe wrote "the shadow
that lies floating on the floor:" Mr. Patmore substitutes is for lies: to the detriment of the sense. And
Poe ends the stanza thus:
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
It is extraordinary how many variations for the
worse Mr. Patmore introduces into the last line.
He makes it
Shall be lifted "Nevermore."
1st. The dash before the nevermore is omitted: a
loss.
2d. The Nevermore is made to begin with a capital: which, though very right in preceding stanzas,
is here absurd.
3d. The Nevermore is marked as a quotation: which
it is not. It is one in the preceding stanzas, and is
properly marked as one: but here the mark of quotation is wrong.
4th. Poe puts, most fitly, a mark of exclamation
19




290 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
after the nevermore!  If ever there was a stanza
which should end with that point, it is here.  But
M/r. Patmore, for no earthly reason, leaves it out.
Now, some folk may say these are small matters.
I beg to say that they are not small matters to any
accurate reader: and above all, to any reader with
an eye for the expression of poetry. And no man,
who has not an eye for these minute points, and who
does not feel their force, is fit for an editor of poetry.
I am quite sure that no mortal, with an eye for such
niceties, will deny, that each of Mr. Patmore's four
alterations of one line of Poe is an alteration for the
worse. I have taken as the proper representation of
Poe the best American edition of his whole works,
in four volumes.  But if you look at the beautiful
little edition of his poems, edited by Mr. Hannay,
you will find that the accurate scholar has given that
stanza exactly as the American edition gives it: and,
of course, exactly right. If Mr. Patmore does not
understand how indescribably irritating these little
cuttings and carvings are to a careful reader or
writer, he is not the man to edit the "Children's
Garland," or any other collection of poetry.  Every
one can imagine the indignation with which Wordsworth the scrupulous and Poe the minutely accurate
would have learned that their best poems were, either
through carelessness, or with the design of making
them better, altered by Mr. Patmore, even in the
matter of capital letters and points  and that finally




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING. 291
the result was to be exhibited to the world, not as
Raphael touched up by Smith the sign-painter, but as
Raphael pure and genuine.
And while thus fault-finding at any rate, I am
obliged to say that though acquitting Mr. Patmore
of any vainglorious purpose of improving those " Best
Poets " from whom he has selected his " Garland," I
cannot acquit him of culpable carelessness in a good
many instances. Though he may not have smeared
the great master's picture with red paint, he has not
been sufficiently careful to present the picture to us
unsmeared by anybody else. Except in those "very
few instances" in which he has changed a word or
phrase " unfit for children's reading," we have a-right
to expect an accurate version of the text.  But it is
quite easy to point out instances in which Mr. Patmore's reading could not have been derived from any
edition of the poet, however bad; nor can any one
say that Mr. Patmore's reading is an improvement
upon the textus receptus. The third and fourth lines
of Macaulay's poem, " The Armada," run as follows:
When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain
The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.
Mr. Patmore makes two alterations in these lines.
For that great fleet, he reads the great fleet, to the
detriment alike of rhythm and meaning. And for
the richest spoils of Mexico, he reads the richest sto'es.
It is extremely plain that spoils is a much better word




292   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
than stores. It was not the stores of Mexico; that is,
the wealth stored up in Mexico; that the Armada
bore.  It was the spoils of Mexico; that is, the
wealth which the Spaniards had taken away from
Mexico; that the Armada bore. It is possible that
the Spaniards may have taken away all the wealth
of Mexico: in which case the spoils and the stores
would coincide in fact. But they would still be totally different in conception; and so exact a writer, as
Macaulay would never confound the two things.
Next, let us turn to Campbell's touching verses entitled " The Parrot." Campbell put at the top of his
verses the words, "The Parrot: a domestic Anecdote.2' Mr. Patmore puts the words, "The Parrot:
a true Story." The poem tells us, very simply and
beautifully, how a certain parrot, which in its early
days had been accustomed to hear the Spanish language spoken, was brought to the island of Mull:
where, we may well suppose, it heard no Spanish.
It lived in Mull for many years, till its green and
gold changed to gray: till it grew blind and apparently dumb. But let the story be told in the poet's
words:
At last, when blind and seeming dumb,
He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,
A Spanish stranger chanced to come
To lMulla's shore;
He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech,
The bird in Spanish speech replied,
Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech,
Dropt down, and died.




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  293
Tn glancing over Mr. Patmore's reading of this
little piece, I am annoyed by observing several alterations in Campbell's punctuation: every alteration manifestly for the worse. But there is a more
serious tampering with the text. The moral of the
poem, of course, is that parrots have hearts and
memories as well as we. And the poem sets out
by stating that great principle. The first verse is:
The deep affections of the breast,
That Heaven to living things imparts,
Are not exclusively possess'd
By human hearts.
Mr. Patmore has the bad taste, not to say more, to
leave that verse out. I cannot see any good reason
why. The principle it states is one which a word or
two would render quite intelligible to any child. Indeed, to any child who could not take in that principle,
the entire story would be quite unintelligible. And
I cannot recognize MIr. Patmore's treatment of this
poem as other than an unjustifiable tampering with
the coin of the realm.
There is another poem of Campbell's which fares
as badly. Campbell calls it " Napoleon and the British Sailor." Mr. Patmore, in his zeal for cutting and
carving, calls it "Napoleon and the Sailor: a true
Story." This poem, like the last, sets out with a
principle or sentiment; and then goes on with the
facts. Mr. Patmore takes it upon himself to leave
out tiat first verse: and then to daub the second




294   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
verse in order to make it intelligible in the absence of
the first. I hold this to be utterly unpardonable. It
is emphatically Raphael improved by the sign-painter.
And the pretext of anything "unfit for children's
reading" will not hold here. Any child that coull
understand the story, would understand this first verse 
I love contemplating - apart
From all his homicidal glory,
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's story!
Then Campbell's second verse runs thus:'Twas while his banners at Boulogne
Armed in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.
Thus simply and naturally does the story which follows, rise out of the sentiment which the poet has expressed.  But as Mr. Patmore has cut out the sentiment, he finds it necessary to tamper with the second
verse: and accordingly he starts in this abrupt, awkward, and ugly fashion; which no true reader of
Campbell will behold without much indignation: and
which would have roused the sensitive poet himself to
still greater wrath:
Napoleon's banners at Boulogne
Armed in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced,
And so on. Here, you see, in the verse as improved by Mr. Patmore, we have two distinct propo



CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  295:
sitions; separated by a comma. Mr. Patmore not
merely has no eye foi punctuation; but is plainly
ignorant of its first principles. If any schoolboy,
after having had the use of the colon and semicolon
explained to him, were to use a comma in such fashion in an English theme, he would richly deserve a
black mark for stupidity; and he would doubtless receive one. But apart from this lesser matter, which
will not seem small to any one with a sense of grammatical accuracy, I ask whether it be not too bad that
Campbell's natural and beautiful verse should be adulterated into this irritating caricature of it.
Let us next test Mr. Patmore's accuracy in exhibiting Sir Walter Scott.  Everybody knows "Lady
Heron's Song" which Sir Walter himself called "Lochinvar:" but which Mr. Patmore, eager for change,
calls "Young Lochinvar."  Sir Walter's first two
lines are these:
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best.
Mr. Patmore cannot render these simple lines accurately.  He begins West with a capital letter:
which, right or wrong, Sir Walter did not. Then
he puts a point of exclamation after West, where Sir
Walter has a comma.  Sir Walter tells us that Lochinvar's steed was the best: Mr. Patmore improves the
statement into his steed is the best. The very pettiness
of these changes makes them the more irritating.
Granting that MIr. Patmore's reading is neither bet



29 6 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
ter nor worse than the original, why not leave us the
poem as the great man gave it us? Through all that
well-known song, one is worried by Mr. Patmore's
wretched little smears of red paint. The punctuation
throughout is no longer matter for an imposition: it
is matter for a flogging. Sir Walter says,
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall:
Mr. Patmore with his brush makes it so bravely.
And, eager for change at any price, Mr. Patmore
gives us a new spelling of the name of the river Esk.
Sir Walter, like everybody else, spells that word Esk.
Mr. Patmore is not content with this, but develops
the word into Eske. Sir Walter describes a certain
locality as Cannobie Lee: Mr. Patmore improves the
name into Cannobie LEA. And finally, the song ending with a question, Sir Walter ends it with a point of
interrogation.  But Mr. Patmore, impatient of the
restraints of grammar, concludes with a point of exclamation.
All this is really too bad. Byron fares no better:
and Mr. Patmore's alterations are of the same irritating and contemptible kind. Byron wrote
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
Mr. Patmore cannot leave this alone. In the first
line he reads nostrils for nostril: in the second, them
for it. Now, not only are Byron's words the best,
just because Byron chose them: but Byron's descrip



CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  297
tiou is strikingly true to fact. Every one who has
ever seen a horse fallen, or a horse dead, knows how
remarkably fJat the creature lies upon the ground. It
is startling to find the sixteen hands of height when
the animal was upon his legs, turned to something that
hardly surpasses your knee when the creature is lying
upon his side. And the head of a dead horse, lying
upon the ground, would show one nostril and not two.
You would see only the upper one: and remark that
the warm breath of the creature was no longer rolling
through that. These little matters make just the difference between being accurate and being inaccurate:
between being right-and being wrong.
I do not know whether it be from a desire to improve Mr. Keble's name, that Mr. Patmore, in his
"Index of Writers," alters it to Keeble.  I object
likewise to Mr. Patmore's -improving Barnfield's
couplet
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up till a thorn:
by substituting against for up till. The very stupidest child would know, after one telling, the meaning
of up till: and Mr. Patmore's alteration is a destruction of the antique flavor of the piece.
The thoughtful reader, who has had some experience of life, must have arrived at this conviction:
that if two or three slices of a leg of mutton are extremrely bad, all the rest of the leg is probably bad
too. I have not examined the whole of MDr. Pat



298   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
more's volume: but I am obliged to conclude, from
the absence of minute accuracy in the pieces which I
have examined, that the entire volume is deficient in
minute accuracy. Now, in a book like this, accuracy
is the first thing. If any scholar were to take up a
play of.Eschylus or Aristophanes, and find it as carelessly edited as several of the poems which we have
considered, I think the scholar would be disposed to
throw that play into the fire. And I cannot for my
life see why perfect accuracy should be less sought
after by an editor of English poems than by an editor
of Greek plays.
But on the general question of cutting and carving
I would almost go so far as to say, that after a poem
has been current for years, and has found a place in
many memories, not even its author has a right to
alter it. Nothing, at least, but an improvement the
most extraordinary, can justify such a breaking in
upon a host of old associations. It is a mortifying
thing, when a man looks, in later life, into the volume
of his favorite author, to find that the things he best
remembers are no longer there. Even manifest improvement cannot reconcile us to the change. When
the present writer was a youth at College, he cherished
an enthusiastic admiration for John Foster's " Essays."
Let it be said, his admiration is hardly less now. I
read and re-read them in a large octavo volume: one
of the earlier editions, which had not received the author's latest corrections.. Yet I valued every phrase:




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING. 299
and I well remember how aggrieved I felt when I got
an ed;tion with Foster's final emendations; and found
that Foster had cut out, and toned down, and varied,
just the things of which my memory kept the firmest
hoti One feels as though one had a vested interest
in what had been so prized and lingered over. You
know how Wordsworth and Moore kept touching up
their verses: generally for the worse. I do not think
the last edition which Wordsworth himself corrected,
is the best edition of his poetry. In that poem of his
which has already been named, concerning the faithful dog on Helvellyn, he made, late in life, various lit-'
tle changes: which not being decidedly for the better,
must be held as for the worse. For any change from
the dear old way is for the worse, unless it be very
markedly for the better. And surely, after describing
the finding of the poor tourist's body, the old way,
which was this:
Sad sight! the shepherd, with a sigh,
Looks round, to learn the history:
is quite as good as the new way, which is this:
The appalled Discoverer with a sigh,
Looks round, to learn the history.
No rule, indeed, can be laid down here. No great
poet cuts and carves upon his own productions so
much as Mr. Tennyson. You remember how
Revered Victoria, you that hold -




800 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
has changed into
Revered, beloved, oh you that hold.
You remember how in the story of the schoolboys
who stole a litter of pigs, the passage,
We paid in person, scored upon that part
Which cherubs want.
has now dropped all reference to the scoring. And
" Locksley Hall" bristles with verbal alterations,
which every careful reader of Tennyson knows. One
bows, of course, to the presence of Mr. Tennyson;
and does not venture to set up one's own taste as
against his. Yet, let me confess it, I miss and I regret some of the old things. Doubtless there are passages which at the first were open to hostile criticism,
and which met it: which now have been raised above
all cavil.  There is that passage in the "Dream of
Fair Women," which describes the death of Iphigenia. She tells of it herself. Here is the verse
as it stands even in the seventh edition:
The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,
The temples and the people and the shore;
One drew a sharp knife thro' my tender throat
Slowly, - and nothing more.
Every one feels how unpleasant is the picture conveyed by the last two lines. It passes the limits of
tragedy, and approaches the physically revolting   It




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING. 301.s, likewise, suggestive rather of the killing of a sheep
yr pig, than of the solemn sacrifice of a human being.
I confess, I incomparably prefer the simplicity of the
inspired statement: "And Abraham stretched forth
his hand, and took the knife to slay his son." We
don't want any details as to how the knife was to be
used; or as to the precise point at which it was to let
out life. It would jar, were we to read, "Abraham
stretched forth his hand, and was just going to cut
Isaac's throat."  Now Mr. Tennyson is worse than
that: for he gives us, doubtless with painful accuracy,
the account of the actual cutting of the throat. Then,
besides this, Mr. Tennyson's verse, as it used to stand,
was susceptible of a wrong interpretation. I do not
mean that any candid reader would be likely to mistake the poet's sense: but I mean that an ill-set critic
would have occasion for misrepresenting it. You may
remember that a severe critic did misrepresent it.
In an ancient Review, you may see the verse printed
as I have given it above: and then the critic goes on
to say something like this: "What an unreasonable
person Iphigenia must have been'He cut my
throat: nothing more:' what more could the woman
possibly want?" Of course, we know what the poet
meant: but, in strictness, what he meant he did not
say. But look to the latest edition of Mr. Tennyson's
poems; and you will be content. Here is the verse
now. You will see that it has been most severely cut
and carved; but to a most admirable result:




802 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
The high masts trembled as they lay afloat;
The towers, the temples wavered, and the shore;
The bright death quivered at the victim's throat,
Touched, and I knew no more.
I should fancy, my friend, that you have nothing to
say against such tampering with the coin. This is as
though a piece of baser metal were touched with the
philosopher's stone, and turned to gold. And there'
have been cases in which a very felicitous change has
been made by one man upon the writing of another.
A single touch has sometimes done it.  I wonder
whether Mr. Palgrave was aware that, in giving in
his book those well-known verses "To Althea from
Prison," which he rather absurdly describes as by
Colonel Lovelace (why does he not tell us that his
extracts from a greater poet are by William Shakspeare, Esquire?), there is one verse which he has
not given as Lovelace wrote it,
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds, that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.
Lovelace wrote " the gods that wanton in the air:"
and birds was substituted by Bishop Percy. It is a
simple and obvious substitution: and the change is so
greatly and so unquestionably for the better, that it
may well be accepted: as indeed it has universally
been.
The mention of a happy substitution naturally sug



CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING. 303
gests the most unhappy substitution on record. You
may remember how the great scholar, Bentley, ptffed
up by his success in making emendations on Horace
and Terence, unluckily took it upon himself to edit
Milton. And here indeed, we have, with a vengeance,
Raphael improved by the painter of wagons.  Milton
wrote, as everybody knows:
No light, but rather darkness visible:
but Bentley, eager to improve the line, turns it to
No light, but rather a transpicuous gloom.
There is another passage in which the contrast between the master and the wagon-painter is hardly less
marked.  Where Milton wrote,
Our torments also may in length of time
Become our elements:
Bentley, as an improvement, substituted the following
remarkable passage,
Then, as'twas well observed, our torments may,
Become our elements.
It is to be admitted that the stupidity of Bentley's
reading, is even surpassed by its impudence. Of
course, the principle taken for granted at the beginning of such a work is, that Bentley's taste and judgment were better than Milton's. For, you observe,
there was no pretext here of restoring a more accurate




304   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
reading, lost through time: there was no pretext of
giving more exactly what Milton wrote. There was
no question as to Milton's precise words: but Bentley
thought to make them better. And there is something
insufferable in the picture of the self-satisfied old Don,
sitting down in his easy-chair with " Paradise Lost:"
and, pencil in hand, proceeding to improve it. Doubtless he was a very great classical scholar: but unless
his wits had mainly forsaken him when he set himself
to edit Milton, it is very plain that he never could
have been more than an acute verbal critic. Thinking
of Bentley's "Milton," one imagines the Apollo Belvedere put in a hair-dresser's window, with a magnificent wig: and dressed in a suit of clothes of the very
latest fashion. I think likewise of an incident in the
life of Mr. N. P. Willis, the American author. When
he was at college in his youth, the head of his college
kept a white horse, which he was accustomed to drive
in a vehicle of some kind or other. Mr. N. P. Willis
and his companions surreptitiously obtained temporary
possession of the horse; and painted it crimson, with a
blue mane and tail. I confess that I like Mr. N. P.
Willis better for that deed, than for anything else I
ever heard of his doing: and I may mention, for the
satisfaction of my younger readers, that the colors used
in painting the horse were of such a nature, that they
adhered to the animal for a lengthened period, notwithstanding all endeavors to remove them. Now
Dr. Bentley, in editing Milton, did as it were paint




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING. 305
the white horse crimson and blue; and then exhibited
it to the world, saying, " That is Smith's fine horse!"
Nor should it be accepted as any apology for like conduct on the part of any editor, that the editor in good
faith has such a liking for these colors, that he thinks
a horse looks best when it looks blue and crimson.
And though the change made by an editor be not of
such a comprehensive nature as the painting of an
entire horse anew, but rather consists of a multitude
of little touches here and there; -as points changed,
capitals left out, and whiches for thats; still the result
is very irritating. You know that a very small infusion of a foreign substance can vitiate a thing. Two
drops of prussic acid in a cup of water: two smears
of red paint across the Raphael: affect the whole. I
know hardly any offence, short of great crime, which
seems to me deserving of so severe punishment, as
this of clipping the coin of the realm of literature.
There is something, too, which irritates one, in the
self-sufficient attitude which is naturally assumed by a
man who is cutting and carving the composition of
another. It is an evil which attends all reviewing,
and which a modest and conscientious reviewer must
feel keenly, that in reviewing another man's book, you
seem to assume a certain superiority to him. For in
every case in which you find fault with him, you are
aware that the question comes just to this, - whether
your opinion or his is worth most. To which may be
added the further question: whether you or he have
20




306 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
devoted most time and thought to forming a just
opinion on this particular point.  But when a man
sits down not merely to point out an author's faults,
but to correct them; the assumption of superiority is
more marked still. And everybody knows that the
writings of great geniuses have been unsparingly cut
and carved by very inferior men. You know how
Byron sent "The Siege of Corinth" to MIr. Gifford,
giving him full power to alter it to any extent he
pleased. And you know how Mr. Gifford did alter
it; by cutting out all the good passages and leaving
all the bad. The present writer has seen a man in
the very act of cutting and carving. Once upon a
time I entered a steamer which was wont to ply upon
the waters of a certain noble river, that winds between
Highland hills. And entering that bark, I beheld a
certain friend, seated on the quarter-deck, with a little
volume in his hand. I never saw a man look more
entirely satisfied with himself than did my friend; as
he turned over the leaves of the little volume in a
hasty, skipping fashion; and jauntily scribbled here
and there with a pencil. I beheld him in silence for
a time, and then asked what on earth he was doing.
"Oh," said he, "I am a member of the committee
appointed by the Great Council to prepare a new
book of hymns to be sung throughout the churches of
this country. And this little volume is a proof copy
of the hymns suggested: and a copy of it is sent to
each member of the committee to receive his emen



CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  307
dations. And as you see, I am beguiling my time in
sailing down the river 1y improving these hymns."
In this easy manner did my fiiend scribble whatever
alterations might casually suggest themselves, upon the
best compositions of the best hymn writers. Slowly
and laboriously had the authors written those hymns,
carefully weighing each word; and weighing each
word perhaps for a very long time.  But in the pauses
of conversation, with no serious thought whatsoever,
but willing to testify how much better he knew what a
hymn should be than the best authors of that kind of
literature, did my friend set down his random thoughts.
Give me that volume, said I, with no small indignation. He gave it to me, and I proceeded to examine
his improvements. And I can honestly say' that not
merely was every alteration for the worse; but that
many of the alterations testified my friend's utter ignorance of the very first principles of metrical composition; and that all of'them testified the extreme
narrowness of his acquaintance with that species of
literature. Some of the verses, as altered by him,
were astounding specimens of rhythm.  The only
thing I ever saw which equalled them was a stanza
by a local poet, very zealous for the observance of
the Lord's day.  Here is the stanza:
Ye that keep horses, read psalm 50;
To win money on the Sabbath day, see that ye never be so thrifty!
In Scotland we have a psalter and a hymnal imposed by ecclesiastical authority: so that in all parish




808   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
churches there is entire uniformity in the words of
praise.  But it worries one to enter a church in England, and to find, as one finds so often, that the incuinbent has published a hymnal, the sale of which he
insures by using it in his church; and all the hymns
in which are cut and carved to suit his peculiar doctrinal and esthetical views.  The execrable taste and
the remarkable ignorance evinced in some of these
compilations, have on myself, I confess, the very reverse of a devotional effect. And the inexpressible
badness of certain of the hymns I have seen in such
volumes, leads me to the belief that they must be the
original compositions of the editor himself. There is
an excellent little volume of Psalms and Hymns,
collected by Mr. Henry Herbert Wyatt, of Trinity
Chapel, Brighton; but even in it, one is annoyed
by occasional needless changes. In Bishop Heber's
beautiful hymn, which begins; From Greenland's icy
mountains," Mr. Wyatt has smeared the third verse.
The Bishop wrote, as every one knows,
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,Shall we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
But Mr. Wyatt substitutes can for the shall with
which the first and third lines begin: a change
which no man of sense can call an improvement. A
hymn to which I always turn, as one that tests an
editor, is Bishop Ken's incomparable one, commonly




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING. 309
called the "Evening Hymn."  I find, with pleasure,
that Mr. Wyatt has not tried to improve it: save that
he has adopted an alteration which has been all but
universally accepted. Bishop Ken wrote,
All praise to Thee, my God this night:
while most of us, from childhood, have been taught to
substitute Glory for All Praise. And this is certainly
an improvement. Glory, gloria, is certainly the right
word with which to begin an ascription of praise to
the Almighty. If not in itself the fittest word, the
most ancient and revered associations of the Christian
Church give it a prescriptive right to preference. A
hymn which no man seems able to keep his sacrilegious hands off is Charles Wesley's hymn,
Jesu, lover of my soul.
I observe Mr. Wyatt makes three alterations in the
first three lines of it, - each alteration for the worse.
But I begin to be aware that no human being can be
trusted to sit down with a hymn-book and a pencil,
with leave to cut and carve. There is a fascination
about the work of tampering: and a man comes to
change for what is bad rather than not change at all.
There are analogous cases. When I dwelt in the
country, I was once cutting a little path through a
dense thicket of evergreens; and a friend from the
city, who was staying with us, went out with me to
superintend the proceedings. Weakly, I put into my




310 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
friend's hands a large and sharp weapon, called in
Scotland a scutching-knife: and told him he might
smooth off certain twigs which projected unduly on
the path. My friend speedily felt the fascination of
cutting and carving.  And after having done considerable damage, he restored me the weapon, saying he
felt its possession was a temptation too strong for him
to resist. When walkling about with the keen sharp
steel in his hand, it was really impossible to help
snipping off any projecting branch which obtruded
itself upon the attention. And the writer's servant
(dead, poor fellow: one of the worthiest though most
unbending of men) declared, with much solemnity
and considerable indignation, that in forming a walk
he would never again suffer the scutching-knife to be
in any other hands than his own. Now, it is a like
temptation that assails the editor of hymns: and even
if the editor is a competent man (and in most cases
he is not) I don't think it safe to trust him with the
scutching-knife. The only editor of hymns whom the
writer esteems as a perfect editor, is Sir Roundell
Palmer. For Sir Roundell starts with the determination to give us each hymn exactly as its author left
it. It is delightful to read "All praise to Thee, my
God, this night:" and to come upon
Jesu, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly:
after " Jesu, Saviour of my soul:" and " Jesus refuge
of my soul."  I remark, in Sir Roundell's. book, oc



CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  311
casional signs of having taken a hymn from an early
edition of the author's works: which, in later editions
was retouched by the author himself. Thus James
Mlontgomery's "Friend after friend departs," is given
as first published: not as the author left it. In the
four verses, Montgomery madefive alterations: which
are not shown in Sir Roundell's work. But, as one
who feels much interest in hymnal literature, and who
has given some attention to it, I cannot refrain fiom
saying that in the matter of faithfulness, Sir Roundell
Palmer's book is beyond question or comparison the
best. There is nothing second, third, or tenth to it.
It is first; an/d the rest are nowhere.
Having mentioned the best hymnal that I know,
one naturally thinks of the worst. There is a little
volume purporting to be Hymns collected hy the Committee of the General Assembly on Psalnody: published at Edinburgh in 1860. It is to be remembered
that the Church of Scotland has never approved this
little volume: the committee have published it on
their own responsibility. Mr. Wyatt, in making his
collection, tells us he examined thirty thousand hymns,
and took the best of them. Sir Roundell Palmer also
gives us in his volume the best hymns in the language. But neither Mr. Wyatt nor Sir Roundell
(both most competent judges) have seen fit to admit
much of the matter contained in this little compilation. So we may conclude, either that Mr. Wyatt
did not find some of these compositions among his




312   CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
thirty thousand: or that, having examined them, he
did not think them worthy of admission to his collection of about two hundred and fifty hymns.  Sir
Roundell Palmer's hymns number four hundred and
twelve: and he has not erred on the side of exclusion: yet he has excluded a good many of the Scotch
eighty-five.  Out of the first fifteen of the Scotch
book, fourteen are unknown to him. And I do not
think cutting and carving ever went to a length so
reprehensible, as in this volume. As to the fitness of
the hymns for use in church, opinions may possibly
differ: but I am obliged to say that I never saw any
collection of such pieces so filled with passages in execrable taste, and utterly unfit for Christian worship.
It may amuse my readers, to show them George
Herbert improved. Everybody knows the famous
poem, "The Elixir."  It consists of six verses. The
Scotch reading consists of four.  In the first verse,
three verbal alterations, intended as improvements,
are made on Herbert. "Teach me, my God and
king," becomes, " Teach us, our God and king." The
second verse in the Scotch reading, is unknown to
Herbert. It is the doing of some member of the
2ommittee. The gold has been punched out, and a
piece of pinchbeck has been put in. Herbert's third
verse is omitted. Then comes the well-known verse:
All may of Thee partake:
Nothing can be so mean,
Which, with this tincture, FOR Tar sAUE,
Will not grow bright and clean.




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  818
This is improved as follows:
All may of Thee partake;
Nothing so small can be,
But draws, when ACTED for Thy sake,
Greatness and worth from Thee.
You will doubtless think that Herbert pure is better than Herbert improved by the sign-painter. But
the next verse is smeared even worse. Who does
not remember the, saintly man's words:
A servant with this clause,
Makes drudgery divine:
Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws,
Makes that, and the action, fine.
But, as Sam Weller remarked of Mr. Pickwick
in a certain contingency, "his most formiliar friend
voodnt know him," as thus disguised:
If done beneath Thy laws,
Even humblest labors shine:
Hallowed is toil, if this the cause,
The meanest work, divine.
Herbert's temper, we know, was angelic: but I
wonder what he would have looked like, had he seen
himself thus docked, and painted crimson and blue.
No doubt, " The Elixir," as the master left it, is not
fitted for congregational singing. But that is a reason
for leaving it alone: it is no reason for thus unpardonably tampering with the coin of the realm.
There are various pieces in this unfortunate work,
whose appearance in it I can explain only on this




314 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
theory. Probably, some day when the committee
met, a member of committee produced a manuscript,
and said that here was a hymn of his own composition; and begged that it might be put in the book.
The other members read iti and saw it was rubbish:
but their kindly feeling prevented their saying so:
and in it went. One of the last things many people
learn, is not to take offence when a friend declines to
admire their literary doings. I have not the faintest
idea who are the members of the committee which
issued this compilation. Likely enough, there are in
it some acquaintances of my own. But that fact shall
not prevent my saying what I honestly believe: that
it is the very worst hymn-book I ever saw. I cannot
believe that the persons who produced it, could ever
have paid any attention to hymnal literature: they
have so thoroughly missed the tone of all good hymns.
Indeed, many of the hymns seem to be formed on the
model of what may be called the Scotch " Preaching
Prayer:" the most offensive form of devotion known;
and one entirely abandoned by all the more cultivated
of the Scotch clergy. I heard, indeed, lately, an individual pray at a meeting about the Lord's day. In
his prayer, he alluded to the Lancashire distress: and
informed the Almighty that the patience with which
the Lancashire people bore it was very much the
result of their being trained in Sunday-schools. But,
leaving this volume, which is really not worth farther
notice, let me mention, that in the first twelve lines of




CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.  815
" Jesu, lover of my soul," there are ten improvements
made on Wesley. "While the tempest still is high,"
has nigh substituted for high. " Till the storm of life
is past," is made "Till the storms of life are past."
"Oh receive my soul at last," has And substituted
for Oh: for no conceivable reason. And the familiar
line, "Hangs my helpless soul on Thee," has been
turned, by the wagon-painter, into " Clings my helpless soul to Thee."  I ask any intelligent reader, Is
not this too bad? All my readers know that I am a
clergyman of the Church of Scotland, for whose use
these hymns have been so debased and tampered with.
They never shall be sung in my church, you may rely
on it. And the fact, that this cutting and carving has
been done so near home, serves only to make me the
more strongly to protest against it.
If it were not far too large a subject to take up
now, I should say something in reprobation of the
fashion in which many people venture to cut and
carve upon words far more sacred than those of any
poet: I mean upon the words of Holy Scripture.
Many people improve a scriptural text or phrase when
they quote it: the improvement generally consisting
in giving it a slight twist in the direction of their own
peculiar theological views. I have heard of a man
who quoted as from  Scripture the following words:
" It is appointed unto all men once to die; and after
death Hell." It was pointed out to him that no such




316 CONCERNING CUTTING AND CARVING.
statement exists in Scripture: the words which follow
the mention of death being, "and after this the judgment." But the misquoter of Scripture declined to
accept the correction, declaring that he thought his
own reading was better. I have heard of a revival
preacher who gave out as his text the words "Ye
shall all likewise perish." Every one will know what
a wicked distortion he made of our Saviour's warning
in thus clipping it. And I have heard texts of Scripture pieced together in a way that made them convey
a meaning just as far from that of the inspired writers, as that conveyed by the well-known mosaic, "And
Judas departed, and went and hanged himself:" "Go
thou and do likewise."
Probably the reader is tired of the subject. I
thank him for his patience in following me so far:
and I shall keep him no longer from something more
interesting.




CONCLUSION.
---.....WAS sitting by my study fire this evening in a rocking-chair, in the restful interval between dinner and tea, and thinking
how I should conclude this volume. In
that meditative state, my attention was drawn to a
little girl who was sitting on the floor a little way off,
sewing, and at the same time talking to herself.
These were her words; - they were spoken slowly,
in a pensive tone, and with considerable pauses between the sentences.'" Once I thought a great deal of a shilling. Now,
I think nothing of it. I am accustomed to shillings.
I think nothing even of a pound. I have got one
myself, and I thing nothing of it."
You see, the freshness and edge of enjoyment were
gone, through habit. Shillings had become too many,
and so they were not now the great things they used
to be. And after all, it was no very great number of
shillings which had sufficed to produce this result.
Listening to the little girl's meditation, I thought of




818               CONCLUSION.
my volume. It is still a curious feeling to see one's
thoughts in print.  The page that bears what you
have yourself written, my friend, has always a peculiar expression, - an expression that is familiar and
yet strange. And there is still more of the singular
feeling it imparts, when you look at an entire volume
of your own. But more than one or two have preceded this, and the writer begins to feel towards a
volume as the little girl said she felt towards a shilling. Yet not quite as the little girl said she felt.
The freshness is somewhat gone, yet the publication
of a new book is a little epoch in a quiet life. I
suppose the Editor of a daily newspaper, seeing himself in print every day of his life, if he pleases, and
often finding it his duty to write upon subjects in
which he feels no great personal interest, must cease,
in a few years, to feel any special attraction to the
columns that have come irom his own pen. There is
less likelihood of that, in the case of a writer whose
productions see the light at much longer intervals.
And you may remember how Southey, who wrote
probably more in quantity than any English author
of the present century, with but two or three exceptions, tells us that he retained to the last the
keen interest of a quite fresh writer in his own artil
cles.  When a new Quarterly appeared, he was quite
impatient if it were a day too late in reaching him.
I have no doubt he cut all the leaves before reading
any, for Southey was a man of an orderly turn; but




CONCLUSION.               319
I am sure he read his own paper the first. And he
says he always found it very fresh and interesting
reading, and he conveys that he generally thought it
very good. As indeed it was. The shillings did not
lose their value, many as they might grow.
There have been cases in which the successive
shillings grew always more precious. You will think
of Sterne, who appreciated his own writings so highly,
and who used to write to his friends, as he was drawing each succeeding volume of "Tristram Shandy" to
a close, that this new volume was to be by far the
best. The present writer can say sincerely that each
succeeding volume of these Essays, which you may
have read, has been the result of more care and
thought. He does not write now in the vague hope
that perhaps somebody may read what he writes; he
has the certainty of finding very many kindly readers.
And he is not able to write now in the unconstrained
way in which he wrote the first of those chapters, in
days when not one of his rustic parishioners ever saw
a page which he put forth. He is conscious now of
the check which comes of the pervading sense, that a
great many of the flock intrusted to his care recognize in what he writes a familiar hand, and can
compare what is written on these pages with what it
is his duty to teach them elsewhere. He ventures to
believe that, in spirit, there is no inconsistency. And
he knows that in the judgment of those whose judgment he values most, there is none.




820.              CONCLUSION.
There is but little time, in the life of a hard-working parish clergyman, for writing anything beyond
that which it is imperative to write, And one may
sometimes think, with a wearied sigh, even in the
midst of duty which is very dear, of the learned quiet
and leisure of canonries and deaneries, such as our
poor Church has not, - sadly despoiled of that which
is by right her own. Yet the habit of the pen grows
into a second nature, and reserved folk never talk out
their heart so freely as when talking to all the world.
And if we live, friendly reader, I think we shall meet
again.
THE EZD.