Cornwall, who never went to sea in his life, but who nevertheless
carolled the most absurdly joyous lays regarding the ocean, which made
him ill even when he merely looked at it. No; the true sea-lover knows
that there are terror and mystery and horror as well as joyousness in
the varied moods of the treacherous, remorseless, magnificent ocean.
Those who read this may see the unspeakable beauty of the opaline and
ruby tints that flame on the water when the sunset sinks behind the
Isle of Thanet. The bay at Westgate will shine like mother-of-pearl,
and the glassy rollers at the horizon will be incarnardined. That is a
splendid sight! Then those who are in Devon may pass sleepy days in
gazing on a vivid piercing blue that is pure and brilliant as the blue
of the Bay of Naples. In the lochs to the West of Scotland the
swarming tourists watch that riot of colour that marks the times of
sunrise and sunset. All these spectacles of suave magnificence are
imposing; but, for my own part, I love the grey water on the East
Coast, and I like the low level dunes where the bent grass gleams and
the sea-wind comes whispering "Forget!" All the gay days of the
holiday-places, all the gorgeous sunsets, the imperial noondays, the
solemn, glittering midnights are imposing, but the wise traveller
learns to see the beauty of all the moods of the wild changing sea.
Observe the commonplace man's attitude on a grey cheerless day, when
the sky hangs low and the rollers are leaden. "A beast of a day!" he
remarks in his elegant fashion; and he goes and grumbles in the vile
parlour of his lodging-house, where the stuffy odour of aged chairs
and the acrid smell of clumsy cookery contend for mastery. Yet outside
on the moaning levels of the dim sea there are mysterious and ghostly
sights that might move the heart of the veriest stockbroker if he
would but force his mind to consider them. Look at that dark tremulous
stream that seems to flow over the sullen sea. It is but a cat's-paw
of wind, and yet it looks like a river flowing in silence from some
fairy region. The boats start out of the haze and glide away into
dimness after having shown their phantom shadows for a few seconds;
the cry of the gull rings weirdly; the simulated agony of the staunch
bird's scream makes one somehow think of tortured souls; you think of
dim strange years, you feel the dim strange weather, you remember the
still strange land unvexed of sun or stars, "where Lancelot rides
clanking through the haze." Ah, who dares talk of a commonplace or
disagreeable sea? I used the phrase once, but I well know that the
"commonplace" day offers sights of sober grandeur to the eyes of the
wise man. Happy those who have royal, serene days, lovely sunsets,
quiet gloamings full of stars; happy also those who see but the
enormous hurly-burly of mixed grey waves, and hear the harsh song of
the wild wind that blows from the fields at night!
Autumn is a great time for the wild Sea Rovers who gather at Cowes and
Southampton. The Rover may always be recognised on shore--and,
by-the-way, he stays ashore a good deal--for his nautical clothing is
spick and span new, the rake of his glossy cap is unspeakably jaunty,
and the dignity of his gesture when he scans the offing with a trusty
telescope is without parallel in history. When the Rover walks, you
observe a slight roll which no doubt is acquired during long
experience of tempestuous weather. The tailors and bootmakers gaze on
the gallant Rover with joy and admiration, for does he not carry the
triumphs of their art on his person? He roughs it, does this bold
sea-dog--none of your fine living for him! His saucy barque lies at
her moorings amid the wild breakers of Cowes or "the Water," and he
sleeps rocked in the cradle of the deep, when he is not tempted to
sojourn in his frugal hotel. The hard life on the briny ocean suits
him, and he leaves all luxuries to the swabs who stay on shore. If the
water is not in a violent humour, the Rover enjoys his humble
breakfast about nine. He tries kidneys, bloaters, brawn, and other
rude fare; he never uses a gold coffee-pot--humble silver suffices;
and even the urn is made of cheap metal. At eleven the hardy fellow
recruits his strength with a simple draught of champagne, for which he
never pays more than twelve pounds a dozen, and then four stalwart
seamen row him to the landing-place. He criticises the mighty ocean
from the balcony of the club until the middle of the afternoon, and
then he prepares for a desperate deed of daring. The Rover goes to the
landing-place and scans the gulf that yawns between him and his
vessel. Two hundred yards at least must be covered before the Rover
can bound on to the deck of his taut craft. Two hundred yards! And
there is a current that might almost sweep a tea-chest out to sea! But
the Rover's steady eye takes in the whole view, and his very nautical
mind enables him to lay plans with wisdom. He looks sternly at his gig
with the four stout oarsmen; his simple carpets are all right; his
cushions, his pillows, his cigar-box, his silken rudder-lines are all
as they should be. The Rover takes his determination, and a dark look
settles on his manly countenance. For one brief instant he thinks of
all he leaves behind him; his dear home rises before his eyes, the
voices of his loved ones thrill in his ear, and his bronzed hand is
raised to dash away the tear that starts unbidden. But there must be
no weakness. Rovers have their feelings, but they must subdue them
when two hundred yards have to be traversed over waves that are nearly
two inches high. The Rover steps into his boat, resolved to do or die.
Now or never! He puts one cushion behind his athletic back, he lights
a Regalia--so cool are genuine heroes in peril--and shoots away over
the yeasty billows. For forty seconds the fierce struggle lasts; the
bow of the boat is wetted to a height of four inches; but
dauntlessness and skill conquer all difficulties, and in forty seconds
and a half the unscathed Rover stands on his quarter-deck.
Sometimes when the captain is in a good humour, the Rover goes for a
sail, and he takes as many as three ladies with him. This statement
may be doubted, but only by those who do not know what British courage
is really like. Yes, the Rover sometimes sails as much as ten miles in
the course of one trip, and he may be as much as three hours away from
his moorings. Moreover, I have known a good-natured skipper who
allowed the roving proprietor of a yacht to take as many as six trips
in the course of a single season. Observe the cheapness of this
amusement, and reflect thankfully on the simplicity of taste which now
distinguishes the wealthy Rovers of the South Coast. The yacht costs
about two thousand pounds to begin with, and one thousand pounds per
year is paid to keep her up. Thus it seems that a Rover may have six
sails at the rate of one hundred and sixty-six pounds thirteen
shillings and fourpence per sail! So long as the breed of Cowes Rovers
exists we need have no fears concerning our naval supremacy. Indeed
competent nautical men think that, if any band of enemies, no matter
how ferocious they might be, happened to see a thorough-bred Cowes
Rover equipped for his perilous afternoon voyage of two hundred yards,
they would instantly lose heart and flee in terror. Such is the
majesty of a true seaman. I hope that all my readers may respect the
Rover when they see him. Remember that his dinner rarely numbers more
than six courses, and he cannot always ice his champagne owing to the
commotion of the elements. If such privations do not win pity from
judicious readers, then, alas, I have written in vain! Those who read
this will often be surrounded by strolling Rovers. Treat the reckless
daring salts with respect, for they live hard and risk much.
XXIII.
SORROW.
I have never been disposed to be niggard of cheerfulness; for it has
always seemed to me that one of the duties of a writer is to supply
solace in a world where, amid all the beauty, so many things seem to
go wrong. But, while I would fain banish cankered melancholy, sour
ill-humour, cynicism, and petty complaining, I have never sought to
disturb those who are mastered for a time by the sacred sorrow which
takes possession of the greatest and purest and gentlest souls at
times. There have been great men who were joyous--and they bore their
part very bravely on earth; but the greatest of all have gained their
strength in Sorrow's service. It matters not which of the kings
amongst men we choose, we find that his kingship was only gained and
kept after he had passed through the school of grief. It is a glad
world for most of us--else indeed we might wish that one cataclysm
would overwhelm us all; but our masters, those who teach us and guide
us, have all been under the dominion of a nameless something which we
can hardly call Melancholy, but which is a kind of divine sad sister
to Melancholy. There is no discontent in the sorrow of the great ones;
they are not querulous, and none of them ever sought to avenge their
subdued grief on the persons of their fellow-creatures. The kings bear
their burden with dignity; they love to see their human kindred light
of heart; but they cannot be light-hearted in turn; for the burden and
mystery of the world are ever with them, and their energy is all
needed to help them in conquering pettiness of soul, so that by no
weak example may they dishearten those who are weak. I am almost
convinced that the man who composed the inscription on the emerald
which is said to have reached Tiberius must have seen the Founder of
our religion--or, at least, must have known some one who had seen Him.
"None hath seen Him smile; but many have seen Him weep." It is so like
what we should have expected! The days of the joyous pagan gods were
passing away, the shadows of tedium and of life-weariness were
drooping over a world that was once filled with thoughtless
merriment--and then came One who preached the Gospel of Sorrow. He
preached that gospel, and a faithless world at first refused to hear
Him; but the Divine depth of sorrow drew the highest of souls; and
soon the world left the religion of pride and vainglory and pleasure
to embrace the religion of Pity.
The sorrow of the weary King Ecclesiast has never seemed to me
altogether noble; it is piercing in its insight--and I understand how
youths who are coming to manhood find in the awful chapters a savage
contrast to the joys of existence. Young men who have reached the
strange time of discontent through which all of us pass are always
profoundly affected by the Preacher; and they are too apt to pervert
the most poignant of his words; but men who have really thought and
suffered can never help feeling that there is a species of ingratitude
in all his splendid lamentations. Why should the mighty king have
bidden the youth to rejoice after so many awful words had been penned
to show the end of all rejoicing? Every pleasure on earth the king had
enjoyed, and he had drained life's chalice so far down that he tasted
the bitterness of the lees. But had he not savoured joy to the full?
Was there one gift showered by the lavish bounty of God which had not
fallen on the chosen of fortune? We revere the intellect of the man
who chastens our souls with his sombre discourse; but I could wish he
had veiled his despair, and had told us of the ravishing delights
which he had known. No; the Preacher is great, but his sorrow is not
the highest. I give my chief reverence to the men who let their sorrow
pass into central fire that blazes into deeds; I revere the men and
women who bear their yoke and utter never a word of complaint; on them
sorrow falls like a pure soft snow that leaves no stain.
Of late, the nations of the world have been thrilled by the deeds of
one humble man who embraced Sorrow and let her claim him for the best
part of his life. I cannot bear to think much of the tragedy of
Damien's life--and I shall not dream of endeavouring to find excuses,
or of declaring that life an essentially happy one. The good Father
chose Grief and clave to her as a bride; he chose the sights and
sounds of grief as his surroundings and he wrought on silently under
his fearful burden of holy sorrow until the release was given. He
spoke no boastful words of contentment save when he thought of the
rest that was coming for him; he gallantly accepted the crudest and
foulest conditions of his dreadful environment, and he uttered no
craving for sympathy, no wish for personal aid. If we think of that
immortal priest's choice, we understand, perhaps for the first time,
what the religion of Sorrow truly means. On the lonely rock the meek,
strong soul spent its forces; joy, friendly faces, laughter of sweet
children, healthy and kindly companions--there were none of these. The
sea moaned round with many voices, and the sky bent over the lonely
disciple; the melancholy of the sea, the melancholy of the changeless
sky, the monotony of silence, must all have weighed on his heart. In
the daytime there were only sights whereat strong men might swoon
away--pain, pain, pain all round, and every complication of horror;
but the Child of Sorrow bore all. Then came the sentence of death. For
ten weary years the hero had to wait in loneliness while the Destroyer
slowly enfolded him in its arms. We pity the monster who dies a swift
death after his life of wickedness has been forfeited; we are vexed if
a criminal endures one minute of suffering; but the noble one on that
sad isle watched his doom coming for ten years, and never flinched
from his task during that harrowing time. It makes the heart grow
chill, despite the pride we feel in our lost brother. The religion of
Sorrow has indeed conquered; and Father Damien has set the seal to its
triumph.
But around us there are others who have composedly accepted sorrow as
their portion. We have, it may be, felt so much joy in living, we have
been so pierced through and through in every nerve and every faculty
of the mind with pure rapture during our pilgrimage, that we would
fain let all dwellers on earth share the blessedness that we have
known. It is not to be; the gospel of pity must needs claim some of
its disciples wholly--and sorrow is their portion. Perhaps under all
their sadness there lurks a joy that passes all known to slighter
souls--I hope so; I hope that they cannot be permitted to endure what
Dante endured. In the purlieus of our cities these resigned, resolute
spirits expend their forces, and their unostentatious figures, passing
from home to home where poor men lie, offer a lesson to the petty
souls of some whose riches and worldly powers are by no means petty.
Ah, it is lovely to see those merciful sisters of the fallen or
falling--good to see the men who help them! Need we pity them? They
would say "No"; but we must, for they live hard. A delicate lady
quietly sets to work in a filthy tenement; her white hands raise up
and cleanse the foulest of the poor little infants who swarm in the
slums; she calmly performs menial offices for the basest and most
ungrateful of the poor--and no one who has not lived among those
degraded folk can tell what ingratitude is really like. Day after day
that lady toils; and the only word of thanks she receives is perhaps a
whine from some woman who wishes to cajole her into bestowing some
gift. These sisters of Sorrow do not need thanks any more than they
need pity; they frankly recognise the baseness of ill-reared human
nature, and they go on trustfully in the hope that maybe things may
grow slowly better. They meet death calmly; they hide their own
sorrow, and even their pity is disciplined into usefulness. The men of
the good company are the same. They have resigned all the lighter joys
of earth, they are calm, and they let the unutterable sadness of the
world spur them on only to quiet efforts after righteousness. Think
what it must be for a man to leave the warm encompassment of the
cheerful day and pass composedly to a gloom which is relieved only by
the inner light that shines from the soul! Were not the hearts of the
heroes pure, they must grow cynical as they looked on the evil mass of
roguery, idleness, foulness, and cunning that seethes around them. But
they have passed the portal beyond which peace is found; and the
sorrow wherewith they gaze on their hapless fellow-men is tinctured
neither by scorn nor weariness. If there is no reward for them, then
we all of us have cause for bitter disappointment. But the forlorn
hope of goodness never trouble themselves about rewards; they face the
shadows of doom only as they face the squalor of their daily
martyrdom. A certain philosopher said that he could not endure so
sombre an existence because his nerves and sinews were frail and the
pain would have mastered him; but he gladly owned that the enthusiasts
had conquered his admiration and taken it for their permanent
possession. The cool keen eye of the scoffer divined the strength of
sorrow, and he admired the men whom he durst not imitate.
There are others who pass through life enwrapped by the veil of a
noble sorrow; and, when I see them, I am minded to wonder whether any
one was ever the worse for encountering the touch of the chilly
Mistress whom most children of earth dread. When I think the matter
over I become convinced that no one who has once felt a noble and
gentle sorrow can ever become wholly bad; and I fancy that even the
bad, when once a real sorrow has pierced them, have a chance of
becoming good. So in strange ways the things that seem hard to bear
steadily tend to make the world better. When the bell tolls and the
brown earth gapes and the form of the loved one is passed from sight
for ever, it is bitter--ah, how bitter! But the chastening touch of
Time takes away the bitterness, and there is left only an intense
gentleness which seeks to soothe those who suffer; and the mother
whose babe seemed to take her very heart away when it went into the
Darkness can pity the other bereaved ones; so that her soul is exalted
through its grief. The poet is thought by some to have uttered a mere
aimless whim in words when he said--
"To Sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And thought to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly--
She is so constant to me and so kind.
I would deceive her,
And so leave her;
But, ah, she is so constant and so kind!"
It sounds like a whim; but it is more than that to those who have been
in the depths of grief; for they know that out of their affliction
grew either a solemn scorn of worldly ills or a keen wish to be
helpful to others.
I have no desire to utter a paradox when I say that all the world
holds of best has sprung from sorrow. Shakspere smiles and is still. I
love the smiles of his wiser years; but they would never have been so
calmly content, so cheering with all their inscrutable depth, had not
the man been weighed down with some dark sorrow before his soul was
rescued and purified. I do not care for him when he is grinning and
merry. He could play the buffoon when he willed--and a very unpleasant
buffoon he was in his day; but Sorrow claimed him, and he came forth
purified to speak to us by Prospero's lips. He had his struggle to
compass resignation, he even seems to have felt himself degraded, and
there is almost a weak complaint in that terrible sonnet, "No longer
mourn for me when I am dead;" but his heart-strings held; he kept his
dignity at the last, and he gave us the splendours of "The Tempest." I
have no manner of superstition about the great poet--indeed I feel
sure that at one time of his life he was what we call a bad man, his
self-reproaches hinting all too plainly at forms of wickedness, moral
wickedness, which pass far beyond the ordinary vice which society
condemns--but I am sure that he became as good as he was serene; and I
like to trace the phases of his sorrow up to the time of his triumph.
Of late it has been the fashion to talk about Byron's theatrical
sorrow. One much-advertised critic went so far as to speak of "Byron's
vulgar selfishness." It might have been supposed that incontestable
evidence had come before him; but a careful perusal of the documents
will prove that, though Byron was as selfish as most other men during
his mad misguided youth, yet, after sorrow had blanched his noble
head, he cast off all that was vile in him and emerged from the
fire-discipline as the most helpful and utterly unselfish of men. His
last calm gentle letter to the woman who drove him out of England is
simply perfect in its dignified humility; and the poorest creature
that ever snarled may see from that letter that grief had turned the
wayward fierce poet into a gentle and forbearing man who had suffered
so much that he could not find it in his heart to inflict suffering on
his worst enemy. I call the Byron of the Abbey a bad man; the Byron
whose home became the home of pure charity--charity done in
secret--was a good man.
Sorrow may appear repulsive and men bid her "Avaunt!" Yet out of
sorrow all that is noblest and highest in poesy and art has arisen;
and all that is noblest in life has been achieved by the
sorrow-stricken. Joy has given us much; and those who have once known
what real earthly joy means should be content to pass unrepining to
the Shades; but Sorrow's gifts are priceless, and no man can appraise
their worth. Even poor Carlyle's sorrow, which was oftentimes aught
but noble, if all tales be true, was sufficient to endow us with the
most splendid of modern books. It is strange to see how that crabbed
man with the passionately-loving heart keeps harping on the
beneficence of sorrow. Once he spoke of "Sorrow's fire-whips"; but
usually his strain is far, far different. He cleaves to the noble and
sorrowful figures that crowd his sombre galleries; and I do not know
that he ever gives more than a light and careless word of praise to
any but his melancholy heroes. Cromwell, Abbot Sampson, the bold
Ziethen, Danton, Mirabeau, Mahomet, Burns, "the great, melancholy
Johnson," and even Napoleon and Luther--all are sorrowful, all are
beautiful. Peace to them, and peace to the strong soul that made them
all live again for the world!
XXIV.
DEATH.
The air of mystery which most of us assume when we speak about the
great change that marks the bound of our mortal progress has
engendered a kind of paralysing terror which makes ordinary people
shudder at the notion of bodily extinction. We are glad enough to
enjoy the beautiful things of life, we welcome the rapture of love,
the delight of the sun, the promise of spring, the glory of strength;
and yet forsooth we must needs tremble at the grand beneficent close
which rounds off our earthly strivings and completes one stage in our
everlasting progress. Why should we not speak as frankly of Death as
we do of love and life? If men would only be content to let their
minds play freely around all the facts that concern our entrance, our
progress, our exit, then existence would be relieved from the presence
of terror. The Greeks were more rational than we are; they took the
joys of life with serenity and gladness, and they accepted the mighty
transformation with the same serenity. On their memorial-stones there
is no note of mourning. A young man calmly bids adieu to his friends
and prepares to pass with dignity from their presence; a gallant
horseman exults in the knowledge that he once rejoiced in life--"Great
joy had I on earth, and now I that came from the earth return to the
earth." Such are the carvings and inscriptions that show the wise,
brave spirit of the ancients. But we, with our civilisation, behave
somewhat like those Indian tribes who keep one mysterious word in
their minds, and try to avoid mentioning it throughout their lives.
Even in familiar conversation it is amusing to hear the desperate
attempts made to paraphrase the word which should come naturally to
the lips of all steadfast mortals. "If anything should happen to me,"
says the timid citizen, when he means, "If I should die"; and it would
be possible to collect a score more of roundabout phrases with which
men try to cheat themselves. It is right that we should be in love
with life, for that is the supreme gift; but it is wrong to think with
abhorrence of the close of life, for the same Being who gave us the
thrilling rapture of consciousness bestows the boon of rest upon the
temple of the soul. "He giveth His beloved sleep," and therein He
proves His mighty tenderness.
Strange it is to see how inevitably men and women are drawn to think
and speak of the great Terror when they are forced to muse in
solitude. We flirt with melancholy; we try all kinds of dismal
coquetries to avoid dwelling on our inexorable and beneficent doom;
yet, if we look over the written thoughts of men, we find that more
has been said about Death than even about love. The stone-cold
comforter attracts the poets, and most of them, like Keats, are half
in love with easeful death. The word that causes a shudder when it is
spoken in a drawing-room gives a sombre and satisfying pleasure when
we dwell upon it in our hours of solitude. Sometimes the poets are
palpably guilty of hypocrisy, for they pretend to crave for the
passage into the shades. That is unreal and unhealthy; the wise man
neither longs for death nor dreads it, and the fool who begs for
extinction before the Omnipotent has willed that it should come is a
mere silly blasphemer. But, though the men who put the thoughts of
humanity into musical words are sometimes insincere, they are more
often grave and consoling. I know of two supreme expressions of dread,
and one of these was written by the wisest and calmest man that ever
dwelt beneath the sun. Marvellous it is to think that our most sane
and contented poet should have condensed all the terror of our race
into one long and awful sentence. Perhaps Shakspere was stricken with
momentary pity for the cowardice of his fellows, and, out of pure
compassion, gave their agony a voice. That may be; at any rate, the
fragment of "Measure for Measure" in which the cry of loathing and
fear is uttered stands as the most striking and unforgettable saying
that ever was conceived in the brain of man. Everybody knows the
lines, yet we may once more touch our souls with solemnity by quoting
them: