The next day I had to return to London on business, taking leave of
the strange household with some regret. Arthur insisted on driving me
to the station. He talked very brightly of his experiment, and argued
at some length as to how far association could be depended upon as an
element in education; and how to distinguish those natures early that
were loyal to association and those to whom it would be of no
authority.
"I have always divided," he said, "the great influences by which
ordinary people are determined to action into two classes; and I have
connected them with the two staves that the prophet cut, and named
'Beauty and Bands.'
"Some people are worked upon by Beauty—direct influences of good;
they choose a thing because it is fair; they refrain from action
because it is unlovely; they take nothing for granted, but have an
innate fastidious standard which the ugly and painful offend.
"Others are more amenable to Bands—home traditions, domestic
affections: they do not act and refrain from action on a thing's own
merits because it is good or bad; but because some one that they have
loved would have so acted or so refrained from acting—'My mother
would not have done so;' 'Henry would have disliked it.' The idea is
fancifully put, but it holds good, I think."
Shortly after my return to London, I got two letters from him of
considerable importance. I give them both. The first is apropos of
the education of Edward Bruce.
"Tredennis, August 30.
"My Dear Friend,
"I want you to get me the inclosed list of books, which I find are
culpably absent from my library. It is a very engrossing prospect,
this child's mind: it is a blank parchment, ready for any writing,
and apparently anxious for it too.
"'Insight into all seemly and generous acts and affairs,' wrote
Milton, as the end of his self-education—something like that I
intend, if I am allowed, to give this child. I have the greatest
contempt for knowledge and erudition _qua_ knowledge and erudition.
A man who has laboriously edited the Fathers seems to me only to
deserve the respect due to a man who has carried through an arduous
task, and one that must have been, to anyone of human feelings and
real enthusiasm for ideas, uncongenial at first. Erudition touches
the human race very little, but on the 'omne ignotum' principle, men
are always ready to admire it, and often to pay it highly, and so
there is a constant hum of these busy idlers all about the human
hive. The man who works a single practical idea into ordinary
people's minds, who adds his voice to the cry, 'It is better to give
up than to take: it is nobler to suffer silently than to win praise:
better to love than to organize,' whether it be by novel, poem,
sermon, or article, has done more, far more, to leaven humanity. I
long to open people's eyes to that; I learnt it late myself. Before
God, if I can I will make this boy enlightened, should I live to do
it; or at least not at the mercy of every vagrant prophet and bawler
of conventional ideas.
"Ever your friend,
"Arthur Hamilton"
The next explains itself.
"Tredennis, September 15.
"My Dear Friend,
"As you write to inquire so affectionately about my health, I
think it would be very wrong of me not to answer you fully; so I will
take 'health' to mean well-being, and not confine myself to its
paltry physiological usage.
"In the last month I have really turned a corner, and gained serenity
and patience in my outlook. I do not mean that I am either patient or
serene yet, but I have long and considerable spaces of both, when I
feel content to let God make or mar me as He will, and realise that
perhaps in His mind those two words may bear a precisely contrary
sense.
"One thing I wish to tell you, which I am afraid you will be rather
shocked to hear. I have not told you before, from a culpable
reticence; for I believe that there must be either complete
confidence between friends or none at all—
"Do you remember a very gloomy and depressed letter that I wrote to
you the other day? When I wrote it I was deliberately contemplating
an action which I have now given up: I mean a voluntary exit from
this world's disappointments—suicide, in fact.
"For many years I have carried about a quietus with me. I began the
habit at Cambridge. Men have often asked me what is the curious
little flask with a secret fastening, that stands on my
dressing-table. It is prussic acid. The morning before I wrote that
letter, the impulse was so strong upon me that I determined, if
matters should not shift a little, to take it on the following
evening. I made, in fact, most methodical arrangements. I seemed so
completely to have missed my mark. The superstitions against the
practice I did not regard, as they are merely the produce of a more
imaginative and anxious system of morality. I did not see why God,
for His own purposes—and, what is more, I believe He does—should
not remove a man by suicide, if He allows him to die by a horrible
disease or relegates him to insanity. Suicide is only a symptom of a
certain pitch of mental distress: its incidental result is death, but
so it is of many practices not immoral.
"It required considerable nerve, I confess, to make the resolution;
but once made, I did not flinch. I considered the impulse to be a
true leading, quite as true as the other intuitions which I have
before now successfully followed, so I made my arrangements all day.
It gave me a wonderful sense of calm and certainty—there was a
feeling of repose about the completion of a restless existence, as
if I was at last about to slide into quiet waters, and be taught
directly, and not by obscure and painful monitions.
"At nine o'clock I went to my room. There was a full moon, which
shone in at the open window; the garden was wonderfully still and
fragrant.
"I found myself wondering whether, when the thing was over, I should
awake to consciousness at once; whether the freed soul would have, so
to speak, a local origin, a _terminus a quo_: in plain words, whether
my spirit would pass through the house and through the quiet garden
to some mysterious home, taking in the earthly impression as it
soared past with a single complete undimmed sense—or whether I
should step, as it were, straight into a surrounding sea of sensation
and be merged at once, feeling through all space and time and matter
by the spiritual fibres of which I should make a part. Do you
understand me? I have often wondered at that.
"At last I drew out the flask, and touched the spring. It opens by
pressing a penknife into one of a number of rivets; you can then
unscrew it.
"When it was open I discovered that the little vial inside had been
broken, and that somehow or other the life-giving fluid had
evaporated unperceived. I had not opened it for a year or more.
"I saw at once that God intended it not to be at _my_ time—that
was very clear; and after considerable reflection and a wakeful
night, I came to the conclusion that my divine Impulse did not lead
me to adopt a course of action, but only to _avoid_ a course—the
fact which I developed in my letter to you. And then came the resolve,
tardy and weak at first, but gaining ground, warning me that perhaps
it was an inglorious flight; though I knew it was pardonable, I felt
as if God might meet me with 'Not wrong, but if you are really bent
on the highest, you must do better than this.' It might, I felt, be
losing a great opportunity—the opportunity of facing a hopeless
situation, a thing I had never done.
"And so I came to the conclusion to fight on, and my reward is coming
slowly; contentment seems to return, and Edward is an ever-increasing
joy; he fills my life and thoughts. Oh, if I can only make him good;
put him in the way of inward happiness! I break out into prayer and
aspirations for him in his presence when I think of the utterly
heedless way in which he regards the future, and the awful, the
momentous issues it contains. He, dear lad, thinks nothing of it,
except as a sign of my love for him. We have no misunderstandings,
and I seem somehow to love the world better, more passionately, since
he came to me.
"I send you a few flowers from our garden, and Edward sends his love,
if that is respectful enough.
"I am your affectionate friend,
"Arthur Hamilton."