shone upon the hill-tops; whilst the sun set in a glory of red. ‘I
wonder,’ said my friend, ‘if you remember Thoreau’s beautiful passage:
“We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass
and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never bathed
in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west
of every wood and rising ground gleamed like the boundary of Elysium,
and the sun on our backs seemed like a herdsman driving us home at
evening.
‘“So we saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall
shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine
into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great
awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in
autumn.”’
XIII
A PILGRIMAGE
‘SO we saunter towards the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine
more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our
minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening
light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bankside in autumn.’ These
were the last words I heard from my friend’s lips. He had a serious
relapse, shortly after our visit to the country, and died within a few
days. And now I am divided between a deep sense of personal loss and my
duty to his memory. He would, I know, have had me look upon his journey
to the ‘Other Side’ in the light of a pilgrimage, gone upon bravely,
cheerfully, in perfect confidence.
By my side is a letter in which he speaks of this attitude in the
course of a reference to our day in the country. ‘I have been reading,’
he says, ‘a volume of Mr. A. C. Benson’s essays, procured from a
circulating library, and am filled with gratitude for their soothing
influence. The following passage from his essay on “Beauty” will recall
the conversation we had at our last meeting--our day in the country:
“Nature has a magic for many of us--that is to say, a secret power that
strikes across our lives at intervals, with a message from an unknown
region. And this message is aroused by symbols; a tree, a flash of
light on lonely clouds, a flower, a stream--simple things that we have
seen a thousand times--have sometimes the power to cast a spell over
our spirit, and to bring something that is great and incommunicable
near us. This must be called magic, for it is not a thing which can be
explained by ordinary laws, or defined in precise terms; but the spell
is there, real, insistent, undeniable; it seems to make a bridge for
the spirit to pass into a far-off, dimly apprehended region; it gives
us a sense of great issues and remote visions; it leaves us with a
longing which has no mortal fulfilment.”’
‘I mention this,’ the letter continues, ‘because it seems to me to lead
to certain deep issues of life about which I have seldom spoken. I have
always felt a certain diffidence in touching upon matters relating
to the soul and the life hereafter. Yet, I have not let others do
_all_ the thinking. I have had my own thoughts, my own visions.
But, after all, refined speculations are of little use if there be
not some tangible belief at the back of them. I like the passage just
quoted, and I like the author’s reference, in another part of the
volume, to the guarded city of life. But I think the following passage
makes the strongest appeal, for _all_ may participate in the deep
yet simple feelings expressed: “What are the thoughts of the mighty
unresting heart, to whose vastness and agelessness the whole mass of
these flying and glowing suns are but as a handful of dust that a boy
flings upon the air? How has He set me here, a tiny moving atom, yet
more sure of my own identity than I am of all the vast panorama of
things which lie outside of me? Has He, indeed, a tender and patient
thought of me, the frail creature whom He has moulded and made? I do
not doubt it; I look upon the star-sown spaces, and the old aspiration
rises in my heart, ‘Oh, that I knew where I might find Him! that
I might come into His presence!’ How would I go, like a tired and
sorrowful child to his father’s knee, to be comforted and encouraged,
in perfect trust and love, to be raised in His arms, to be held to His
heart! He would but look in my face, and I should understand without a
question, without a word.”’
When I think of this passage and others which were included in letters
written by my friend during his illness, I see clearly that he must
have realized that he stood on the brink of the unknown. But no fears
were expressed. Indeed, I gathered nothing from his letters regarding
his physical condition. He made no mention of sickness or pain,
dropped no hint of weariness. On the contrary, the letters of which I
speak struck a deeper and truer note of cheerfulness and courage than
any previous communications from his hand. I like to think that he
continued, as of old, to speak of his rose-coloured spectacles, his
point of view. ‘The secret of a happy life,’ he remarks, in the letter
from which I have just quoted, ‘consists in immediately clearing away
the specks of dust which are so apt to fall upon one’s rose-coloured
spectacles, the little annoyances, the petty worries, the hundred and
one little dark specks which I leave you to name at your leisure.’
Then follows a deeper note, taken, I think, from Epictetus: ‘Happiness
is not in strength, or wealth or power, or all three. It lies in
ourselves, in true freedom, in the conquest of every ignoble fear, in
perfect self-government, in a power of contentment and peace, the even
flow of life, even in poverty, exile, disease, and the very valley of
the shadow of death.’
‘So you see,’ my friend continues, ‘there are also dark fogs and thick
mists against which the would-be cheerful man must contend--deep trials
compared to which our daily petty annoyances are, indeed, but specks of
dust. But these, too, may be overcome. The truth is “the cheerful life
is neither a matter of circumstance nor of temperament. It is a gift
of God, and we can covet no better gift. The black hag of care can no
longer sit on the shoulder of the man whose cheerfulness is the child
of reason, not of impulse; whose heart is light because he can trust,
not because the sky is blue and the world smiling.”’
I wish I could give you some account, from personal knowledge, of the
way my friend spent his last days. This I cannot do, for many miles
stood between us. But I am told by those who nursed him that up till
the end his mind retained its clearness and vigour; that he never
ceased to take an interest in his surroundings, in the great world
outside his little room, in the many ill-favoured ones whom he had
befriended.
Close by my side stands a shelf upon which are stored a number of
volumes from his library. They are typical of his treasured collection,
some of the best of the world’s best books, each volume showing
signs of much reading and meditation, each page bearing marginal
notes--original observations and thoughts from other sources, showing
how one great writer differed from others, or, in the main, was of like
opinion with his contemporaries. Many of the observations seem to me to
be remarkably fresh and interesting--quite simple, it is true, but of
the type of simplicity that captivates.
I shall hope to set down some of these, together with the passages
to which they refer. Here is one example, which will serve to convey
an idea of my friend’s manner of commenting upon an author’s words.
The passage in point reads thus: ‘When thou hast been compelled by
circumstances to be disturbed in a manner, quickly return to thyself,
and do not remain out of tune longer than the compulsion lasts; for
thou wilt have more mastery over the harmony by continually recurring
to it.’ By the side of this, written in lead pencil, are the following
words: ‘Might not human life be compared to an orchestra, composed of
all kinds of instruments? I mean that each of our natures is, so to
say, an instrument, some more pleasing and, seemingly, more useful than
others; but of equal value when played in accord with the combined
orchestra. And if we, at any time, drop out of him, is it not because
we have failed to give our attention to the Great Conductor of all?’
They tell me that towards the end he referred repeatedly to the help
he had derived from keeping his spiritual vision clear, his faith
unclouded. So far as I can gather, his closing words were these: ‘Faith
kept in lively exercise can make roses spring out of the midst of
thorns, and change the briers of the wilderness into the fruit-trees of
Paradise.’
XIV
FAREWELL
I HAVE attained my desire: I have introduced you to a true book-lover.
And if you wonder why I have chosen a life shadowed by sorrow, I answer
that love comes that way. ’Tis no new teaching, that which shows how
sorrow and tribulation are the paths by which men travel to perfection.
We start upon life’s journey with a glad cry; but many fall from the
ranks some distance from the ‘first milestone,’ and fortunate are the
fallen ones who find an open book by the wayside.
It was thus the love of books came to my friend of the rose-coloured
spectacles. Shadows fell across his path, and he fell from the ranks;
but out of the shadows came sweet voices, telling of gentle fancies
and strength-giving realities. This was the road (need I hesitate in
confessing it?) upon which I, too, came by the love of books.
Oh! how much we book-lovers owe to ‘those little sheets of paper that
teach us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers.... We ought
to (and surely do) reverence books, to look upon them as good and
mighty things. Whether they are about religion or politics, farming,
trade, or medicine, they are messages of the Teacher of all truth.’
More cannot be said. And so farewell, fellow book-lover. May you find
upon the way many wise and friendly books.
But wait! I hear as though voiced in clear tones the beautiful passage
to be found in the little _book-friend_ whose name is on so
many lips. Let me follow the pleasing example of my friend of the
rose-coloured spectacles. Let me echo the brief passage before I take
leave of you: ‘It is scarcely farewell, for my road is ubiquitous,
eternal; there are green ways in Paradise and golden streets in the
beautiful City of God. Nevertheless my heart is heavy; for, viewed by
the light of the waning year, roadmending seems a great and wonderful
work which I have poorly conceived of and meanly performed: yet I have
learnt to understand dimly the truths of the three paradoxes--the
blessing of a curse, the voice of silence, the companionship of
solitude--and so take my leave of this stretch of the road, and of you
who have fared along the white highway through the medium of a printed
page.’
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
F’cap 8vo, cloth, extra gilt, =1s. 6d.= net cash (postage 3d).
THE CHEERFUL LIFE:
A Series of Papers in Praise of Cheerfulness. Edited by E. W. WALTERS.
‘Some of the papers are of the highest order, many have an exquisite
literary flavour, all of them make excellent reading.’
--_London Quarterly Review_.
‘Here is the very book for hours of gloom and hours of gladness. None
of the papers are superficial, and two or three of them are of the
highest order of literary art.’--_Great Thoughts_.
‘The best comment upon these pages is that they leave one cheerful.
The book has at times a literary and always a human flavour, which
redeems it from either dullness or mere sentiment.’--_Daily News_.
THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS:
An Anthology. Edited by E. W. WALTERS.
‘A fresh and valuable anthology ... the selection has been made
with taste and judgement, and the passages arranged with art and
skill.’--_London Quarterly Review_.
‘The selections are fresh, modern, and wisely chosen. It will prove
an invaluable quarry for preachers and speakers of all kinds to dig
in.’--_Yorkshire Herald_.
‘If any one wishes to afford guidance to a friend, and at the same
time to supply that friend with graciously expressed as well as
helpful thoughts, this book may be wisely presented.’--_Mansfield
Chronicle_.
CHARLES H. KELLY,
25-35 City Road, and
26 Paternoster Row,
LONDON, E.C.
AND OF ALL BOOKSELLERS
PRINTED BY THE
SOUTHAMPTON TIMES CO., LTD.
70 ABOVE BAR, SOUTHAMPTON
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Obvious typographical errors have been silently changed.
Inconsistent hyphenation has been corrected.