“It's just a week,” I said, three days later, to Arthur, “since we heard
of Lady Muriel's engagement. I think I ought to call, at any rate, and
offer my congratulations. Won't you come with me?”
A pained expression passed over his face.
“When must you leave us?” he asked.
“By the first train on Monday.”
“Well--yes, I will come with you. It would seem strange and unfriendly
if I didn't. But this is only Friday. Give me till Sunday afternoon. I
shall be stronger then.”
Shading his eyes with one hand, as if half-ashamed of the tears that
were coursing down his cheeks, he held the other out to me. It trembled
as I clasped it.
I tried to frame some words of sympathy; but they seemed poor and cold,
and I left them unspoken. “Good night!” was all I said.
“Good night, dear friend!” he replied. There was a manly vigour in his
tone that convinced me he was wrestling with, and triumphing over,
the great sorrow that had so nearly wrecked his life--and that, on the
stepping-stone of his dead self, he would surely rise to higher things!
There was no chance, I was glad to think, as we set out on Sunday
afternoon, of meeting Eric at the Hall, as he had returned to town
the day after his engagement was announced. His presence might have
disturbed the calm--the almost unnatural calm--with which Arthur met
the woman who had won his heart, and murmured the few graceful words of
sympathy that the occasion demanded.
Lady Muriel was perfectly radiant with happiness: sadness could not live
in the light of such a smile: and even Arthur brightened under it, and,
when she remarked “You see I'm watering my flowers, though it is the
Sabbath-Day,” his voice had almost its old ring of cheerfulness as he
replied “Even on the Sabbath-Day works of mercy are allowed. But this
isn't the Sabbath-Day. The Sabbath-day has ceased to exist.”
“I know it's not Saturday,” Lady Muriel replied; “but isn't Sunday often
called 'the Christian Sabbath'?”
“It is so called, I think, in recognition of the spirit of the Jewish
institution, that one day in seven should be a day of rest. But I hold
that Christians are freed from the literal observance of the Fourth
Commandment.”
“Then where is our authority for Sunday observance?”
“We have, first, the fact that the seventh day was 'sanctified', when
God rested from the work of Creation. That is binding on us as Theists.
Secondly, we have the fact that 'the Lord's Day' is a Christian
institution. That is binding on us as Christians.”
“And your practical rules would be--?”
“First, as Theists, to keep it holy in some special way, and to make
it, so far as is reasonably possible, a day of rest. Secondly, as
Christians, to attend public worship.”
“And what of amusements?”
“I would say of them, as of all kinds of work, whatever is innocent on a
week-day, is innocent on Sunday, provided it does not interfere with the
duties of the day.”
“Then you would allow children to play on Sunday?”
“Certainly I should. Why make the day irksome to their restless
natures?”
“I have a letter somewhere,” said Lady Muriel, “from an old friend,
describing the way in which Sunday was kept in her younger days. I will
fetch it for you.”
“I had a similar description, viva voce, years ago,” Arthur said when
she had left us, “from a little girl. It was really touching to hear
the melancholy tone in which she said 'On Sunday I mustn't play with my
doll! On Sunday I mustn't run on the sands! On Sunday I mustn't dig
in the garden!' Poor child! She had indeed abundant cause for hating
Sunday!”
“Here is the letter,” said Lady Muriel, returning. “Let me read you a
piece of it.”
“When, as a child, I first opened my eyes on a Sunday-morning, a feeling
of dismal anticipation, which began at least on the Friday, culminated.
I knew what was before me, and my wish, if not my word, was 'Would
God it were evening!' It was no day of rest, but a day of texts,
of catechisms (Watts'), of tracts about converted swearers, godly
charwomen, and edifying deaths of sinners saved.
“Up with the lark, hymns and portions of Scripture had to be learned by
heart till 8 o'clock, when there were family-prayers, then breakfast,
which I was never able to enjoy, partly from the fast already undergone,
and partly from the outlook I dreaded.
“At 9 came Sunday-School; and it made me indignant to be put into
the class with the village-children, as well as alarmed lest, by some
mistake of mine, I should be put below them.
“The Church-Service was a veritable Wilderness of Zin. I wandered in
it, pitching the tabernacle of my thoughts on the lining of the square
family-pew, the fidgets of my small brothers, and the horror of knowing
that, on the Monday, I should have to write out, from memory, jottings
of the rambling disconnected extempore sermon, which might have had any
text but its own, and to stand or fall by the result.
“This was followed by a cold dinner at 1 (servants to have no work),
Sunday-School again from 2 to 4, and Evening-Service at 6. The intervals
were perhaps the greatest trial of all, from the efforts I had to make,
to be less than usually sinful, by reading books and sermons as barren
as the Dead Sea. There was but one rosy spot, in the distance, all that
day: and that was 'bed-time,' which never could come too early!”
“Such teaching was well meant, no doubt,” said Arthur; “but it must
have driven many of its victims into deserting the Church-Services
altogether.”
“I'm afraid I was a deserter this morning,” she gravely said. “I had
to write to Eric. Would you--would you mind my telling you something he
said about prayer? It had never struck me in that light before.”
“In what light?” said Arthur.
“Why, that all Nature goes by fixed, regular laws--Science has proved
that. So that asking God to do anything (except of course praying for
spiritual blessings) is to expect a miracle: and we've no right to do
that. I've not put it as well as he did: but that was the outcome of
it, and it has confused me. Please tell me what you can say in answer to
it.”
“I don't propose to discuss Captain Lindon's difficulties,” Arthur
gravely replied; “specially as he is not present. But, if it is your
difficulty,” (his voice unconsciously took a tenderer tone) “then I will
speak.”
“It is my difficulty,” she said anxiously.
“Then I will begin by asking 'Why did you except spiritual blessings?'
Is not your mind a part of Nature?”
“Yes, but Free-Will comes in there--I can choose this or that; and God
can influence my choice.”
“Then you are not a Fatalist?”
“Oh, no!” she earnestly exclaimed.
“Thank God!” Arthur said to himself, but in so low a whisper that only
I heard it. “You grant then that I can, by an act of free choice, move
this cup,” suiting the action to the word, “this way or that way?”
“Yes, I grant it.”
“Well, let us see how far the result is produced by fixed laws. The cup
moves because certain mechanical forces are impressed on it by my hand.
My hand moves because certain forces--electric, magnetic, or whatever
'nerve-force' may prove to be--are impressed on it by my brain. This
nerve-force, stored in the brain, would probably be traceable, if
Science were complete, to chemical forces supplied to the brain by
the blood, and ultimately derived from the food I eat and the air I
breathe.”
“But would not that be Fatalism? Where would Free-Will come in?”
“In choice of nerves,” replied Arthur. “The nerve-force in the brain may
flow just as naturally down one nerve as down another. We need something
more than a fixed Law of Nature to settle which nerve shall carry it.
That 'something' is Free-Will.”
Her eyes sparkled. “I see what you mean!” she exclaimed. “Human
Free-Will is an exception to the system of fixed Law. Eric said
something like that. And then I think he pointed out that God can only
influence Nature by influencing Human Wills. So that we might reasonably
pray 'give us this day our daily bread,' because many of the causes that
produce bread are under Man's control. But to pray for rain, or fine
weather, would be as unreasonable as--” she checked herself, as if
fearful of saying something irreverent.
In a hushed, low tone, that trembled with emotion, and with the
solemnity of one in the presence of death, Arthur slowly replied “Shalt
he that contendeth with the Almighty instruct him? Shall we 'the swarm
that in the noontide beam were born,' feeling in ourselves the power to
direct, this way or that, the forces of Nature--of Nature, of which we
form so trivial a part--shall we, in our boundless arrogance, in our
pitiful conceit, deny that power to the Ancient of Days? Saying, to
our Creator, 'Thus far and no further. Thou madest, but thou canst not
rule!'?”
Lady Muriel had covered her face in her hands, and did not look up. She
only murmured “Thanks, thanks!” again and again.
We rose to go. Arthur said, with evident effort, “One word more. If you
would know the power of Prayer--in anything and everything that Man can
need try it. Ask, and it shall be given you. I--have tried it. I know
that God answers prayer!”
Our walk home was a silent one, till we had nearly reached the
lodgings: then Arthur murmured--and it was almost an echo of my own
thoughts--“What knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy
husband?”
The subject was not touched on again. We sat on, talking, while hour
after hour, of this our last night together, glided away unnoticed. He
had much to tell me about India, and the new life he was going to, and
the work he hoped to do. And his great generous soul seemed so filled
with noble ambition as to have no space left for any vain regret or
selfish repining.
“Come, it is nearly morning! Arthur said at last, rising and leading the
way upstairs.
“The sun will be rising in a few minutes: and, though I have basely
defrauded you of your last chance of a night's rest here, I'm sure
you'll forgive me: for I really couldn't bring myself to say 'Good
night' sooner. And God knows whether you'll ever see me again, or hear
of me!”
“Hear of you I am certain I shall!” I warmly responded, and quoted the
concluding lines of that strange poem 'Waring':--
“Oh, never star
Was lost here, but it rose afar
Look East, where whole new thousands are!
In Vishnu-land what Avatar?”
“Aye, look Eastward!” Arthur eagerly replied, pausing at the stair-case
window, which commanded a fine view of the sea and the eastward horizon.
“The West is the fitting tomb for all the sorrow and the sighing, all
the errors and the follies of the Past: for all its withered Hopes and
all its buried Loves! From the East comes new strength, new ambition,
new Hope, new Life, new Love! Look Eastward! Aye, look Eastward!”
His last words were still ringing in my ears as I entered my room, and
undrew the window-curtains, just in time to see the sun burst in glory
from his ocean-prison, and clothe the world in the light of a new day.
“So may it be for him, and me, and all of us!” I mused. “All that is
evil, and dead, and hopeless, fading with the Night that is past! All
that is good, and living, and hopeful, rising with the dawn of Day!
“Fading, with the Night, the chilly mists, and the noxious vapours,
and the heavy shadows, and the wailing gusts, and the owl's melancholy
hootings: rising, with the Day, the darting shafts of light, and the
wholesome morning breeze, and the warmth of a dawning life, and the mad
music of the lark! Look Eastward!
“Fading, with the Night, the clouds of ignorance, and the deadly blight
of sin, and the silent tears of sorrow: and ever rising, higher, higher,
with the Day, the radiant dawn of knowledge, and the sweet breath of
purity, and the throb of a world's ecstasy! Look Eastward!
{Image...'Look eastward!'}
“Fading, with the Night, the memory of a dead love, and the withered
leaves of a blighted hope, and the sickly repinings and moody regrets
that numb the best energies of the soul: and rising, broadening, rolling
upward like a living flood, the manly resolve, and the dauntless will,
and the heavenward gaze of faith--the substance of things hoped for, the
evidence of things not seen!
“Look Eastward! Aye, look Eastward!”
PREFACE.
One little picture in this book, the Magic Locket, at p. 77, was drawn
by 'Miss Alice Havers.' I did not state this on the title-page, since
it seemed only due, to the artist of all these (to my mind) wonderful
pictures, that his name should stand there alone.
The descriptions, at pp. 386, 387, of Sunday as spent by children of
the last generation, are quoted verbatim from a speech made to me by a
child-friend and a letter written to me by a lady-friend.
The Chapters, headed 'Fairy Sylvie' and 'Bruno's Revenge,' are a
reprint, with a few alterations, of a little fairy-tale which I wrote in
the year 1867, at the request of the late Mrs. Gatty, for 'Aunt Judy's
Magazine,' which she was then editing.
It was in 1874, I believe, that the idea first occurred to me of making
it the nucleus of a longer story. As the years went on, I jotted down,
at odd moments, all sorts of odd ideas, and fragments of dialogue, that
occurred to me--who knows how?--with a transitory suddenness that left
me no choice but either to record them then and there, or to abandon
them to oblivion. Sometimes one could trace to their source these random
flashes of thought--as being suggested by the book one was reading,
or struck out from the 'flint' of one's own mind by the 'steel' of
a friend's chance remark but they had also a way of their own, of
occurring, a propos of nothing--specimens of that hopelessly illogical
phenomenon, 'an effect without a cause.' Such, for example, was the last
line of 'The Hunting of the Snark,' which came into my head (as I have
already related in 'The Theatre' for April, 1887) quite suddenly, during
a solitary walk: and such, again, have been passages which occurred in
dreams, and which I cannot trace to any antecedent cause whatever. There
are at least two instances of such dream-suggestions in this book--one,
my Lady's remark, 'it often runs in families, just as a love for pastry
does', at p. 88; the other, Eric Lindon's badinage about having been
in domestic service, at p. 332. And thus it came to pass that I found
myself at last in possession of a huge unwieldy mass of litterature--if
the reader will kindly excuse the spelling--which only needed stringing
together, upon the thread of a consecutive story, to constitute the book
I hoped to write. Only! The task, at first, seemed absolutely hopeless,
and gave me a far clearer idea, than I ever had before, of the meaning
of the word 'chaos': and I think it must have been ten years, or more,
before I had succeeded in classifying these odds-and-ends sufficiently
to see what sort of a story they indicated: for the story had to grow
out of the incidents, not the incidents out of the story I am telling
all this, in no spirit of egoism, but because I really believe that some
of my readers will be interested in these details of the 'genesis' of
a book, which looks so simple and straight-forward a matter, when
completed, that they might suppose it to have been written straight off,
page by page, as one would write a letter, beginning at the beginning;
and ending at the end.
It is, no doubt, possible to write a story in that way: and, if it be
not vanity to say so, I believe that I could, myself,--if I were in the
unfortunate position (for I do hold it to be a real misfortune) of being
obliged to produce a given amount of fiction in a given time,--that I
could 'fulfil my task,' and produce my 'tale of bricks,' as other slaves
have done. One thing, at any rate, I could guarantee as to the story so
produced--that it should be utterly commonplace, should contain no new
ideas whatever, and should be very very weary reading!
This species of literature has received the very appropriate name of
'padding' which might fitly be defined as 'that which all can write and
none can read.' That the present volume contains no such writing I dare
not avow: sometimes, in order to bring a picture into its proper place,
it has been necessary to eke out a page with two or three extra lines:
but I can honestly say I have put in no more than I was absolutely
compelled to do.
My readers may perhaps like to amuse themselves by trying to detect, in
a given passage, the one piece of 'padding' it contains. While arranging
the 'slips' into pages, I found that the passage, whichnow extends
from the top of p. 35 to the middle of p. 38, was 3 lines too short.
I supplied the deficiency, not by interpolating a word here and a word
there, but by writing in 3 consecutive lines. Now can my readers guess
which they are?
A harder puzzle if a harder be desired would be to determine, as to the
Gardener's Song, in which cases (if any) the stanza was adapted to the
surrounding text, and in which (if any) the text was adapted to the
stanza.
Perhaps the hardest thing in all literature--at least I have found it
so: by no voluntary effort can I accomplish it: I have to take it as it
come's is to write anything original. And perhaps the easiest is, when
once an original line has been struck out, to follow it up, and to write
any amount more to the same tune. I do not know if 'Alice in Wonderland'
was an original story--I was, at least, no conscious imitator in writing
it--but I do know that, since it came out, something like a dozen
story-books have appeared, on identically the same pattern. The path I
timidly explored believing myself to be 'the first that ever burst into
that silent sea'--is now a beaten high-road: all the way-side flowers
have long ago been trampled into the dust: and it would be courting
disaster for me to attempt that style again.
Hence it is that, in 'Sylvie and Bruno,' I have striven with I know not
what success to strike out yet another new path: be it bad or good, it
is the best I can do. It is written, not for money, and not for fame,
but in the hope of supplying, for the children whom I love, some
thoughts that may suit those hours of innocent merriment which are the
very life of Childhood; and also in the hope of suggesting, to them and
to others, some thoughts that may prove, I would fain hope, not wholly
out of harmony with the graver cadences of Life.
If I have not already exhausted the patience of my readers, I would like
to seize this opportunity perhaps the last I shall have of addressing so
many friends at once of putting on record some ideas that have occurred
to me, as to books desirable to be written--which I should much like to
attempt, but may not ever have the time or power to carry through--in
the hope that, if I should fail (and the years are gliding away very
fast) to finish the task I have set myself, other hands may take it up.
First, a Child's Bible. The only real essentials of this would be,
carefully selected passages, suitable for a child's reading and
pictures. One principle of selection, which I would adopt, would be that
Religion should be put before a child as a revelation of love no need to
pain and puzzle the young mind with the history of crime and punishment.
(On such a principle I should, for example, omit the history of the
Flood.) The supplying of the pictures would involve no great difficulty:
no new ones would be needed: hundreds of excellent pictures already
exist, the copyright of which has long ago expired, and which simply
need photo-zincography, or some similar process, for their successful
reproduction. The book should be handy in size with a pretty attractive
looking cover--in a clear legible type--and, above all, with abundance
of pictures, pictures, pictures!
Secondly, a book of pieces selected from the Bible--not single texts,
but passages of from 10 to 20 verses each--to be committed to memory.
Such passages would be found useful, to repeat to one's self and
to ponder over, on many occasions when reading is difficult, if
not impossible: for instance, when lying awake at night--on a
railway-journey--when taking a solitary walk-in old age, when eye-sight
is failing of wholly lost--and, best of all, when illness, while
incapacitating us for reading or any other occupation, condemns us to
lie awake through many weary silent hours: at such a time how keenly
one may realise the truth of David's rapturous cry 'O how sweet are thy
words unto my throat: yea, sweeter than honey unto my mouth!'
I have said 'passages,' rather than single texts, because we have no
means of recalling single texts: memory needs links, and here are none:
one may have a hundred texts stored in the memory, and not be able
to recall, at will, more than half-a-dozen--and those by mere chance:
whereas, once get hold of any portion of a chapter that has been
committed to memory, and the whole can be recovered: all hangs together.
Thirdly, a collection of passages, both prose and verse, from books
other than the Bible. There is not perhaps much, in what is called
'un-inspired' literature (a misnomer, I hold: if Shakespeare was not
inspired, one may well doubt if any man ever was), that will bear the
process of being pondered over, a hundred times: still there are such
passages--enough, I think, to make a goodly store for the memory.
These two books of sacred, and secular, passages for memory--will serve
other good purposes besides merely occupying vacant hours: they
will help to keep at bay many anxious thoughts, worrying thoughts,
uncharitable thoughts, unholy thoughts. Let me say this, in better
words than my own, by copying a passage from that most interesting book,
Robertson's Lectures on the Epistles to the Corinthians, Lecture XLIX.
“If a man finds himself haunted by evil desires and unholy images, which
will generally be at periodical hours, let him commit to memory passages
of Scripture, or passages from the best writers in verse or prose. Let
him store his mind with these, as safeguards to repeat when he lies
awake in some restless night, or when despairing imaginations, or
gloomy, suicidal thoughts, beset him. Let these be to him the sword,
turning everywhere to keep the way of the Garden of Life from the
intrusion of profaner footsteps.”
Fourthly, a “Shakespeare” for girls: that is, an edition in which
everything, not suitable for the perusal of girls of (say) from 10
to 17, should be omitted. Few children under 10 would be likely to
understand or enjoy the greatest of poets: and those, who have passed
out of girlhood, may safely be left to read Shakespeare, in any edition,
'expurgated' or not, that they may prefer: but it seems a pity that
so many children, in the intermediate stage, should be debarred from
a great pleasure for want of an edition suitable to them. Neither
Bowdler's, Chambers's, Brandram's, nor Cundell's 'Boudoir' Shakespeare,
seems to me to meet the want: they are not sufficiently 'expurgated.'
Bowdler's is the most extraordinary of all: looking through it, I am
filled with a deep sense of wonder, considering what he has left in,
that he should have cut anything out! Besides relentlessly erasing all
that is unsuitable on the score of reverence or decency, I should be
inclined to omit also all that seems too difficult, or not likely
to interest young readers. The resulting book might be slightly
fragmentary: but it would be a real treasure to all British maidens who
have any taste for poetry.
If it be needful to apologize to any one for the new departure I have
taken in this story--by introducing, along with what will, I hope, prove
to be acceptable nonsense for children, some of the graver thoughts of
human life--it must be to one who has learned the Art of keeping such
thoughts wholly at a distance in hours of mirth and careless ease. To
him such a mixture will seem, no doubt, ill-judged and repulsive. And
that such an Art exists I do not dispute: with youth, good health, and
sufficient money, it seems quite possible to lead, for years together,
a life of unmixed gaiety--with the exception of one solemn fact, with
which we are liable to be confronted at any moment, even in the midst
of the most brilliant company or the most sparkling entertainment. A
man may fix his own times for admitting serious thought, for attending
public worship, for prayer, for reading the Bible: all such matters he
can defer to that 'convenient season', which is so apt never to occur
at all: but he cannot defer, for one single moment, the necessity of
attending to a message, which may come before he has finished reading
this page,' this night shalt thy soul be required of thee.'
The ever-present sense of this grim possibility has been, in all ages,*
Note... At the moment, when I had written these words, there
was a knock at the door, and a telegram was brought me,
announcing the sudden death of a dear friend.
an incubus that men have striven to shake off. Few more interesting
subjects of enquiry could be found, by a student of history, than the
various weapons that have been used against this shadowy foe. Saddest
of all must have been the thoughts of those who saw indeed an
existence beyond the grave, but an existence far more terrible than
annihilation--an existence as filmy, impalpable, all but invisible
spectres, drifting about, through endless ages, in a world of shadows,
with nothing to do, nothing to hope for, nothing to love! In the midst
of the gay verses of that genial 'bon vivant' Horace, there stands one
dreary word whose utter sadness goes to one's heart. It is the word
'exilium' in the well-known passage
Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium
Versatur urna serius ocius
Sors exitura et nos in aeternum
Exilium impositura cymbae.
Yes, to him this present life--spite of all its weariness and all its
sorrow--was the only life worth having: all else was 'exile'! Does it
not seem almost incredible that one, holding such a creed, should ever
have smiled?
And many in this day, I fear, even though believing in an existence
beyond the grave far more real than Horace ever dreamed of, yet regard
it as a sort of 'exile' from all the joys of life, and so adopt Horace's
theory, and say 'let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.'
We go to entertainments, such as the theatre--I say 'we', for I also
go to the play, whenever I get a chance of seeing a really good one and
keep at arm's length, if possible, the thought that we may not return
alive. Yet how do you know--dear friend, whose patience has carried you
through this garrulous preface that it may not be your lot, when mirth
is fastest and most furious, to feel the sharp pang, or the deadly
faintness, which heralds the final crisis--to see, with vague wonder,
anxious friends bending over you to hear their troubled whispers perhaps
yourself to shape the question, with trembling lips, “Is it serious?”,
and to be told “Yes: the end is near” (and oh, how different all Life
will look when those words are said!)--how do you know, I say, that all
this may not happen to you, this night?
And dare you, knowing this, say to yourself “Well, perhaps it is an
immoral play: perhaps the situations are a little too 'risky', the
dialogue a little too strong, the 'business' a little too suggestive. I
don't say that conscience is quite easy: but the piece is so clever, I
must see it this once! I'll begin a stricter life to-morrow.” To-morrow,
and to-morrow, and tomorrow!
“Who sins in hope, who, sinning, says,
'Sorrow for sin God's judgement stays!'
Against God's Spirit he lies; quite stops
Mercy with insult; dares, and drops,
Like a scorch'd fly, that spins in vain
Upon the axis of its pain,
Then takes its doom, to limp and crawl,
Blind and forgot, from fall to fall.”
Let me pause for a moment to say that I believe this thought, of the
possibility of death--if calmly realised, and steadily faced would be
one of the best possible tests as to our going to any scene of amusement
being right or wrong. If the thought of sudden death acquires, for you,
a special horror when imagined as happening in a theatre, then be very
sure the theatre is harmful for you, however harmless it may be for
others; and that you are incurring a deadly peril in going. Be sure the
safest rule is that we should not dare to live in any scene in which we
dare not die.
But, once realise what the true object is in life--that it is not
pleasure, not knowledge, not even fame itself, 'that last infirmity of
noble minds'--but that it is the development of character, the rising
to a higher, nobler, purer standard, the building-up of the perfect
Man--and then, so long as we feel that this is going on, and will (we
trust) go on for evermore, death has for us no terror; it is not a
shadow, but a light; not an end, but a beginning!
One other matter may perhaps seem to call for apology--that I should
have treated with such entire want of sympathy the British passion for
'Sport', which no doubt has been in by-gone days, and is still, in
some forms of it, an excellent school for hardihood and for coolness in
moments of danger. But I am not entirely without sympathy for genuine
'Sport': I can heartily admire the courage of the man who, with severe
bodily toil, and at the risk of his life, hunts down some 'man-eating'
tiger: and I can heartily sympathize with him when he exults in the
glorious excitement of the chase and the hand-to-hand struggle with the
monster brought to bay. But I can but look with deep wonder and sorrow
on the hunter who, at his ease and in safety, can find pleasure in what
involves, for some defenceless creature, wild terror and a death of
agony: deeper, if the hunter be one who has pledged himself to preach
to men the Religion of universal Love: deepest of all, if it be one of
those 'tender and delicate' beings, whose very name serves as a
symbol of Love--'thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of
women'--whose mission here is surely to help and comfort all that are in
pain or sorrow!
'Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'