Whatever the age, or the intellect of the passing age, may be, even
if ever arise again such a galaxy of great minds as dawned upon this
country three hundred years ago, though all those great minds start
upon their glorious career, comprising and intensifying all the light
engendered by, before, and since the time of Shakespeare, Bacon,
Newton; then, though they enhance that light tenfold by their own
bright genius, till a thousand waking nations gleam, like hill–tops
touched with sunrise—to guide men on the human road, to lead them
heaven–ward, all shall be no more than a benighted river wandering away
from the stars of God. Do what we will, and think as we may, enlarging
the mind in each generation, growing contemptuous of contempt, casting
caste to the winds of heaven, and antiquating prejudice, nevertheless
we shall never outrun, or even overtake Christianity. Science,
learning, philosophy, may regard it through a telescope: they touch it
no more than astronomy sets foot upon a star. To a thoughtful man, who
is scandalized at all the littleness felt and done under the holy name,
until he almost begins to doubt if the good outweigh the evil, it is
reassurance to remember that we are not Christians yet, and comfort to
confess that on earth we never can be. For nothing shows more clearly
that our faith is of heaven, than the truth that we cannot rise to it
until it raise us thither. And this reflection is akin to the stately
writerʼs sentiment, that our minds conceive so much more than our
bodies can perform, to give us token, ay, and earnest, of a future
state.
Of all the creeds which have issued as yet from God, or man, or
the devil, there is but one which is far in advance of all human
civilization. True Christianity, like hope, cheers us to continual
effort, exalts us to unbounded prospect, flies in front of our best
success. Let us call it a worn–out garb, when we have begun to wear it;
as yet the mantle is in the skies, and we have only the skirt with the
name on it.
Such thoughts as these were always stirring in the heart of a man of
power, a leading character in my story, a leading character everywhere,
whithersoever he went. Bull Garnet was now forty–five years old, and
all who met him were surprised at his humble place in the commonwealth.
A sense of power so pervaded even the air he breathed, that strong men
rebelled instinctively, though he urged no supremacy; weak men caught
some infection from him, and went home and astonished their families.
Strong and weak alike confessed that it was a mysterious thing how
a man of such motive strength, and self–reliance illimitable, could
be content with no higher post than that of a common steward. But
neighbourly interest in this subject met with no encouragement. Albeit
his views of life expanded into universal sympathy, his practice now
and then admitted some worldly–wise restrictions. And so, while really
glad to advise on the doings of all around him, he never permitted
brotherly interference with his own.
Whoever saw Bull Garnet once was sure to know him again. If you met
him in a rush to save the train, your eyes would turn and follow him.
“There goes a man remarkable, whether for good or evil”. Tall though he
was, and large of frame, with swinging arms, and a square expression,
it was none of this that stopped the bystanderʼs glance into a gaze. It
was the cubic mass of the forehead, the span between the enormous eyes,
and the depth of the thick–set jowl, which rolled with the volume of a
tigerʼs. The rest of the face was in keeping therewith: the nose bold,
broad, and patulous, the mouth large and well banked up, the chin big
and heavily rounded. No shade of a hair was ever allowed to dim his
healthy colouring, his head was cropped close as a Puritanʼs, and when
beard grew fast he shaved twice in a day. High culture was a necessity
to him, whether of mind, or body, or of the world external; he would
no more endure a moustache on his lip than a frouzy hedgerow upon his
farm. That man, if you came to think about him, more and more each time
you saw how different he was from other men. Distinctness is a great
merit in roses, especially when the French rosarians have so overpiled
the catalogue. It is pleasant to walk up to a standard, and say, “You
are ‘Jules Margottin’, and your neighbour the ‘Keepsake of Malmaison;’
I cannot mistake you for any other, however hot the weather may be”.
Distinctness is also a merit in apples, pears, and even peaches; but
most of all in man. And so, without knowing the reason, perhaps,
we like a man whom we cannot mistake for any other of our million
brethren. The same principle tells in love at first sight. But, lo!
here again we are wandering.
Mr. Garnetʼs leading characteristic was not at first sight amiable. It
was, if I may be allowed for once, upon the strength of my subject,
not to mince words into _entremets_—a furious, reckless, damnable,
and thoroughly devilish temper. All great qualities, loving–kindness,
yearnings for Christian ideals, fell like sugar–canes to a hurricane in
the outburst and rush of that temper. He was always grieved and deeply
humbled, when the havoc was done; and, being a man of generous nature,
would bow his soul in atonement. But in the towering of his wrath, how
grand a sight he afforded! as fine as the rush of the wild Atlantic
upon St. Davidʼs Head. For a time, perhaps, he would chafe and fret
within the straits of reason, his body surging to and fro, and his mind
making grasp at boundaries. Then some little aggravation, some trifle
which no other man would notice—and out would leap all the pent–up fury
of his soul. His great eyes would gather volume, and spring like a
mastiff from a kennel; his mighty forehead would scarp and chine like
the headland when the plough turns; and all his aspect grow four–square
with more than hydraulic pressure. Whoever then could gaze unmoved at
the raging fire of his eyes must be either a philosopher or a fool—and
often the two are synonymous.
But touch him, even then, with a single word of softness, the thought
of some one dear to him, a large and genial sentiment, or a tender
memory—and the lines of his face would relax and quiver, the blazing
eyes be suffused and subdued to a tremulous glow; and the man, so far
beyond reasonʼs reach, be led back, like a boy, by the feelings.
All who think they can catch and analyze that composite, subtle,
volatile gas—neither body nor spirit, yet in fief to the laws of
either—which men call “human nature”, these, I say, will opine at
once, from even this meagre description, that Mr. Bull Garnetʼs
nature was scant of that playful element, humour. If thought be (as
German philosophers have it) an electric emanation, then wit is the
forked flash, gone in a moment; humour the soft summer lightning
that shows us the clouds and the depth, the background and night of
ourselves. No man of large humour can be in a passion, without laughing
inwardly at himself. And wrath, which laughs at itself, is not of
much avail in business. Mr. Garnetʼs wrath, on the contrary, was a
fine, free–boiling, British anger, not at all amenable to reason,
and therefore very valuable. By dint of it, he could score at night
nearly twice as much work done in the day as a peaceable man could have
reckoned. Man or woman, boy or girl, Mr. Garnet could extract from each
all the cubic capacity, leaving them just enough of power to crawl home
stiff, and admire him. For the truth of it is, as all know to their
cost, who have had much to do with spade or plough, hod or hammer, that
the British workman admires most the master who makes him sweat most.
Perhaps it ought not to be so. Theoretically, we regard it thus, that a
man ought to perspire, upon principle, when he is working for another
man. But tell us where, and oh! where, to find the model British
labourer who takes that view of the subject.
Sith it will na better be, let us out and look for him. The sky is
bright blue, and the white clouds flock off it, like sheep overlapping
each other. What man but loves the open air, and to walk about and
think of it, with fancies flitting lazily, like fluff of dandelion?
What man but loves to sit under a tree, and let the winds go wandering,
and the shadows come and play with him, to let work be a pleasant
memory, and hurry a storm of the morning? Everybody except Bull Garnet.