I have attempted of late, in more than one book, to depict a certain
kind of tranquil life, a life of reflection rather than of action, of
contemplation rather than of business; and I have tried to do this
from different points of view, though the essence has been the same. I
endeavoured at first to do it anonymously, because I have no desire to
recommend these ideas as being my own theories. The personal background
rather detracts from than adds to the value of the thoughts, because
people can compare my theories with my practice, and show how lamentably
I fail to carry them out. But time after time I have been pulled
reluctantly out of my burrow, by what I still consider a wholly
misguided zeal for publicity, till I have decided that I will lurk no
longer. It was in this frame of mind that I published, under my own
name, a book called Beside Still Waters, a harmless enough volume, I
thought, which was meant to be a deliberate summary or manifesto of
these ideas. It depicted a young man who, after a reasonable experience
of practical life, resolved to retire into the shade, who in that
position indulged profusely in leisurely reverie. The book was carefully
enough written, and I have been a good deal surprised to find that it
has met with considerable disapproval, and even derision, on the part
of many reviewers. It has been called morbid and indolent, and decadent,
and half a hundred more ugly adjectives. Now I do not for an instant
question the right of a single one of these conscientious persons to
form whatever opinion they like about my book, and to express it in any
terms they like; they say, and obviously feel, that the thought of the
book is essentially thin, and that the vein in which it is written is
offensively egotistical. I do not dispute the possibility of their being
perfectly right. An artist who exhibits his paintings, or a writer who
publishes his books, challenges the criticisms of the public; and I am
quite sure that the reviewers who frankly disliked my book, and said
so plainly, thought that they were doing their duty to the public, and
warning them against teaching which they believed to be insidious
and even immoral. I honour them for doing this, and I applaud them,
especially if they did violence to their own feelings of courtesy and
urbanity in doing so. Then there were some good-natured reviewers
who practically said that the book was simply a collection of amiable
platitudes; but that if the public liked to read such stuff, they were
quite at liberty to do so. I admire these reviewers for a different
reason, partly for their tolerant permission to the public to read what
they choose, and still more because I like to think that there are so
many intelligent people in the world who are wearisomely familiar with
ideas which have only slowly and gradually dawned upon myself. I have
no intention of trying to refute or convince my critics, and I beg them
with all my heart to say what they think about my books, because only by
the frank interchange of ideas can we arrive at the truth.
But what I am going to try to do in this chapter is to examine the
theory by virtue of which my book is condemned, and I am going to try
to give the fullest weight to the considerations urged against it. I
am sure there is something in what the critics say, but I believe that
where we differ is in this. The critics who disapprove of my book seem
to me to think that all men are cast in the same mould, and that the
principles which hold good for some necessarily hold good for all. What
I like best about their criticisms is that they are made in a spirit of
moral earnestness and ethical seriousness. I am a serious man myself,
and I rejoice to see others serious. The point of view which they
seem to recommend is the point of view of a certain kind of practical
strenuousness, the gospel of push, if I may so call it. They seem to
hold that people ought to be discontented with what they are, that they
ought to try to better themselves, that they ought to be active,
and what they call normal; that when they have done their work as
energetically as possible, they should amuse themselves energetically
too, take hard exercise, shout and play,
"Pleased as the Indian boy to run
And shoot his arrows in the sun,"
and that then they should recreate themselves like Homeric heroes,
eating and drinking, listening comfortably to the minstrel, and take
their fill of love in a full-blooded way.
That is, I think, a very good theory of life for some people, though I
think it is a little barbarous; it is Spartan rather than Athenian.
Some of my critics take a higher kind of ground, and say that I want to
minimise and melt down the old stern beliefs and principles of morality
into a kind of nebulous emotion. They remind me a little of an old
country squire of whom I have heard, of the John Bull type, whose
younger son, a melancholy and sentimental youth, joined the Church of
Rome. His father was determined that this should not separate them, and
asked him to come home and talk it over. He told his eldest son that
he was going to remonstrate with the erring youth in a simple and
affectionate way. The eldest son said that he hoped his father would do
it tactfully and gently, as his brother was highly sensitive, to which
his father replied that he had thought over what he meant to say, and
was going to be very reasonable. The young man arrived, and was ushered
into the study by his eldest brother. "Well," said the squire, "very
glad to see you, Harry; but do you mean to tell me that your mother's
religion is not good enough for a damned ass like you?"
Now far from desiring to minimise faith in God and the Unseen, I think
it is the thing of which the world is more in need than anything else.
What has made the path of faith a steep one to tread is partly that it
has got terribly encumbered with ecclesiastical traditions; it has been
mended, like the Slough of Despond, with cartloads of texts and insecure
definitions. And partly too the old simple undisturbed faith in the
absolute truth and authority of the Bible has given way. It is admitted
that the Bible contains a considerable admixture of the legendary
element; and it requires a strong intellectual and moral grip to build
one's faith upon a collection of writings, some of which, at all events,
are not now regarded as being historically and literally true. "If I
cannot believe it all," says the simple bewildered soul, "how can I
be certain that any of it is indubitably true?" Only the patient
and desirous spirit can decide; but whatever else fades, the perfect
insight, the Divine message of the Son of Man cannot fade; the dimmer
that the historical setting becomes, the brighter shine the parables
and the sayings, so far beyond the power of His followers to have
originated, so utterly satisfying to our deepest needs. What I desire to
say with all my heart is that we pilgrims need not be dismayed because
the golden clue dips into darkness and mist; it emerges as bright as
ever upon the upward slope of the valley. If one disregards all that is
uncertain, all that cannot be held to be securely proved in the sacred
writings, there still remain the essential facts of the Christian
revelation, and more deep and fruitful principles than a man can
keep and make his own in the course of a lifetime, however purely and
faithfully he lives and strives. To myself the doubtful matters are
things absolutely immaterial, like the debris of the mine, while the
precious ore gleams and sparkles in every boulder.
What, in effect, these critics say is that a man must not discuss
religion unless he is an expert in theology. When I try, as I have once
or twice tried, to criticise some current conception of a Christian
dogma, the theological reviewer, with a titter that resembles the titter
of Miss Squeers in Nicholas Nickleby, says that a writer who presumes
to discuss such questions ought to be better acquainted with the modern
developments of theology. To that I demur, because I am not attempting
to discuss theology, but current conceptions of theology. If the
advance in theology has been so enormous, then all I can say is that the
theologians fail to bring home the knowledge of that progress to the man
in the street. To use a simple parable, what one feels about many modern
theological statements is what the eloquent bagman said in praise of the
Yorkshire ham: "Before you know where you are, there--it's wanished!"
This is not so in science; science advances, and the ordinary man knows
more or less what is going on; he understands what is meant by the
development of species, he has an inkling of what radio-activity means,
and so forth; but this is because science is making discoveries, while
theological discoveries are mainly of a liberal and negative kind, a
modification of old axioms, a loosening of old definitions. Theology has
made no discoveries about the nature of God, or the nature of the soul;
the problem of free will and necessity is as dark as ever, except that
scientific discovery tends to show more and more that an immutable law
regulates the smallest details of life. I honour, with all my heart, the
critics who have approached the Bible in the same spirit in which they
approach other literature; but the only definite result has been to make
what was considered a matter of blind faith more a matter of opinion.
But to attempt to scare men away from discussing religious topics, by
saying that it is only a matter for experts, is to act in the spirit
of the Inquisition. It is like saying to a man that he must not discuss
questions of diet and exercise because he is not acquainted with the
Pharmacopoeia, or that no one may argue on matters of current politics
unless he is a trained historian. Religion is, or ought to be, a matter
of vital and daily concern for every one of us; if our moral progress
and our spiritual prospects are affected by what we believe, theologians
ought to be grateful to any one who will discuss religious ideas
from the current point of view, if it only leads them to clear up
misconceptions that may prevail. If I needed to justify myself further,
I would only add that since I began to write on such subjects I have
received a large number of letters from unknown people, who seem to be
grateful to any one who will attempt to speak frankly on these matters,
with the earnest desire, which I can honestly say has never been absent
from my mind, to elucidate and confirm a belief in simple and essential
religious principles.
And now I would go on to say a few words as to the larger object which I
have had in view. My aim has been to show how it is possible for people
living quiet and humdrum lives, without any opportunities of gratifying
ambition or for taking a leading part on the stage of the world, to make
the most of simple conditions, and to live lives of dignity and joy.
My own belief is that what is commonly called success has an insidious
power of poisoning the clear springs of life; because people who grow
to depend upon the stimulus of success sink into dreariness and dulness
when that stimulus is withdrawn. Here my critics have found fault with
me for not being more strenuous, more virile, more energetic. It is
strange to me that my object can have been so singularly misunderstood.
I believe, with all my heart, that happiness depends upon strenuous
energy; but I think that this energy ought to be expended upon work, and
everyday life, and relations with others, and the accessible pleasures
of literature and art. The gospel that I detest is the gospel of
success, the teaching that every one ought to be discontented with his
setting, that a man ought to get to the front, clear a space round him,
eat, drink, make love, cry, strive, and fight. It is all to be at the
expense of feebler people. That is a detestable ideal, because it is
the gospel of tyranny rather than the gospel of equality. It is obvious,
too, that such success depends upon a man being stronger than his
fellows, and is only made possible by shoving and hectoring, and
bullying the weak. The preaching of this violent gospel has done us
already grievous harm; it is this which has tended to depopulate country
districts, to make people averse to discharging all honest subordinate
tasks, to make men and women overvalue excitement and amusement. The
result of it is the lowest kind of democratic sentiment, which says,
"Every one is as good as every one else, and I am a little better," and
the jealous spirit, which says, "If I cannot be prominent, I will do
my best that no one else shall be." Out of it develops the demon of
municipal politics, which makes a man strive for a place, in the hope
being able to order things for which others have to pay. It is this
teaching which makes power seem desirable for the sake of personal
advantages, and with no care for responsibility. This spirit seems to
me an utterly vile and detestable spirit. It tends to disguise its rank
individualism under a pretence of desiring to improve social conditions.
I do not mean for a moment to say that all social reformers are of
this type; the clean-handed social reformer, who desires no personal
advantage, and whose influence is a matter of anxious care, is one
of the noblest of men; but now that schemes of social reform are
fashionable, there are a number of blatant people who them for purposes
of personal advancement.
What I rather desire is to encourage a very different kind of
individualism, the individualism of the man who realises that the hope
of the race depends upon the quality of the life, upon the number of
people who live quiet, active, gentle, kindly, faithful lives, enjoying
their work and turning for recreation to the nobler and simpler sources
of pleasure--the love of nature, poetry, literature, and art. Of course
the difficulty is that we do not, most of us, find our pleasures in
these latter things, but in the excitement and amusement of social life.
I mournfully admit it, and I quite see the uselessness of trying to
bring pleasures within the reach of people when they have no taste for
them; but an increasing number of people do care for such things, and
there are still more who would care for them, if only they could be
introduced to them at an impressionable age.
If it is said that this kind of simplicity is a very tame and spiritless
thing, I would answer that it has the advantage of being within the
reach of all. The reason why the pursuit of social advancement and
success is so hollow, is that the subordinate life is after all the life
that must fall to the majority of people. We cannot organise society
on the lines of the army of a lesser German state, which consisted
of twenty-four officers, covered with military decorations, and
eight privates. The successful men, whatever happens, must be a small
minority; and what I desire is that success, as it is called, should
fall quietly and inevitably on the heads of those who deserve it,
while ordinary people should put it out of their thoughts. It is no use
holding up an ideal which cannot be attained, and which the mere attempt
to attain is fruitful in disaster and discontent.
I do not at all wish to teach a gospel of dulness. I am of the opinion
of the poet who said:
"Life is not life at all without delight,
Nor hath it any might."
But I am quite sure that the real pleasures of the world are those which
cannot be bought for money, and which are wholly independent of success.
Every one who has watched children knows the extraordinary amount of
pleasure that they can extract out of the simplest materials. To keep
a shop in the corner of a garden, where the commodities are pebbles and
thistle-heads stored in old tin pots, and which are paid for in daisies,
will be an engrossing occupation to healthy children for a long summer
afternoon. There is no reason why that kind of zest should not be
imported into later life; and, as a matter of fact, people who practise
self-restraint, who are temperate and quiet, do retain a gracious kind
of contentment in all that they do or say, or think, to extreme old age;
it is the jaded weariness of overstrained lives that needs the stimulus
of excitement to carry them along from hour to hour. Who does not
remember the rigid asceticism of Ruskin's childhood? A bunch of keys
to play with, and a little later a box of bricks; the Bible and The
Pilgrim's Progress and Robinson Crusoe to read; a summary whipping if
he fell down and hurt himself, or if he ever cried. Yet no one
would venture to say that this austerity in any way stunted Ruskin's
development or limited his range of pleasures; it made him perhaps a
little submissive and unadventurous. But who that ever saw him, as the
most famous art-critic of the day, being mercilessly snubbed, when he
indulged in paradoxes, by the old wine-merchant, or being told to hold
his tongue by the grim old mother, and obeying cheerfully and sweetly,
would have preferred him to have been loud, contradictory, and
self-assertive? The mischief of our present system of publicity is that
we cannot enjoy our own ideas, unless we can impress people with them,
or, at all events, impress people with a sense of our enjoyment of them.
There is a noble piece of character-drawing in one of Mr. Henry
James's novels, The Portrait of a Lady, where Gilbert Osmond, a selfish
dilettante, finding that he cannot make a great success or attain a
great position, devotes himself to trying to mystify and provoke
the curiosity of the world by retiring into a refined seclusion, and
professing that it affords him an exquisite kind of enjoyment. The
hideous vulgarity of his attitude is not at first sight apparent; he
deceives the heroine, who is a considerable heiress, into thinking that
here, at last, is a man who is living a quiet and sincere life among the
things of the soul; and having obtained possession of her purse, he sets
up house in a dignified old palace in Rome, where he continues to amuse
himself by inviting distinguished persons to visit him, in order that he
may have the pleasure of excluding the lesser people who would like to
be included.
This is, of course, doing the thing upon an almost sublime scale; but
the fact remains that in an age which values notoriety above everything
except property, a great many people do suffer from the disease of not
enjoying things, unless they are aware that others envy their enjoyment.
To people of an artistic temperament this is a sore temptation, because
the essence of the artistic temperament is its egotism, and egotism,
like the Bread-and-butter fly, requires a special nutriment, the
nutriment of external admiration.
And here, I think, lies one of the pernicious results of an
over-developed system of athletics. The more games that people play, the
better; but I do not think it is wholesome to talk about them for large
spaces of leisure time, any more than it is wholesome to talk about your
work or your meals. The result of all the talk about athletics is that
the newspapers get full of them too. That is only natural. It is the
business of newspapers to find out what interests people, and to
tell them about it; but the bad side of it is that young athletes get
introduced to the pleasures of publicity, and that ambitious young
men think that athletics are a short cut to fame. To have played in a
University eleven is like accepting a peerage; you wear for the rest of
your life an agreeable and honourable social label, and I do not think
that a peerage is deserved, or should be accepted, at the age of twenty.
I do not think it is a good kind of fame which depends on a personal
performance rather than upon a man's usefulness to the human race.
The kind of contentment that I should like to see on the increase is the
contentment of a man who works hard and enjoys work, both in itself and
in the contrast it supplies to his leisure hours; and, further, whose
leisure is full of varied interests, not only definite pursuits, but an
interest in his relations with others, not only of a spectatorial kind,
but with the natural and instinctive desire to contribute to their
happiness, not in a priggish way, but from a sense of cordial
good-fellowship.
This programme may seem, as I have said, to be unambitious and prosaic,
and to have very little that is stirring about it. But my belief is that
it can be the most lively, sensitive, fruitful, and enjoyable programme
in the world, because the enjoyment of it depends upon the very stuff of
life itself, and not upon skimming the cream off and throwing away the
milk.
My critics will say that I am only appearing again from my cellar, with
my hands filled with bottled platitudes; but if they are platitudes, by
which I mean plain and obvious truths, why do we not find more people
practising them? What I mean by a platitude is a truth so obvious that
it is devoid of inspiration, and has become one of the things that every
one does so instinctively, that no reminder of them is necessary. Would
that it were so in the present case! All I can say is that I know very
few people who live their lives on these lines, and that most of the
people I know find inspiration anywhere but in the homely stuff of life.
Of course there are a good many people who take life stolidly enough,
and do not desire inspiration at all; but I do not mean that sort of
life in the least. I mean that it ought to be possible and delightful
for people to live lives full of activity and perception and kindliness
and joy, on very simple lines indeed; to take up their work day by day
with an agreeable sense of putting out their powers, to find in the
pageant of nature an infinite refreshment, and to let art and poetry
lift them up into a world of hopes and dreams and memories; and thus
life may become a meal to be eaten with appetite, with a wholesome
appreciation of its pleasant savours, rather than a meal eaten in
satiety or greediness, with a peevish repining that it is not more
elaborate and delicate.
I do not claim to live my own life on these lines. I started, as all
sensitive and pleasure-loving natures do, with an expectation of finding
life a much more exciting, amusing, and delightful thing than I have
found it. I desired to skip from peak to peak, without troubling to
descend into the valleys. But now that I have descended, partly out of
curiosity and partly out of inefficiency, no doubt, into the low-lying
vales, I have found them to be beautiful and interesting places, the
hedgerows full of flower and leaf, the thickets musical with the voices
of birds, the orchards loaded with fruit, the friendly homesteads rich
with tranquil life and abounding in quiet friendly people; and then the
very peaks themselves, past which my way occasionally conducts me, have
a beautiful solemnity of pure outline and strong upliftedness, seen from
below, which I think they tend to lose, seen from the summit; and if
I have spoken of the quieter joys, it is--I can say this with perfect
honesty--because I have been pleased with them, as a bird is pleased
with the sunshine and the berries, and sings, not that the passers-by
may admire his notes, but out of simple joy of heart; and, after all, it
is enough justification, if a pilgrim or two have stopped upon their way
to listen with a smile. That alone persuades me that one does no harm
by speaking, even if there are other passers-by who say what a tiresome
note it is, that they have heard it a hundred times before, and cannot
think why the stupid bird does not vary his song. Personally, I would
rather hear the yellow-hammer utter his sharp monotonous notes, with
the dropping cadence at the end, than that he should try to imitate the
nightingale.
However, as I have said, I am quite willing to believe that the critics
speak, or think they speak, in the interests of the public, and with a
tender concern that the public should not be bored. And I will take my
leave of them by saying, like Miss Flite, that I will ask them to accept
a blessing, and that when I receive a judgment, I shall confer estates
impartially.
But my last word shall be to my readers, and I will beg of them not to
be deceived either by experts or by critics; on the one hand, not to
be frightened away from speculating and reflecting about the possible
meanings of life by the people who say that no one under the degree of
a Bachelor of Divinity has any right to tackle the matter; and, on the
other hand, I would implore them to believe that a quiet life is not
necessarily a dull life, and that the cutting off of alcohol does not
necessarily mean a lowering of physical vitality; but rather that if
they will abstain for a little from dependence upon excitement, they
will find their lives flooded by a new kind of quality, which heightens
perception and increases joy. Of course souls will ache and ail, and
we have to bear the burden of our ancestors' weaknesses as well as
the burden of our own; but just as, in the physical region, diet
and exercise and regularity can effect more cures than the strongest
medicines, so, in the life of the spirit, self-restraint and deliberate
limitation and tranquil patience will often lead into a vigorous and
effective channel the stream that, left to itself, welters and wanders
among shapeless pools and melancholy marshes.