experiences—and I think indeed you have had some very real experiences,
and some realizations of another kind of consciousness; but you must be
careful, and have some idea of what you are doing. There is no doubt
that sometimes abstinence from food will help to develop internal
faculties. On the other hand to go too far and to weaken the body,
perhaps permanently, may be most foolish, and dangerous. The body is
there to give expression to the soul, and if you have any important
spiritual revelation to express you want all the faculties of your body
in good order for the purpose. Starvation, it is well known, engenders
visions and voices, often of a very delusive character. You must not
give yourself away to all that. How do you know that what you say is of
God is not of the Devil; and _vice versâ_? And how do _I_ know?”
So I went on at him; making him plainly understand that I was not going
to join in his crusade—whatever it was. “Besides,” I said, “I still do
not see what made you come here. You say you have not read any of my
writing—except what was contained in Dr. Bucke’s book. _What do you know
about me?_”
Then he leaped out again. “Oh, I know all about you. _I know that you
will never die!_”
“That is not a very cheerful prospect,” said I, gently laughing.
“Oh, well,” he replied, “you will at any rate live four hundred years.
It is like this: The earth and all that are in it, are from this day
passing gradually into a new and higher plane of existence. That process
will complete itself in four hundred years, and at the end of that time
the earth will be absorbed into the Sun and the ethereal life. A
wonderful period of new life will arrive; and all those who are living
then will be transformed without passing through Death.”
He spoke earnestly and with conviction. I did not oppose him; but warned
him again about going too far with his abstinence, and advised
deliberation in his conclusions. He did not seem inclined to give way
about food—said he thought he should never require it again, and
maintained that the internal breathing (_prana_) came to him with a
wonderful sense of fragrance and refreshment.
He was extraordinarily good; for though I had refused, almost rudely, to
join in his schemes, he took no offence—simply said that he was
satisfied now, that he had given the message he had been told to give,
and would return to America “to-morrow.”
Having then made my negative attitude quite clear, so that there should
be no misunderstanding, I now adopted a positive line; and talked to him
for some little time about experiences of the kind he had described.
Then I went and fetched some books—the _Bhagavat Gita_, some of the
Upanishads, and other works. He had never even heard their names. I
opened the _Bhagavat Gita_, almost at random, and pointed him out a
passage. He almost clapped his hands for joy. “Oh yes, that is exactly
what I feel.” He seized the book, and turned over the pages, pouncing on
passage after passage with delight. “Yes, yes, that is just it!” There
was no doubt about his sincere and instant appreciation. Then I showed
him the passage in the _Bhagavat Gita_ about moderation in eating and
moderation in abstinence; but he did not seem inclined to agree. “I just
do what God tells me.”
Finally I _gave_ him the _Gita_, and some other books of similar
character. And he on his side decided to return to America
“to-morrow”—and insisted on my writing at once for a cab. I did not
attempt to dissuade him—feeling that perhaps he was right—also that his
friends in America would be more satisfied if he returned.
Meanwhile he _looked_ ever so much better than when he came into the
house—and evidently was so—“glad to have carried out what he had to do,”
he said. I told him that on board ship his mind would settle itself; and
he went off.
He wrote from Liverpool next day, saying he was very happy; and a month
or so later from Colorado—in which letter he said, “The _unseen force_
which caused me to quit eating caused me to begin again (as suddenly as
I quit). My fast was merely a part of the _lesson_ which is continually
before me.” Since then I have heard from him from time to time. In one
letter he says: “I am feeling fine, and slowly but surely am I (as a
child) permitted to learn the _a, b, c_ of _real life_. It is my belief
that we are all permitted to pierce the veil that conceals _real Life_
from our view, only accordingly as our minds are ready to absorb the
knowledge gained thereby. From a point of view of Cosmic Consciousness I
am beginning my life all over again, and am only beginning in a small
way to see and understand some of the simpler truths of the same; but I
have lost much of that feeling of haste, and learning with the idea in
mind that I have all eternity to learn in. My folk and relatives all
glad that I am home and quit my wanderings for the present. I think I
shall engage in mining again in a small way. This mining camp is about
10,000 feet altitude, and the weather is beautiful, plenty sunshine, and
not cold winter weather.”
In his latest to me he says: “You will remember when I visited you I
said you would never die. I still feel same way and see no chance of my
dying, personally it is a matter of indifference whether I live or die.
If I must die in order to live again, so be it, but may we not be
permitted to enjoy eternal life here and now? I think so. I think the
Harvest of the world is ripe, but such great changes are slow and almost
unnoticeable and I think overlap each other, so that _harvest_ or death
of one thing is the Birth of another, that is consciousness of Eternal
Life becoming more general. Well, I think that I have written enough
that you may see the drift of my mind, and I think that is what you
want. Love to Mr. Merrill and yourself, yours truly, C. E. GROGAN.”
To which words of Grogan’s I would only add: “No doubt we _are_
permitted to enjoy eternal life here and now—even in this tiniest
corner, wherever it may be, of space and time.”
XI
THE STORY OF MY BOOKS
The fate of my books has been interesting—at any rate to myself! Leaving
aside _Narcissus and Other Poems_, and _Moses: a Drama_—which were
written in early days at Cambridge, and were only, so to speak,
exercises in literature and efforts to vie with then-accepted
models—_Towards Democracy_, of course, has been the start-point and
kernel of all my later work, the centre from which the other books have
radiated. Whatever obvious weaknesses and defects it may present, I have
still always been aware that it was written from a different _plane_
from the other works, from some predominant mood or consciousness
superseding the purely intellectual. Indeed, so strong has been this
feeling that, though tempted once or twice to make alterations from the
latter point of view, I have never really ventured to do so; and now,
after more than thirty years since the inception of the book, I am
entirely glad to think that I have not.
It is a curious question—and one which literary criticism has never yet
tackled—why it is that certain books, or certain passages in books, will
bear reading over and over again without becoming stale; that you can
return to them after months or years and find entirely new meanings in
them which had escaped you on the first occasion; and that this can even
go on happening time after time, while other books and passages are
exhausted at the first reading and need never be looked at again. How is
it possible that the same phrase or concatenation of words should bear
within itself meaning behind meaning, horizon after horizon of
significance and suggestion? Yet such undoubtedly is the case. Portions
of the poetic and religious literature of most countries, and large
portions of books like _Leaves of Grass_, the _Bhagavat Gita_, Plato’s
_Banquet_, Dante’s _Divina Commedia_, have this inexhaustible
germinative quality. One returns to them again and again, and
continually finds fresh interpretations lurking beneath the old and
familiar words.
I imagine that the explanation is somewhat on this wise: That in the
case of passages that are exhausted at a first reading (like statements
say of Church doctrine or political or scientific theory) we are simply
being presented with an intellectual ‘view’ of some fact; but that in
the other cases in some mysterious way the words succeed in conveying
the fact itself. It is like the difference between the actual solid
shape of a mountain and the different views of the mountain obtainable
from different sides. They are two things of a different order and
dimension. It almost seems as if some mountain-facts of our experience
_can_ be imaged forth by words in such a way that the phrases themselves
retain this quality of solidity, and consequently their outlines of
meaning vary according to the angle at which the reader approaches them
and the variation of the reader’s mind. None of the outlines are final,
and the solid content of the phrase remains behind and eludes them all.
Anyhow the matter is a most mysterious one; but as a fact it remains,
and demands explanation.
I have felt somehow with regard to _Towards Democracy_ that—while my
other books were merely subsidiary and mainly represented ‘views’ and
‘aspects’—this one (with all its imperfections) had that central quality
and kind of other-dimensional solidity to which I have been alluding.
And my experiences in writing it have corroborated that feeling.
I have spoken elsewhere about the considerable period of gestation and
suffering which preceded the birth of this book; nor were its troubles
over when it made its first appearance in the world. The first edition,
printed and published by John Heywood of Manchester, at my own expense,
fell quite flat. The infant showed hardly any signs of life. The Press
ignored the book or jeered at it. I can only find one notice by a London
paper of the first year of its publication, and that is by the old
sixpenny _Graphic_ (of August 11, 1883), saying—not without a sort of
pleasant humour—that the phrases are “suggestive of a lunatic Ollendorf,
with stage directions,” and ending up with the admission that “the book
is truly mystic, wonderful—like nothing so much as a nightmare after too
earnest a study of the Koran!” The _Saturday Review_ got hold of the
_second_ edition, and devoted a long article (March 27, 1886) to slating
it and my socialist pamphlets (_Desirable Mansions_, etc.) as instances
of “the kind of teaching which is now commonly set before the more
ignorant classes, and which is probably accepted in good faith by not a
few among them. A haphazard collection of fallacies, to which the
semblance of a basis is given by half a dozen truisms, flavored by a
little Carlylese, or by diluted extracts of Walt Whitman ... such is the
compound which ‘cultivated’ Socialism offers as a new and saving faith
to the working classes, and of which the works before us offer a good
example.” Then follow severe comments on my absurd views about Usury and
the manners and customs of the Rich, and finally a long quotation from
_Towards Democracy_; of which book the writer says: “And this sort of
thing goes on through two hundred and fifty pages, the blank monotony of
which is only relieved here and there by a few passages which it would
be undesirable to quote, and which it is not wholesome to read.”
The London Press—when it did deign to notice my work—followed the same
sort of lead; and it was left (as usual) to comparative outsiders to
make any real discovery in the matter. Curiously enough, a very young
man (George Moore-Smith) in a long article in the _Cambridge Review_ of
November 14, 1883, led the way in drawing serious attention to the first
edition. The _Indian Review_ (Wm. Digby) of May 1885 had a remarkably
sympathetic and intelligent notice of the second edition, and I owe much
to my friend W. P. Byles’ introduction of the book to Northern readers
through the _Bradford Observer_ (of March 19, 1886); also to an article
by H. Rowlandson in _The Dublin University Review_ for April, 1886.
With the third edition (1892) a certain amount of timid acknowledgment
set in. Notices in a few more or less well-known papers were friendly
though brief and cautious, as with a scent of danger. The fourth and
complete edition did not appear till ten years later (1902), and by that
time the book had established itself. It had ceased to demand
Press-appreciations, favorable or otherwise; and so the critics—_very
luckily for themselves_—escaped, and have escaped, without ever having
had to give any sort of full pronouncement or verdict on the book!
To return to the first edition. I had only five hundred copies printed;
but at the end of two years when I had gathered material enough for a
second edition, there was still a hundred or so of these on hand. All
the same I did not feel any serious misgiving. I caused a thousand
copies to be printed of the second edition (260 pp.), sent them round to
the Press again, and waited. This was in 1885. If anything the reception
accorded was worse than before—in a sense worse—because there was more
of it! By 1892—when I needed to print a third edition—only some seven
hundred copies of the second edition had gone. Seven hundred in seven
years! The prospects were not good, yet I did not feel depressed. I had
certainly not expected any great sale; and there were even signs of
improvement. My _other_ books were beginning to attract a little
attention. It was obviously also hard on this book to have it published
in Manchester. So I determined to go to London. There was no possible
chance of getting a publisher there to take it as his own speculation;
so I went to Mr. Fisher Unwin and asked him to print at my expense and
sell it on commission—which he naturally was quite willing to do! The
book had now grown to 368 pp., and its price had to be raised from 2s.
6d. to 3s. 6d.; but its sales actually improved, and for two or three
years ranged at about two hundred copies a year. I began to think it was
just possible that my little bark would navigate itself, that it would
float out on deeper waters and into the world-current; when something
disastrous happened which left it in the shallows for quite a few years
longer.
That something was the Oscar Wilde trial or trials, which took place in
the spring of 1895; but to understand how they affected _Towards
Democracy_ I must go back a little. Early in 1894 I started writing a
series of pamphlets on sex-questions—those questions which at that time
were generally tabooed and practically not discussed at all, though they
now have become almost an obsession of the public mind. As pamphlets of
that kind would have no chance with the ordinary publishers, I got them
printed and issued by the Manchester Labour Press—a little association
for the spread of Socialist literature, on the committee of which I was.
The pamphlets were _Sex-love_, _Woman_, and _Marriage_; and they sold
pretty well—three or four thousand copies each. Encouraged by their
success I began early in ’95 to put them together, and add fresh matter
to them, till I had a book ready for publication—which I afterwards
entitled _Love’s Coming-of-Age_. This book I offered to Fisher Unwin (as
he was already selling _Towards Democracy_) and he accepted
it—undertaking to produce the book himself and give me a fair Royalty.
His Agreement was signed in June 1895.
Meanwhile, in January 1895 (though dated 1894) I issued from the Labour
Press, and in the same connection as the other pamphlets, a fourth one,
entitled _Homogenic Love_—which I suppose was among the first attempts
in this country to deal at all publicly with the problems of the
Intermediate Sex. I placed “printed for private circulation only” on the
Title-page, and had only a comparatively small number of copies struck
off—which were not sold but sent round pretty freely to those who I
thought would be interested in the subject or able to contribute views
or information upon it. My object in fact was to get in touch with
others and to obtain material for future study or publication. Even in
this quiet way the pamphlet created some alarm—and in the dove-cotes of
Fleet Street (as I heard) caused no little fluttering and agitation; but
it is quite possible the matter would have ended there, if it had not
been for the Oscar Wilde troubles. Wilde was arrested in April 1895 and
from that moment a sheer panic prevailed over _all_ questions of sex,
and especially of course questions of the Intermediate Sex.
I did not include _Homogenic Love_ in my proposed new book, nor had I
any intention of including it; but when the mere existence of the thing
came to the knowledge of Fisher Unwin he was so perturbed that he
actually cancelled his Agreement with me, with regard to the book
_Love’s Coming-of-Age_, and broke loose from it. It was in vain that I
tried to restrain him. He had got his leg over the trace, as it were,
and was ‘off.’ Indeed, he was quite willing to sacrifice the expense he
had already incurred (for the book was now partly set up) rather than go
on with it. Under the circumstances I could not, of course, very well
compel him to publish. Moreover I felt sorry for his perturbation, and
quite understood some of its causes. The extent of it was finally shown
by his going so far as to turn _Towards Democracy_ out of his shop, and
refuse to publish _that_ any longer!
Thus my two books _Love’s Coming-of-Age_ and _Towards Democracy_—like
two poor little orphans—were both out on the wide world again.
For the moment I will go on with _Love’s Coming-of-Age_. Being routed by
Fisher Unwin, I went to Sonnenschein, Bertram Dobell, and
others—altogether five or six publishers—but they all shook their heads.
The Wilde trial had done its work; and silence must henceforth reign on
sex-subjects.[19] There was nothing left for me but to return to my
little Labour Press at Manchester, and get the book printed and
published from there—which I did, the first edition being issued in
1896.
It is curious to think that that was not twenty years ago, and what a
landslide has occurred since then! In ’96 no ‘respectable’ publisher
would touch the volume, and yet to-day [1915] the tide of such
literature has flowed so full and fast that my book has already become
quite a little old-fashioned and demure! But the severe resistance and
rigidity of public opinion at the time made the volume very difficult to
write. The readiness, the absolute determination of people to
_misunderstand_ if they possibly could, rendered it very difficult to
guard against misunderstandings, and as a matter of fact nearly every
chapter in the book was written four or five times over before I was
satisfied with it.
_Love’s Coming-of-Age_ ought of course (like some parts of _England’s
Ideal_) to have been written by a woman; but, though I tried, I could
not get any of my women-friends to take the subject up, and so had to
deal with it myself. Ellen Key, in Sweden, began—I fancy about the same
period—writing that fine series of books on _Love_, _Marriage_,
_Childhood_, and so forth, which have done so much to illuminate the
Western World; but at that time I knew nothing of her and her work.
My book circulated almost immediately to some extent in the Socialistic
world, where my name was fairly well known; but some time elapsed before
it penetrated into more literary and more ‘respectable’ circles. One of
the first signs of its succeeding in the latter direction took a rather
amusing shape. I had, one day, to call upon a well-known London
publisher (who was already publishing some of my books, though he had
refused this particular one) on business, and having discussed the
matters immediately in hand, he presently turned to me and inquired how
my _Love’s Coming-of-Age_ was selling. I of course gave a fairly
favorable account. “I think,” said he in a somewhat chastened tone “that
perhaps we made rather a mistake in refusing some little time back to
take it up. A Sunday or two ago I was at church [probably a
Congregational or Unitarian Chapel], and the minister quoted a page or
two from your book, and spoke very highly of it, and actually gave the
published address and price, and all; and I saw quite a lot of people
noting the references down.” He paused, and then added, “Quite a good
advertisement—worth thirty or forty copies I daresay.” I could not help
smiling. No wonder he was sorry! But the story gave promise of better
things to come.
In 1902 the said publishing firm was glad to tale the book up and
publish it on commission for me—which they (and their successors) have
done ever since. And its sale in England (though not phenomenal like
that of the German translation) has, I must say, been very good.
To return to _Towards Democracy_. Considering its expulsion from Mr.
Fisher Unwin’s shop and the generally panicky condition of the book
market in London, there seemed nothing to do but to return to Manchester
and place it also in the hands of the little Labour Press for
publication. The two thousand or so copies remaining in Unwin’s hands
were my property, and I had only to remove them to Manchester, get a new
title-page printed, and have them issued from there. This I accordingly
did, and in ’96 the Labour Press edition appeared—368 pp., the same as
Fisher Unwin’s. Naturally the Labour Press connection was not very
favorable as regards circulation, and the price (3s. 6d.) was high for
Socialist and Labour circles. The spread of the book remained
slow—slower of course than it had been with Unwin, and hardly amounted
to a hundred copies a year.
This was bad; but worse remained behind. Somewhere early in 1901 the
Labour Press—whose financial affairs had never been very
satisfactory—went bankrupt! I knew of course what was pending; and as
the stock of _Towards Democracy_ belonged to _me_, and I knew that if
left at the Press it would be in danger of falling into the creditors’
hands, there was nothing left but to smuggle it away as soon as I could
into some place of safe keeping. Mr. James Johnston, City Councillor,
always a good friend, came to the rescue and offered me storage room in
his office. I hired a dray. And so one foggy day, with a good part of a
ton of _Towards Democracy_ on board—which I helped to load and unload—I
jogged with the drayman through the streets of Manchester amid the huge
turmoil of the cotton goods and other traffic. A strange load—and I
never before realized how heavy the book was!
It lay there for some months, and then about July of the same year I
made arrangements with Sonnenschein & Co. for them to sell the book on
commission, and the stock was transferred into their hands. From that
time its sales slowly went forward—from a hundred or a hundred and fifty
per annum in 1902, to eight hundred or nine hundred in 1910, when the
Sonnenschein business, and with it my book, passed into the hands of
George Allen & Co. In 1902 the fourth part of _Towards Democracy_, i.e.
“Who shall command the Heart” was published; and in 1905 this was
incorporated with the three former parts in one complete volume. Later
in the same year I succeeded (a long cherished project) in producing a
pocket edition of the whole on India paper, which has ever since sold
alongside and _pari passu_ with the Library edition. Thus after
twenty-one years (in 1902) these writings (begun in 1881) came to an
end; and three years later the book took its definite and permanent form
in print and binding, and some sort of rather indefinite place in the
world of letters.