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THE LIBRARY
OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

Landscape Architecture

GIFT OF
Frederick Law Olmsted
the Younger

 

THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

 

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

 

FIELD AND HEDGEROW:

LAST ESSAYS OF RICHARD ermuus.

Crown 8v0. 33.6(1.

London: LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
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STORY OF MY HEART

MY A U TOBI OGRAPH Y

BY

RICHARD ' JEFFERIES

AUTHOR OF
‘TEE GAMEKEEPER AT HOME’ ‘wum LIFE IN A SOUTHERN COUNTY ’
ETC.

Qfibirn «Enitinn

LONDON

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND 00.
AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET
1891

All rights reserved

LANDSCAPE
ARCHITECTURE.

'Bn’flmtznz press
DALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
EDINBURGH AND LONDON

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ENVI

PIKEBUXCEl

-—o<>o——

THE title of this book is ‘The Story of my
Heart: my Autobiography,’ but it is not an
autobiography in the ordinary sense of the
word. It contains no history of the events
of Richard J efl'eries’ life. It is in no way con—
cerned with his birth or his marriage, his
actions or his fortunes. All that is known of
these has been told in ‘ The Eulogy of
Richard Jefl'eries,’ by Walter Besant. Sum
lac/crymw rerum, as the ancient poet sang, and
for those Who have tears toshed, What story
is there more sure to ’draw them than that tale
of heroic struggle against the agony of disease,

of genius unappreciated until it was too late,

'fi854811

vi THE STORY OF .MY [HEART

 

of lofty aspirations and noble thought cut
short all too soon?

But none of these things are dwelt on in
‘ The Story of my Heart.’ Surely it is one of
the most singular books that man of genius
ever wrote. It is well described by its title.
It is an outpouring of Jefferies’ innermost
- soul. Like many another, he found himself at
odds with the world. He saw the beauty of
the land, the grandeur of the sea, the interest
of life—above all of human life—but he was
not satisfied. He longed for more beauty, a
fuller grandeur, a deeper interest. This feel—
ing completely mastered him, and in ‘The
Story of my Heart’ he poured out with what
strength and what skill he possessed the in-
tensity of his longing. In republishing such
a book it will not be thought out of place to
gather together such few scraps of his writing
as remain which seem to throw light on its

genesis and its meaning.

 

PRE FA CE _ vii

 

On June 22, 1883, Jefferies wrote as

follows :—
Savernake, Lorna Road, West Brighton:
June 22, 1883.

Dear Sir,—-Thank you for the concession—I
will write the story-sketches and send them. Men-
tally, the peasant paper is written: I mean it is
composed; the MS. shall reach you in good time.
I have just finished writing a book about which I
have been meditating seventeen years. I have called
it ‘ The Story of my Heart: an Autobiography,’
and it really is an autobiography, an actual
record of thought. After so much thinking it only
makes one small volume—there are no words wasted
in it. I do not know whether or no you would care
to see the MS; if so, I will forward it—I do not
mean for the Magazine. . . . I wonder if you would
like my autobiographical confessions.

I remain, faithfully yours,

RICHARD J EFFERIES.
C. J. Longman, Esq.

Jefi‘eries was born in 1848; so that he
must have begun thinking about this book
when he was eighteen years old.

On June 27, 1883, he wrote :—

viii THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

I have much pleasure in sending you the MS.
by letter post. My book is a real record—unsparing
to myself as to all things—absolutely and unflinch-
ingly true.

The book was accepted, and published in
due course.

On November 3, 1883, he wrote :—

Suvernako, Lorna Road, \Vest Brighton :
November 3, 1883.

Dear Sir,——Some time since I received a circular
asking for an analysis of ‘My Antobiography’ for
your ‘ Notes on Books.’ I have made several futile
attempts to concentrate in a, short note what I in-
tended to convey in the volume. I find it impossible
to do so. I have therefore endeavoured to place
myself as it were outside the book, and to look at it
as a stranger might. But even to do this I have
been obliged to make two short quotations, which I
hope is not contrary to your rules. My description
of the book is very imperfect; still, it is the best I
could do, for, in fact, to describe it properly would
need another book. If any of your Readers can write
a clearer description for me I should be much

obliged.

 

PREFACE ix

 

This explanation is necessary to account for my
delay in furnishing the required note.
I remain, faithfully yours,

RICHARD J EFFERIES.
C. J. Longman, Esq.

The analysis he drew up, which was
printed in ‘ Notes on Books ’ of November 30,

1883, was as follows:

‘This book is a confession. The Author describes
the successive stages of emotion and thought through
which he passed, till he arrived at the conclusions
which are set forth in the latter part of the volume.
He claims to have erased from his mind the traditions
and learning of the past ages, and to stand face to
face with nature and with the unknown. The
general aim of the work is to free thought from
every trammel, with the view of its entering upon
another and larger series of ideas than those which
have occupied the brain of man so many centuries.
He believes that there is a whole world of ideas
outside and beyond those which now exercise us.

‘ The Author’s ideas will be best illustrated by the
following extracts :—

‘ “ I remember a cameo of Augustus Caesar—the
head of the emperor is graven in delicate lines, and

x THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

shows the most exquisite proportions. It is a
balanced head, a head adjusted to the calmest
intellect. That head when it was living contained
a circle of ideas, the largest, the widest, the most
profound current in his time. All that philosophy
had taught, all that practice, experiment, and
empiricism had discovered, was familiar to him.
There was no knowledge in the ancient world but
what was accessible to the Emperor of Rome. NOW
at this day there are amongst us heads as finely
proportioned as that cut out in the cameo. Though
these living men do not possess arbitrary power, the
advantages of arbitrary power—as far as knowledge
is concerned—are secured to them by education, by
the printing—press, and the facilities of our era. It
is reasonable to imagine a head of our time filled
with the largest, the widest, the most profound ideas
current in the age. Augustus Czesar, however great
his intellect, could not in that balanced head have
possessed the ideas familiar enough to the living
head of this day. As we have a circle of ideas
unknown to Augustus Caesar, so I argue there are
whole circles of ideas unknown to us.”

‘ For himself, for the individual, the Author
desires physical perfection—he despises external
circumstances.

‘ “It is in myself that I desire increase, profit,

 

PREF A CE xi

 

and exaltation of body, mind, and soul. The sur-
roundings, the clothes, the dwelling, the social
status, the circumstances are to me utterly in-
different. Let the floor of the room be bare, let the
furniture be a plank table, the bed a mere pallet.
Let the house be plain and simple, but in the midst
of air and light. These are enough—a cave would
be enough ; in a warmer climate the open air would
suffice. Let me be furnished in myself with health,
safety, strength, the perfection of physical existence;
let my mind be furnished with highest thoughts of
soul-life. Let me be in myself myself fully. The
pageantry of power, the still more foolish pageantry
of wealth, the senseless precedence of place; I fail
words to express my utter contempt for such pleasure
or such ambitions.”

‘ From all nature—from the universe—he desires
to take its energy, grandeur, and beauty. He looks
forward to the possibility of ideal man, and adduces
reasons for the possibility of such ideal man living
in enjoyment of his faculties for a great length of
time. He is anxious that the culture of the soul
should be earnestly carried out, as earnestly as the
culture of the body was in ancient Greece, as that
of the mind is at the present day. So highly does
he place the soul, that if it can but retain its con-
sciousness and attain its desires he thinks it matters

in THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

not if the entire material world disappears. Yet the
work teems with admiration of material beauty. He
considers the idea of deity inferior, and believes that
there is something higher. He ends as be com-
mences With prayer for the fullest soul-life. The
book, in fact, might have been called an Auto-
biography of a Soul, or of Thought. It is not an
autobiography of the petty events of life; from the
Author’s point of View the soul is the man, and not
the clothes he wears.’

C. J. LONGMAN.

 

THE

STORY OF MY HEART

———o<>o—

CHAPTER I

THE story of my heart commences seventeen
years ago. In the glow of youth there were
times every now and then when I felt the
necessity of a strong inspiration of soul-
thought. My heart was dusty, parched for
want of the rain of deep feeling; my mind
arid and dry, for there is a dust which settles
on the heart as well as that which falls on a
. ledge. It is injurious to the mind as well as
to the body to be always in one place and
always surrounded by the same circum-
stances. A species of thick clothing slowly

B

V)

2 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

grows about the mind, the pores are choked,
little habits become a part of existence, and
by degrees the mind is inclosed in a husk.
When this began to form I felt eager to
escape from it, to throw it off like heavy

clothing, to drink deeply once more at the

 

fresh fountains of life. An inspiration a
long deep breath of the pure air of thought—
could alone give health to the heart.

There was a hill to which I used to resort
at such periods. The labour of walking three
miles to it, all the while gradually ascending,
seemed to clear my blood of the heaviness
accumulated at home. On a warm summer
day the slow continued rise required con-
tinual effort, which carried away the sense
of oppression. The familiar everyday scene
was soon out of sight; I came to other trees,
meadows, and fields; I began to breathe a
new air and to have a fresher aspiration. I

restrained my soul till I reached the sward

\'~

THE STORY OF MY HEART 3

 

of the hill; psyche, the soul that longed to
be loose. I would write psyche always
instead of soul to avoid meanings which
have become attached to the word soul, but
it is awkward to do so. Clumsy indeed are
all words the moment the wooden stage of
commonplace life is left. I restrained psyche,
my soul, till I reached and put my foot on
the grass at the beginning of the green hill
itself.

Moving up the sweet short turf, at every
step my heart seemed to obtain a wider
horizon of feeling; with every inhalation of
rich pure air, a deeper desire. The very
light of the sun was whiter and more brilliant
here. By the time I had reached the summit
I had entirely forgotten the petty circum—
stances and the annoyances of existence. I
felt myself, myself. There was an intrench—
ment on the summit, and going down into

the fosse I walked round it slowly to recover

132

4 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

breath. On the south-western side there was
a spot where the outer bank had partially
slipped, leaving a gap. There the View was
over a broad plain, beautiful with wheat, and
inclosed by a perfect amphitheatre of green
hills. Through these hills there was one
narrow groove, or pass, southwards, where
' the white clouds seemed to close in the
horizon. Woods hid the scattered hamlets
and farmhouses, so that I was quite alone.

I was utterly alone with the sun and the
earth. Lying down on the grass, I spoke in
my soul to the earth, the sun, the air, and
the distant sea far beyond sight. I thought
of the earth’s firmness—I felt it bear me up;
through the grassy couch there came an
influence as if I could feel the great earth
speaking to me. I thought of the wandering
air—its pureness, which is its beauty; the
air touched me and gave me something of

itself. I spoke to the sea: though so far, in

THE STORY OF MY HEART 5

 

my mind I saw it, green at the rim of the
earth and blue in deeper ocean; I desired
to have its strength, its mystery and glory.
Then I addressed the sun, desiring the soul
equivalent of his light and brilliance, his
endurance and unwearied race. I turned to
the blue heaven over, gazing into its depth,
inhaling its exquisite colour and sweetness.
The rich blue of the unattainable flower of
the sky drew my soul towards it, and there it
rested, for pure colour is rest of heart. By
all these I prayed; I felt an emotion of the
soul beyond all definition; prayer is a puny
thing to it, and the word is a rude sign to the
feeling, but I know no other.

By the blue heaven, by the rolling sun
bursting through untrodden space, a new
ocean of ether every day unveiled. By the

fresh and wandering air encompassing the
world; by the sea sounding on the shore—

the green sea white—flecked at the margin and

6 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

the deep ocean; by the strong earth under
me. Then, returning, I prayed by the sweet

thyme, whose little flowers I touched with
my hand; by the slender grass; by the
crumble of dry chalky earth I took up and
let fall through my fingers. Touching the
crumble of earth, the blade of grass, the
' thyme flower, breathing the earth—encircling
. air, thinking of the sea and the sky, holding
out my hand for the sunbeams to touch
it, prone on the sward in token of deep
reverence, thus I prayed that I might touch
to the unutterable existence infinitely higher
than deity.

With all the intensity of feeling which
exalted me, all the intense communion I held
with the earth, the sun and sky, the stars
hidden by the light, with the ocean—in no
manner can the thrilling depth of these
feelings be written—With these I prayed, as

if they were the keys of an instrument, of an

THE STORY OF MY HEART 7

 

organ, with which I swelled forth the notes
of my soul, redoubling my own voice by
their power. The great sun burning with
light; the strong earth, dear earth; the
warm sky; the pure air; the thought of
ocean; the inexpressible beauty of all filled
me with a rapture, an ecstasy, an inflatus.
With this inflatus, too, I prayed. Next to
myself I came and recalled myself, my bodily
existence. I held out my hand, the sunlight
gleamed on the skin and the iridescent nails;
f I recalled the mystery and beauty of the
~flesh. I thought of the mind with which I
could see the ocean sixty miles distant, and
gather to myself its glory. I thought of my
inner existence, that consciousness which is
called the soul. These, that is, myself—I
threw into the balance to weigh the prayer
the heavier. My strength of body, mind and
soul, I flung into it; I put forth my strength ;

I wrestled and laboured, and toiled in might

8 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

of prayer. The prayer, this soul-emotion
was in itself—not for an object—it was a
passion. I hid my face in the grass, I was
wholly prostrated, I lost myself in the wrestle,
I was rapt and carried away.

Becoming calmer, I returned to myself
and thought, reclining in rapt thought, full
‘ of aspiration, steeped to the lips of my soul
in desire. I did not then define, or analyse,
or understand this. I see now that what I
laboured for was soul-life, more soul—nature,
to be exalted, to be full of soul—learning.
Finally I rose, walked half a mile or so along
the summit of the hill eastwards, to soothe
myself and come to the common ways of life
again. Had any shepherd accidentally seen
me lying on the turf, he would only have
thought that I was resting a few minutes; I
made no outward show. \Vho could have
imagined the whirlwind of passion that was

going on within me as I reclined there! I

THE STORY OF MY HEART 9

 

was greatly exhausted when I reached home.
Occasionally I went upon the hill deliberately,
deeming it good to do so; then, again, this
craving carried me away up there of itself.
Though the principal feeling was the same,
there were variations in the mode in which
it affected me.

Sometimes on lying down on the sward I
first looked up at the sky, gazing for a long
time till I could see deep into the azure and
my eyes were full of the colour; then I turned
my face to the grass and thyme, placing my
hands at each side of my face so as to shut
out everything and hide myself. Having

drunk deeply of the heaven above and felt
the most glorious beauty of the day, and

remembering the old, old sea, which (as it
seemed to me) was but just yonder at the
edge, I now became lost, and absorbed into
the being or existence of the universe. I felt

down deep into the earth under, and high

10 THE STORY OF .MY IIEART

 

above into the sky, and farther still to the
sun and stars. Still farther beyond the stars
into the hollow of space, and losing thus my
scparateness of being came to seem like a
part of the Whole. Then I Whispered to the
earth beneath, through the grass and thyme,
down into the depth of its ear, and again up to
the starry Space hid behind the blue of day.
Travelling in an instant across the distant sea,
I saw as if with actual Vision the palms and
cocoanut trees, the bamboos of India, and
the cedars of the extreme south. Like a lake
with islands the ocean lay before me, as clear
and Vivid as the plain beneath in the midst of
the amphitheatre of hills.

With the glory of the great sea, I said;
with the firm, solid, and sustaining earth;
the depth, distance, and expanse of ether;
the age, tamelessness, and ceaseless motion
of the ocean; the stars, and the unknown

in space ; by all those things which are most

THE STORY OF MY HEART II

 

powerful known to me, and by those which
exist, but of which I have no idea whatever,
I pray. Further, by my own soul, that secret
existence which above all other things bears
the nearest resemblance to the ideal of spirit,
infinitely nearer than earth, sun, or star.
Speaking by an inclination towards, not in
words, my soul prays that I may have some-
thing from each of these, that I may gather
a flower from them, that I may have in
myself the secret and meaning of the earth,
the golden sun, the light, the foam—flecked
sea. Let my soul become enlarged; I am
not enough; I am little and contemptible. I
desire a greatness of soul, an irradiance of
mind, a deeper insight, a broader hope.
Give me power of soul, so that I may
actually effect by its will that which I strive
for.

In winter, though I could not then rest

on the grass, or stay long enough to form

12 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

any definite expression, I still went up to
the hill once now and then, for it seemed
that to merely visit the spot repeated all that
I had previously said. But it was not only
then.

In summer I went out into the fields,
and let my soul inspire these thoughts under
the trees, standing against the trunk, or look-
ing up through the branches at the sky.
If trees could speak, hundreds of them would
say that I had had these soul-emotions under
them. Leaning against the oak’s massive
trunk, and feeling the rough bark and the
lichen at my back, looking southwards over
the grassy fields, cowslip—yellow, at the woods
on the slope, I thought my desire of deeper
soul-life. Or under the green firs, looking
upwards, the sky was more deeply blue at
their tops; then the brake fern was unroll—
ing, the doves cooing, the thickets astir, the

late ash-leaves coming forth. Under the

THE STORY OF [MY HEART I3

 

shapely rounded elms, by the hawthorn
bushes and hazel, everywhere the same deep
desire for the soul-nature; to have from all
green things and from the sunlight the inner
meaning which was not known to them, that
I might be full of light as the woods of the
sun’s rays. Just to touch the lichened bark
of a tree, or the end of a spray projecting
over the path as I walked, seemed to repeat
the same prayer in me.

The long-lived summer days dried and
warmed the turf in the meadows. I used to
lie down in solitary corners at full length on
my back, so as to feel the embrace of the
earth. The grass stood high above me, and
the shadows of the tree-branches danced on
my face. I looked up at the sky, with half-
closed eyes to bear the dazzling light. Bees
buzzed over me, sometimes a butterfly passed,
there was a hum in the air, greenfinches sang

in the hedge. ‘ Gradually entering into the

14 THE STORY OF IVY HEART

 

intense life of the summer days—a life which
burned around as if every grass blade and
leaf were a torch—I came to feel the long-
drawn life of the earth back into the dimmest
past, while the sun of the moment was warm
on me. ' Sesostris on the most ancient sands
of the south, in ancient, ancient days, was
conscious of himself and of the sun. This
sunlight linked me through the ages to that
past consciousness. From all the ages my
soul desired to take that soul-life which had
flowed through them as the sunbeams had
continually poured on earth. As the hot
sands take up the heat, so would I take up
that soul—energy. Dreamy in appearance, I
was breathing full of existence ; I was aware
of the grass—blades, the flowers, the leaves on
hawthorn and tree. I seemed to live more
largely through them, as if each were a pore
through which I drank. The grasshoppers

called and leaped, the greenfinehes sang, the

THE STORY OF MY HEART 15

 

blackbirds happily fluted, all the air hummed
with life. I was plunged deep in existence,
and with all that existence I prayed.

Through every grass—blade in the thousand,
thousand grasses; through the million leaves,
veined and edge-cut, on bush and tree; through
the song—notes and the marked feathers of the
birds ; through the insects’ hum and the colour
of the butterflies ; through the soft warm air,
the flecks of clouds dissolving—I used them all
for prayer. With all the energy the sun—
beams had poured unwearied on the earth
since Sesostris was conscious of them on the
ancient sands ; with all the life that had been
lived by vigorous man and beauteous woman
since first in dearest Greece the dream of
the gods was woven ; with all the soul—life
that had flowed a long stream down to me,
I prayed that I might have a soul more than
equal to, far beyond my conception of, these

things of the past, the present, and the ful-

I6 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

ness of all life. Not only equal to these, but
beyond, higher, and more powerful than I
could imagine. That I might take from all
their energy, grandeur, and beauty, and
gather it into me. That my soulmight be
more than the cosmos of life.

I prayed with the glowing clouds of sun-
set and the soft light of the first star coming
through the Violet sky. At night with the
stars, according to the season: now with the
Pleiades, now with the Swan or burning
Sirius, and broad Orion’s whole constellation,
red Aldebaran, Arcturus, and the Northern
Crown; with the morning star, the light-
bringer, once now and then when I saw it, a
white—gold ball in the violet-purple sky, or
framed about with pale summer vapour float-
ing away as red streaks shot horizontally in
the east. A diffused saffron ascended into
the luminous upper azure. The disk of the

sun rose over the hill, fluctuating with throbs

THE STORY OF MY HEART I7

 

of light; his chest heaved in fervour of bril—
lianee. All the glory of the sunrise filled me
with broader and furnace-like vehemence of
prayer. That I might have the deepest of
soul—life, the deepest of all, deeper far than
all this greatness of the Visible universe and
even of the invisible; that I might have a
fulness of soul till now unknown, and utterly
beyond my own conception.

In the deepest darkness of the night the
same thought rose in my mind as in the
bright light of noontide. What is there
which I have not used to strengthen the

same emotion P

18 THE STORY OF IIIY HEART

 

CHAPTER II

SOMETIMES I went to a deep, narrow valley
in the hills, silent and solitary. The sky
crossed from side to side, like a roof supported
011 two walls of green. Sparrows chirped in
the wheat at the verge above, their calls fall-
ing like the twittering of swallows from the
air. There was no other sound. The short
grass was dried grey as it grew by the heat;
the sun hung over the narrow vale as if it
had been put there by hand. Burning, burn-
ing, the sun glowed on the sward at the foot
of the slope where these thoughts burned
into me. How many, many years, how

many cycles of years, how many bundles of

THE STORY OF All” HEART 19

 

cycles of years, had the sun glowed down
thus on that hollow? Since it was formed
how long? Since it was worn and shaped,
groove—like, in the flanks of the hills by mighty
forces which had ebbed. Alone with the
sun which glowed on the work when it was
done, I saw back through space to the old
time of tree—ferns, of the lizard flying through
the air, the lizard—dragon wallowing in sea
foam, the mountainous creatures, twice—
elephantine, feeding on land; all the crooked
sequence of life. The dragon—fly which
passed me traced a continuous descent from
the fly marked on stone in those days. The
immense time lifted me like a wave rolling
under a boat; my mind seemed to raise itself
as the swell of the cycles came; it felt strong
with the power of the ages. With all that
time and power I prayed: that I might have
in my soul the intellectual part of it; the

idea, the thought. Like a shuttle the mind
C2

20 THE STORY OF All” HEART

 

shot to and fro the past and the present, in
an instant.

Full to the brim of the wondrous past, I
felt the wondrous present. For the day—the
very moment I breathed, that second of time
then in the valley, was as marvellous, as
grand, as all that had gone before. Now,
this moment was the wonder and the glory.
Now, this moment‘was exceedingly wonder—
ful. Now, this moment give me all the
thought, all the idea, all the soul expressed in
the cosmos around me. Give me still more,
for the interminable universe, past and pre-
sent, is but earth; give me the unknown
soul, wholly apart from it, the soul of
which I know only that when I touch the
ground, when the sunlight touches my hand,
it is not there. Therefore the heart looks
into space to be away from earth. With
all the cycles, and the sunlight streaming

through them, with all that is meant by the

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 2!

 

present, I thought in the deep vale and
prayed.

There was a secluded spring to which I
sometimes went to drink the pure water,
lifting it in the hollow of my hand. Drinking
the lucid water, clear as light itself in solu—
tion, I absorbed the beauty and purity of it.
I drank the thought of the element ; I desired
soul—nature pure and limpid. When I saw
the sparkling dew on the grass—a rainbow
broken into drops—it called up the same
thought—prayer. The stormy wind whose
sudden twists laid the trees on the ground
woke the same feeling; my heart shouted
with it. The soft summer air which entered
when I opened my window in the morning
breathed the same sweet desire. At night,
before sleeping, I always looked out at the
shadowy trees, the hills looming indistinctly
in the dark, a star seen between the drifting

clouds; prayer of soul—life always. I chose

22 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

the highest room, bare and gaunt, because
as I sat at work I could look out and see
more of the wide earth, more of the dome I
of the sky, and could think my desire
through these. When the crescent of the
new moon shone, all the old thoughts were
renewed. '

All the succeeding incidents of the year
repeated my prayer as I noted them. The
first green leaf on the hawthorn, the first
spike of meadow grass, the first song of the
nightingale, the green car of wheat. I spoke
it with the ear of wheat as the sun tinted it
golden; with the whitening barley; again
with the red gold Spots of autumn on the
beech, the buff oak leaves, and the gossamer
dew—weighted. All the larks over the green
corn sang it for me, all the dear swallows;
the green leaves rustled it; the green brook—
flags waved it; the swallows took it with

them to repeat it for me in distant lands.

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 23

 

By the running brook I meditated it; a flash
of sunlight here in the curve, a flickeriyonder
on the ripples, the birds bathing in the sandy
shallow, the rush of falling water. As the
brook ran winding through the meadow, so
one thought ran winding through my days.

The sciences I studied never checked it
for a moment; nor did the books of old
philosophy. The sun was stronger than
science; the hills more than philosophy.
Twice circumstances gave me a brief View of
the sea ; then the passion rose tumultuous as
the waves. It was very bitter to me to leave
the sea.

Sometimes I spent the whole day walking
over the hills searching for it; as if the
labour of walking would force it from the
ground. I remained in the woods for hours,
among the ash sprays and the fluttering of
the ring-doves at their nests, the scent of

pmes here and there, dreamlng my prayer.

24 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

My work was most uncongenial and use—
less, but even then sometimes a gleam of
sunlight on the wall, the buzz of a bee at the
window, would bring the thought to me.
Only to make me miserable, for it was a
waste of golden time while the rich sunlight
streamed on hill and plain. There was a
wrenchng of the mind, a straining of the
mental sinews; I was forced to do this, my
mind was yonder. Weariness, exhaustion,
nerve—illness often ensued. The insults which
are showered on poverty, long struggle of
labour, the heavy pressure of circumstances,
the unhappiness, only stayed the expression
of the feeling. It was always there. Often
in the streets of London, as the red sunset
flamed over the houses, the old thought, the
old prayer, came.

Not only in grassy fields with green leaf
and running brook did this constant desire

find renewal. More deeply still with living

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 25

 

human beauty; the perfection of form, the
simple fact of form, ravished and always will
ravish me away. In this lies the outcome
and end of all the loveliness of sunshine and
green leaf, of flowers, pure water, and sweet
air. This is embodiment and highest ex—
pression; the scattered, uncertain, and de-
signless loveliness of tree and sunlight
brought to shape. Through this beauty I
prayed deepest and longest, and down to this
hour. The shape—the divine idea of that
shape—the swelling muscle or the dreamy
limb, strong sinew or curve of bust, Aphro-
dite or Hercules, it is the same. That I may
have the soul—life, the soul-nature, let divine
beauty bring to me divine soul. Swart
Nubian, white Greek, delicate Italian, mas-
sive Scandinavian, in all the exquisite
pleasure the form gave, and gives, to me
immediately becomes intense prayer.

If I could have been in physical shape

26 THE STORY OF [MY [HEART

 

like these, how despicable in comparison I
am; to be shapely of form is so infinitely
beyond wealth, power, fame, all that ambition
can give, that these are dust before it. Un—
less of the human form, no pictures hold
me; the rest are flat surfaces. So, too, with
the other arts, they are dead; the potters,
the architects, meaningless, stony, and some
repellent, like the cold touch of porcelain.
N o prayer with these. Only the human form
in art could raise it, and most in statuary. I
have seen so little good statuary, it is a regret
to me; still, that I have is beyond all other
art. Fragments here, a bust yonder, the
broken pieces brought from Greece, copies,
plaster casts, a memory of an Aphrodite, of a
Persephone, of an Apollo, that is all; but
even drawings of statuary will raise the
prayer. These statues were like myself full
of a thought, for ever about to burst forth as

a bud, yet silent in the same attitude. Give

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 27

me to live the soul—life they express. The
smallest fragment of marble carved in the
shape of the human arm will wake the desire
I felt in my hill—prayer.

Time went on; good fortune and success
never for an instant deceived me that they
were in themselves to be sought; only my
soul-thought was worthy. Further years
bringing much suffering, grinding the very
life out; new troubles, renewed insults, loss
of What hard labour had earned, the bitter
question: Is it not better to leap into the
sea? These, too, have made no impression;
constant still to the former prayer my mind
endures. It was my chief regret that I
had not endeavoured to write these things, to
give expression to this passion. I am now
trying, but I see that I shall only in part
succeed.

The same prayer comes to me at this very

hour. It is now less solely associated with

28 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

the sun and sea, hills, woods, or beauteous
human shape. It is always within. It re—
quires no waking; no renewal; it is always
With me. I am it; the fact of my existence
expresses it.

After a long interval I came to the hills
again, this time by the coast. I found a deep
hollow on the side of a great hill, a green
concave opening to the sea, where I could
rest and think in perfect quiet. Behind me
were furze bushes dried by the heat; immedi—
ately in front dropped the steep descent of
the bowl—like hollow which received and
brought up to me the faint sound of the
summer waves. Yonder lay the immense
plain of sea, the palest green under the con—
tinued sunshine, as though the heat had
evaporated the colour from it; there was no
distinct horizon, a heat—mist inclosed it and
looked farther away than the horizon would

have done. Silence and sunshine, sea and

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 29

 

hill gradually brought my mind into the con—
dition of intense prayer. Day after day, for
hours at a time, I came there, my soul-desire
always the same. Presently I began to con—
sider 110w I could put a part of that prayer
into form, giving it an object. Could I bring
it into such a shape as would admit of
actually working upon the lines it indicated
for any good?

One evening, when the bright white star
in Lyra was shining almost at the zenith over
me, and the deep concave was the more pro—
found in the dusk, I formulated it into three
divisions. First, I desired that I might do or
find something to exalt the soul, something to
enable it to live'its own life, a more powerful
existence now. Secondly, I desired to be able
to do something for the flesh, to make a dis—
covery or perfect a method by which the
fieshly body might enjoy more pleasure,

longer life, and suffer less pain. Thirdly, to

30 THE STORY OF IVY HEART

 

construct a more flexible engine with which
to carry into execution the design of the will.
I called this the Lyra prayer, to distinguish it
from the far deeper emotion in which the soul
was alone concerned.

Of the three divisions, the last was of so
little importance that it scarcely deserved to
be named in conjunction with the others.
Mechanism increases convenience—in no
degree does it confer physical or moral per-
fection. The rudimentary engines employed
thousands of years ago in raising buildings
were in that respect equal to the complicated
machines of the present day. Control of iron
and steel has not altered or improved the
bodily man. I even debated some time
whether such a third division should be in-
cluded at all. Our bodies are now conveyed
all round the world with ease, but obtain no
advantage. As they start so they return.

The most perfect human families of ancient

THE STORY OF IVY HEART 31

 

times were almost stationary, as those of
Greece. Perfection of form was found in
Sparta; how small a spot compared to those
continents over which we are now taken so
quickly! Such perfection of form might
perhaps again dwell, contented and complete
in itself, on such a strip of land as I could
see between me and the sand of the sea.
Again, a watch keeping correct time is no
guarantee that the bearer shall not suffer
pain. The owner of the watch may be soul-
less, without mind—fire, a mere creature. No
benefit to the heart or to the body accrues
from the most accurate mechanism. Hence
I debated whether the third division should
be included. But I reflected that time cannot
be put back on the dial, we cannot return to
Sparta; there is an existent state of things,
and existent multitudes ; and possibly a more
powerful engine, flexible to the will, might

give them that freedom which is the one, and

32 THE STORY OF AIY [IE/113T

the one only, political or social idea I possess.
For liberty, therefore, let it be included.

For the flesh, this arm of mine, the limbs
of others gracefully moving, let me find
something that will give them greater per—
fection. That the bones may be firmer,
somewhat larger if that would be an advan-
tage, certainly stronger, that the cartilage
and sinews may be more enduring, and the
muscles more powerful, something after the
manner of those ideal limbs and muscles
sculptured of old, these in the flesh and real.
That the organs of the body may be stronger
in their action, perfect, and lasting. That
the exterior flesh may be yet more beautiful;
that the shape may be finer, and the motions
graceful. These are the soberest words I can
find, purposely chosen ; for I am so rapt in the
beauty of the human form, and so earnestly,
so inexpressibly, prayerful to see that form

perfect, that my full thought is not to be

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 33

 

written. Unable to express it fully, I have
considered it best to put it in the simplest
manner of words. I believe in the human
form; let me find something, some method,
by which that form may achieve the utmost
beauty. Its beauty is like an arrow, which
may be shot any distance according to the
strength of the bow. So the idea expressed
in the human shape is capable of indefinite
expansion and elevation of beauty.

Of the mind, the inner consciousness, the
soul, my prayer desired that I might discover
a mode of life for it, so that it might not only
conceive of such a life, but actually enjoy it
on the earth. I wished to search out a new
and higher set of ideas on which the mind
should work. The simile of a new book of
the soul is the nearest to convey the meaning
—a book drawn from the present and future,
not the past. Instead of a set of ideas based
on tradition, let me give the mind a new

D

34 THE STORY OF IVY HEART

 

‘ thought drawn straight from the wondrous
present, direct this very hour. Next, to
furnish the soul with the means of executing
its will, of carrying thought into action. In
other words, for the soul to become a power.
These three formed the Lyra prayer, of which
the two first are immeasurably the more
important. I believe in the human being,
mind and flesh; form and soul.

It happened just afterwards that I went
to Pevensey, and immediately the ancient
wall swept my mind back seventeen hundred
years to the eagle, the pilum, and the short
sword. The grey stones, the thin red bricks
laid by those whose eyes had seen Caesar’s
Rome, lifted me out of the grasp of house—
life, of modern civilisation, of those minutiae
which occupy the moment. The grey stone
made me feel as if I had existed from then
till now, so strongly did I enter into and see

my own life as if reflected. My own exist-

THE STORY OF MY HEART 35

 

ence was focussed back on me; I saw its
joy, its unhappiness, its birth, its death, its
possibilities among the infinite, above all its
yearning Question. Why? Seeing it thus
clearly, and lifted out of the moment by
the force of seventeen centuries, I recognised
the full mystery and the depth of things in
the root-s of the dry grass on the wall, in the
green sea flowing near. Is there anything I
can do? The mystery and the possibilities
are not in the roots of the grass, nor is the
depth of things in the sea; they are in my
existence, in my soul. The marvel of exist-
ence, almost the terror of it, was flung on me
with crushing force by the sea, the sun
shining, the distant hills. With all their pon-
derous weight they made me feel myself: all
the time, all the centuries made me feel my-
self this moment a hundred-fold. I determined
that I would endeavour to write what I had
so long thought of, and the same evening

D2

36 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

put down one sentence. There the sentence
remained two years. I tried to carry it on;
I hesitated because I could not express it:
nor can I now, though in desperation I am
throwing these rude stones of thought to-

gether, rude as those of the ancient wall.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 37

 

CHAPTER III

THERE were grass—grown tumuli on the hills
to which of old I used to walk, sit down at
the foot of one of them, and think. Some
warrior had been interred there in the ante—
historic times. The sun of the summer morn-
ing shone on the dome of sward, and the air
came softly up from the wheat below, the tips
of the grasses swayed as it passed sighing
faintly, it ceased, and the bees hummed by
to the thyme and heathbells. I became ab—
sorbed in the glory of the day, the sunshine,

the sweet air, the yellowing corn turning

from its sappy green to summer’s noon of

gold, the lark’s song like a waterfall in the

sky. I felt at that moment that I was like

.1

38 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

the spirit of the man whose body was in»

terred in the tumulus; I could understand
and feel his existence the same as my own.
He was as real to me two thousand years
after interment as those I had seen in the
body. The abstract personality of the dead
seemed as existent as thought. As my
thought could slip back the twenty centuries
in a moment to the forest—days when he
hurled the spear, or shot with the bow, hunt-
ing the deer, and could return again as
swiftly to this moment, so his spirit could
endure from then till now, and the time
was nothing.

Two thousand years being a second to
the soul could not cause its extinction. It
was no longer to the soul than my thought
occupied to me. Recognising my own inner
consciousness, the psyche, so clearly, death
did not seem to me to afl‘ect the personality.

In dissolution there was no bridgeless chasm,

THE STORY OF MY HEART 39

 

no unfathomable gulf of separation; the
spirit did not immediately become inaccess—
ible, leaping at a bound to an immeasurable
distance. Look at another person While
living; the soul is not visible, only the body
which it animates. Therefore, merely be—
cause after death the soul is not visible is
no demonstration that it does not still live.
The condition of being unseen is the same
condition which occurs while the body ' is
living, so that intrinsically there is nothing
exceptional, or supernatural, in the life of the
soul after death. Resting by the tumulus,
the spirit of the man who had been interred
there was to me really alive, and very close.
This was quite natural, as natural and simple
as the grass waving in the Wind, the bees
humming, and the larks’ songs. Only by
the strongest effort of the mind could I
understand the idea of extinction; that was

supernatural, requiring a miracle; the im-

46 T11]? STORY OF MY HEART

 

mortality of the soul natural, like earth.
Listening to the sighing of the grass I felt
immortality as I felt the beauty of the
summer morning, and I thought beyond
immortality, of other conditions, more beau-
tiful than existence, higher than immor—
tality.

That there is no knowing, in the sense
of written reasons, whether the soul lives
on or not, I am fully aware. I do not hope
or fear. At least while I am living I have
enjoyed the idea of immortality, and the idea
of my own soul. If then, after death, I am
resolved without exception into earth, air,
and water, and the spirit goes out like a
flame, still I shall have had the glory of that
thought.

It happened once that a man was drowned
while bathing, and his body was placed in an
outhouse near the garden. I passed the out-

house continually, sometimes on purpose to

THE STORY OF MY HEART 4t

 

think about it, and it always seemed to me
that the man was still living. Separation is
not to be comprehended; the spirit of the
man did not appear to have gone to an in-
conceivable distance. As my thought flashes
itself back through the centuries to the
luxury of Canopus, and can see the gilded
couches of a city extinct, so it slips through
the future, and immeasurable time in front is
no boundary to it. Certainly the man was
not dead to me.

Sweetly the summer air came up to the
tumulus, the grass sighed softly, the butter—
flies went by, sometimes alighting on the
green dome. Two thousand years! Summer
after summer the blue butterflies had visited
the mound, the thyme had flowered, the
wind sighed in the grass. The azure morn-
ing had spread its arms over the low tomb;
and full glowing noon burned on it; the

purple of sunset rosied the sward. Stars,

42 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

ruddy in the vapour of the southern horizon,
beamed at midnight through the mystic
summer night, which is dusky and yet full Of
light. White mists swept up and hid it;
dews rested on the turf; tender harebells
drooped; the wings of the finches fanned the
air—finches whose colours faded from the
‘ wings how many centuries ago! Brown
autumn dwelt in the woods beneath; the
rime of winter whitened the beech clump on
the ridge; again the buds came on the wind-
blown hawthorn bushes, and in the evening
the broad constellation of Orion covered the
east. Two thousand times! Two thousand
times the woods grew green, and ring—doves
built their nests. Day and night for two
thousand years—light and shadow sweeping
over the mound—two thousand years of
labour by day and slumber by night. Mys—
tery gleaming in the stars, pouring down in

the sunshlne, speaking 1n the night, the

THE STORY OF MY HEART 43

 

wonder of the sun and of far space, for
twenty centuries round about this low and
green-grown dome. Yet all that mystery
and wonder is as nothing to the Thought
that lies therein, to the spirit that I feel so
close.

Realising that spirit, recognising my own
inner consciousness, the psyche, so clearly, I
cannot understand time. It is eternity now.
I am in the midst of it. It is about me in
the sunshine ; I am in it, as the butterfly floats
in the light—laden air. Nothing has to come;
it is now. Now is eternity; now is the
immortal life. Here this moment, by this
tumulus, on earth, now; I exist in it. The
years, the centuries, the cycles are absolutely
nothing; it is only a moment since this
tumulus was raised; in a thousand years
more it will still be only a moment. To
the soul there is no past and no future; all

is and will be ever, in now. For artificial

 

44 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

purposes time is mutually agreed on, but
there is really no such thing. The shadow
goes on upon the dial, the index moves round
upon the clock, and what is the'difference?
None whatever. If the clock had never been
set going, what would have been the differ—
ence? There may be time for the clock,
‘ the clock may make time for itself: there is
none for me.

I dip my hand in the brook and feel the
stream; in an instant the particles of water
which first touched me have floated yards
down the current, my hand remains there.
I take my hand away, and the flow—the time
-——of the brook does not exist to me. The
great clock of the firmament, the sun and the
stars, the crescent moon, the earth circling
two thousand times, is no more to me than
the flow of the brook when my hand is with-
drawn; my soul has never been, and never

can be, dipped in time. Time has never

THE STORY OF MY HEART 45

 

existed, and never will; it is a purely arti-
ficial arrangement. It is eternity now, it
always was eternity, and always will be. By
no possible means could I get into time if I
tried. I am in eternity now and must there
remain. Haste not, be at rest, this Now is
eternity. Because the idea of time has left
my mind—if ever it had any hold on
it—to me the man interred in the tumulus
is living now as I live. We are both in
eternity.

There is no separation-é—no past; eternity,
the Now, is continuous. When all the stars
have revolved they only produce N ow again.
The continuity of Now is for ever. So that it
appears to me purely natural, and not super-
natural, that the soul whose temporary frame
was interred. in this mound should be existing
as I sit on the sward. How infinitely deeper is
thought than the million miles of the firma-

ment! The wonder is here, not there; now,

 

 

46 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

not to be, now always. Things that have been
miscalled supernatural appear to me simple,
more natural than nature, than earth, than sea,
or sun. It is beyond telling more natural
that I should have a soul than not, that there
should be immortality; I think there is much
more than immortality. It is matter which is
the supernatural, and difficult of understand—
ing. Why this clod of earth I hold in my
hand? Why this water which drops spark-
ling from my fingers dipped in the brook?
Why are they at all? When? How?
What for? Matter is beyond understanding,
mysterious, impenetrable; I touch it easily,
comprehend it, no. Soul, mind—the thought,
the idea—is easily understood, it understands
itself and is conscious.

The supernatural miscalled, the natural in
truth, is the real. To me everything is
supernatural. How strange that condition

of mind which cannot accept anything but

YHE STORY OF [MY HEART 47

 

the earth, the sea, the tangible universe 1
Without the misnamed supernatural these
to me seem incomplete, unfinished. Without
soul all these are dead. Except when I walk
by the sea, and my soul is by it, the sea
is dead. Those seas by which no man has
stood—by which no soul has been—whether
on earth or the planets, are dead. N o matter
how majestic the planet rolls in space, unless
a soul be there it is dead. As I move about
in the sunshine I feel in the midst of the
supernatural : in the midst of immortal things.
It is impossible to wrest the mind down to
the same laws that rule pieces of timber, water,
or earth. They do not control the soul, how-
ever rigidly they may bind matter. So full
am-I always of a sense of the immortality now
at this moment round about me, that it would
not surprise me in the least if a circumstance
outside physical experience occurred. It

would seem to me quite natural. Give the

48 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

soul the power it conceives, and there would
be nothing wonderful in it.

I can see nothing astonishing in what
are called miracles. Only those who are
mesmerised by matter can find a difficulty
in such events. I am aware that the evi-
dence for miracles is logically and histori-
cally untrustworthy; I am not defending
recorded miracles. My point is that in prin—
ciple I see no reason at all why they should
not take place this day. I do not even say
that there are or ever have been miracles,
but I maintain that they would be perfectly
natural. The wonder rather is that they do
not happen frequently. Consider the limit-
less conceptions of the soul: let it possess
but the power to realise those conceptions for
one hour, and how little, how trifling would
be the helping of the injured or the sick to
regain health and happiness—merely to think

it A soul—work would require but a thought.

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 49

 

Soul-work is an expression better suited to
my meaning than ‘miracle,’ a term like
others into which a special sense has been
infused.

When I consider that I dwell this moment
in the eternal Now that has ever been and
will be, that I am in the midst of immortal
things this moment, that there probably are
, Souls as infinitely superior to mine as mine
to a piece of timber, what then, pray, is a
‘miracle ’? As commonly understood, a
‘ miracle ’ is a mere nothing. I can conceive
soul—works done by simple will or thought a
thousand times greater. I marvel that they
do not happen this moment. The air, the
sunlight, the night, all that surrounds me
seems crowded with ineXpressible powers,
with the influence of Souls, or existences, so
that I walk in the midst of immortal things.
I myself am a living witness of it. Some-
times I have concentrated myself, and driven

E

50 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

away by continued will all sense of outward
appearances, looking straight with the full
power of my mind inwards on myself. I find
‘ I’ am there; an ‘ I’ I do not wholly under-V
stand, or know, something is there distinct
from earth and timber, from flesh and bones.
Recognising it, I feel on the margin of a life un—
‘ known, very near, almost touching it : on the
verge of powers which if I could grasp would
give me an immense breadth of existence, an
ability to execute what I now only conceive ;
most probably of far more than that. To see
that ‘I’ is to know that I am surrounded with
immortal things. If, when I die, that ‘ I ’ also
dies, and becomes extinct, still even then I
have had the exaltation of these ideas.

How many words it has taken to describe
so briefly the feelings and the thoughts that
came to me by the tumulns; thoughts that
swept past and were gone, and were suc-

ceeded by others while yet the shadow of

Inn-nub?“

THE STORY OF MY HEART 51

 

the mound had not moved from one thyme-
flower to another, not the breadth of a grass-
blade. Softly breathed the sweet south wind,
gently the yellow corn waved beneath; the
ancient, ancient sun shone on the fresh grass
and the flower, my heart opened wide as the
broad, broad earth. I spread my arms out,
laying them on the sward, seizing the grass,
to take the fulness of the days. Could I»
have my own way after death I would be
burned on a pyre of pine—wood, open to the
air, and placed on the summit of the hills.
Then let my ashes be scattered abroad—not
collected in an urn—freely sown wide and
broadcast. That is the natural interment
of man—of man whose Thought at least has
been among the immortals; interment in the
elements. Burial is not enough, it does not
give sufficient solution into the elements
speedily; a furnace is confined. The high
open air of the topmost hill, there let the
E 2

52 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

tawny flame lick up the fragment called the
body; there cast the ashes into the space it
longed for While living. Such a luxury of
interment is only for the wealthy; I fear I
shall not be able to afford it. Else the smoke
of my resolution into the elements should
certainly arise in time on the hill—top.

The silky grass sighs as the wind comes
carrying the blue butterfly more rapidly
than his wings. A large humble—bee burrs
round the green dome against which I rest;
my hands are scented with thyme. The
sweetness of the day, the fulness of the
earth, the beauteous earth, how shall I say
it?

Three things only have been discovered
of that which concerns the inner conscious-
ness since before written history began. Three
things only in twelve thousand written, or
sculptured, years, and in the dumb, dim time

before then. Three ideas the Cavemen

THE STORY OF MY HEART 53

 

primeval wrested from the unknOwn, the
night which is round us still in daylight—
the existence of the soul, immortality, the
deity. These things found, prayer followed
as a sequential result. Since then nothing
further has been found in all the twelve
thousand years, as if men had been satisfied
and had found these to suffice. They do not
suffice me. I desire to advance further, and
to wrest a fourth, and even still more than
a fourth, from the darkness of thought. I
want more ideas of soul—life. I am certain
that there are more yet to be found. A great
life—an entire civilisation—lies just outside
the pale of common thought. Cities and
countries, inhabitants, intelligences, culture—
an entire civilisation. Except by illustrations
drawn from familiar things, there is no way
of indicating a new idea. I do not mean
actual cities, actual civilisation. Such life is

different from any yet imagined. A nexus of

”54 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

ideas exists of which nothing is known—a
vast system of ideas—a cosmos of thought.
There is an Entity, a Soul—Entity, as yet
unrecognised. These, rudely expressed, con-
stitute my Fourth Idea. It is beyond, or
beside, the three discovered by the Cavemen;
it is in addition to the existence of the soul;
‘ in addition to immortality; and beyond the
idea of the deity. I think there is something
more than existence.

There is an immense ocean over which
the mind can sail, upon which the vessel of
thought has not yet been launched. I hope
to launch it. The mind of so many thousand
years has worked round and round inside
the circle of these three ideas as a boat
on an inland lake. Let us haul it over the
belt of land, launch on the ocean, and sail
outwards.

There is so much beyond all that has ever

yet been imagined. As I write these words,

THE STORY OF MY HEART 55

 

in the very moment, I feel that the whole
air, the sunshine out yonder lighting up the
ploughed earth, the distant sky, the circum-
ambient ether, and that far space, is full of
soul-secrets, soul—life, things outside the ex-
perience of all the ages. The fact of my‘own
existence as I write, as I exist at this second,
is so marvellous, so miracle—like, strange, and
supernatural to me, that I unhesitatingly con-
clude I am always on the margin of life
illimitable, and that there are higher con—
ditions than existence. Everything around
is supernatural; everything so full of un—
explained meaning.

Twelve thousand years since the Caveman
stood at the mouth of his cavern and gazed
out at the night and the stars. He looked
again and saw the sun rise beyond the sea.
He reposed in the noontide heat under the
shade of the trees, he closed his eyes and

looked into himself. He was face to face

56 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

with the earth, the sun, the night; face to
face with himself. There was nothing be—
tween ; no wall of written tradition ; no built-
up system of culture—his naked mind was
confronted by naked earth. He made three
idea—discoveries, wresting them from the
unknown: the existence of his soul, immor-
tality, the deity. Now, to—day, as I write,
I stand in exactly the same position as the
Caveman. Written tradition, systems of
culture, modes of thought, have for me no
existence. If ever they took any hold of my
mind it must have been very slight; they
have long ago been erased.

From earth and sea and sun, from night,
the stars, from day, the trees, the hills, from
my own soul—from these I think. I stand
this moment at the mouth of the ancient
cave, face to face with nature, face to face
with the supernatural, with myself. My

naked mind confronts the unknown. I see

THE STORY OF MY HEART 57

 

as clearly as the noonday that this is not
all; I see other and higher conditions than
existence ; I see not only the existence of the
soul, immortality, but, in addition, I realise
a soul-life illimitable; I realise the existence
of a cosmos of thought; I realise the existence
of an inexpressible entity infinitely higher
than deity. I strive to give utterance to a
Fourth Idea. The very idea that there is
another idea is something gained. The three
found by the Cavemen are but stepping-
stones: first links of an endless chain. At

the mouth of the ancient cave, face to face
with the unknown, they prayed. Prone in

heart to—day I pray, Give me the deepest

soul—life.

58 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

CHAPTER IV

THE wind sighs through the grass, sighs
' in the sunshine; it has drifted the butterfly
eastwards along the hill. A few yards away
there lies the skull of a lamb on the turf,
white and bleached, picked clean long since
by crows and ants. Like the faint ripple of
the summer sea sounding in the hollow of the
ear, so the sweet air ripples in the grass.
The ashes of the man interred in the tumulus
are indistinguishable; they have sunk away
like rain into the earth ; so his body has dis-
appeared. I am under no delusion; I am
fully aware that no demonstration can be
given of the three stepping-stones of the

Cavemen. The soul is inscrutable; it is not

THE STORY OF MY HEART 59

 

in evidence to show that it exists; immortality
is not tangible. Full well I know that reason
and knowledge and experience tend to dis—
prove all three; that experience denies answer
to prayer. I am under no delusion whatever;
I grasp death firmly in conception as I can
grasp this bleached bone; utter extinction,
annihilation. That the soul is a product at
best of organic composition; that it goes out
like a flame. This may be the end; my soul
may sink like rain into the earth and dis-
appear. Wind and earth, sea, and night and
day, what then? Let my soul be but a
product, what then? I say it is nothing to
me; this only I know, that while I have lived
—now, this moment, while I live—I think
immortality, I lift my mind to a Fourth Idea.
If I pass into utter oblivion, yet I have had
that.

The original three ideas of the Cavemen

became encumbered with superstition; ritual

60 THE STORY OF flIY HEART

 

grew up, and ceremony, and long ranks cf
souls were painted on papyri waiting to be
weighed in the scales, and to be punished or
rewarded. These cobwebs grotesque have
sullied the original discoveries and cast them
into discredit. Erase them altogether, and
consider only the underlying principles. The
principles do not go far enough, but I shall
not discard all of them for that. Even
supposing the pure principles to be illusions,
and annihilation the end, even then it is
better—it is something gained to have
thought them. Thought is life; to have
thought them is to have lived them. Accept—
ing two of them as true in principle, then I
say that these are but the threshold. For
twelve thousand years no effort has been
made to get beyond that threshold. These
are but the primer of soul-life; the merest
hieroglyphics chipped out, a little shape given

to the unknown.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 6I

 

Not to-morrow but to-day. Not the
to—morrow of the tumulus, the hour of the
sunshine now. This moment give me to live
soul—life, not only after death. Now is eternity,
now I am in the midst of immortality; now
the supernatural crowds around me. Open
my mind, give my soul to see, let me live it
now on earth, while I hear the burring of the
larger bees, the sweet air in the grass, and
watch the yellow wheat wave beneath me.
Sun and earth and sea, night and day—these
are the least of things. Give me soul-life.

There is nothing human in nature. The
earth, though loved so dearly, would let me
perish on the ground, and neither bring forth
food nor water. Burning in the sky the
great sun, of whose company I have been so
fond, would merely burn on and make ‘no
motion to assist me. Those who have been
in an open boat at sea without water have

proved the mercies of the sun, and of the deity

62 THE STORY OF AIY HEART

 

who did not give them one drop of rain, dying
in misery under the same rays that smile so
beautifully on the flowers. In the south the
sun is the enemy; night and coolness and
rain are the friends of man. As for the sea,
it offers us salt water which we cannot drink.
The trees care nothing for us; the hill I
visited so often in days gone by has not missed
me. The sun scorches man, and will in his
naked state roast him alive. The sea and the
fresh water alike make no effort to uphold
him if his vessel founders; he casts up his
arms in vain, they come to their level over
his head, filling the spot his body occupied.
If he falls from a cliff the air parts ; the earth
beneath dashes him to pieces.

Water he can drink, but it is not pro—
duced for him; how many thousands have
perished for want of it? Some fruits are
produced which he can eat, but they do not

produce themselves for him; merely for the

THE STORY OF MY HEART 63

 

purpose of continuing their species. In wild,
tropical countries, at the first glance there
appears to be some consideration for him, but
it is on the surface only. The lion pounces
on him, the rhinoceros crushes him, the
serpent bites, insects torture, diseases rack
him. Disease worked its dreary will even
among the flower—crowned Polynesians. Re-
turning to our own country, this very thyme
which scents my fingers did not grow for
that purpose, but for its own. So does the
wheat beneath; we utilise it, but its original
and native purpose was for itself. By night
it is the same as by day; the stars care not,
they pursue their courses revolving, and we
are nothing to them. There is nothing
human in the whole round of nature. All
nature, all the universe that we can see, is
absolutely indifferent to us, and except to us
human life is of no more value than grass.

If the entire human race perished at this

64 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

hour, what difference would it make to the
earth? What would the earth care? As
much as for the extinct dodo, or for the fate
of the elephant now going.

On the contrary, a great part, perhaps the
whole, of nature and of the universe is
distinctly anti—human. The term inhuman
does not express my meaning, anti-human is
better; outre—human, in the sense of beyond,
outside, almost grotesque in its attitude
towards, would nearly convey it. Everything
is anti—human. How extraordinary, strange,
and incomprehensible are the creatures cap-
tured out of the depths of the sea! The dis-
torted fishes; the ghastly cuttles; the hideous
eel-like shapes; the crawling shell—encrusted
things; the centipede—like beings; monstrous
forms, to see which gives a shock to the
brain. They shock the mind because they
exhibit an absence of design. There is no

idea in them.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 65

 

They have no shape, form, grace, or pur-
pose; they call up a vague sense of chaos,
chaos which the mind revolts from. It would
be a relief to the thought if they ceased to
be, and utterly disappeared from the sea.
They are not inimical of intent towards man,
not even the shark; but there the shark is,
and that is enough. These miserably hideous
things of the sea are not anti—human in the
sense of persecution, they are outside, they
are ultra and beyond. It is like looking into
chaos, and it is vivid because these creatures,
interred alive a hundred fathoms deep, are
seldom seen; so that the mind sees them as
if only that moment they had come into ex—
istence. Use has not habituated it to them,
so that their anti-human character is at once
apparent, and stares at us with glassy eye.

But it is the same in reality with the
creatures on the earth. There are some of
these even now to which use has not accus-

F

66 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

tomed the mind. Such, for instance, as the
toad. At its shapeless shape appearing in
an unexpected corner many people start and
exclaim. They are aware that they shall
receive no injury from it, yet it afl'rights
them, it sends a shock to the mind. The
reason lies in its obviously anti—human char—
acter. All the dcsignless, formless chaos of
Chance-directed matter, without idea or
human plan, squats there embodied in the
pathway. By watching the creature, and
convincing the mind from observation that it
is harmless, and even has uses,» the horror
wears away. But still remains the form to
which the mind can never reconcile itself.
Carved in wood it is still repellent.

Or suddenly there is a rustle like a faint
hiss in the grass, and a green snake glides
over the bank. The breath in the chest
seems to lose its vitality; for an instant the

nerves refuse to transmit the force of life.

THE STORY OF IIIY HEART 67

 

The gliding yellow—streaked worm is so ut—
terly opposed to the ever present Idea in
the mind. Custom may reduce the horror,
but no long pondering can ever bring that
creature within the pale of the human Idea.
These are so distinctly opposite and anti—
human that thousands of years have not
sufi’iced to soften their outline. Various
insects and creeping creatures excite the
same sense in lesser degrees. Animals and
birds in general do not. The tiger is dreaded,
but causes no disgust. The exception is in
those that feed on offal. Horses and dogs we
love; we not only do not recognise anything
opposite in them, we come to love them.
They are useful to us, they show more or
less sympathy with us, they possess, especi—
ally the horse, a certain grace of movement.
A gloss, as it were, is thrown over them by
these attributes and by familiarity. The
shape of the horse to the eye has become

F2

68 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

conventional: it is accepted. Yet the horse
is not in any sense human. Could we look
at it suddenly, without previous acquaintance,
as at strange fishes in a tank, the ultra—human
character of the horse would be apparent. It
is the curves of the neck and body that carry
the horse past Without adverse comment.
Examine the hind legs in detail, and the
curious backward motion, the shape and anti—
human curves become apparent. Dogs take
us by their intelligence, but they have no
hand; pass the hand over the dog’s head,
and the shape of the skull to the sense of
feeling is almost as repellent as the form of
the toad to the sense of sight. .VVe have
gradually gathered around us all the crea-
tures that are less markedly anti—human,
horses and dogs and birds, but they are still
themselves. They originally existed like the
Wheat, for themselves; we utilise them, but

they are not of us.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 69

 

There is nothing human in any living
animal. All nature, the universe as far as
we see, is anti- or ultra-human, outside,
and has no concern with man. These things
are unnatural to him. By no course of
reasoning, however tortuous, can nature and
the universe be fitted to the mind. Nor can
the mind be fitted to the cosmos. My mind
cannot be twisted to it; I am separate alto-
gether from these designless things. The
soul cannot be wrested down to them. The
laws of nature are of no importance to it. I
refuse to be bound by the laws of the tides,
nor am I so bound. Though bodily swung
round on this rotating globe, my mind always
remains in the centre. No tidal law, no
rotation, no gravitation can control my
thought. _

Centuries of thought have failed to recon-
cile and fit the mind to the universe, which is

designless, and purposeless, and without idea.

70 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

I Will not endeavour to fit my thought to it
any longer; I find and believe myself to be
distinct—separate ; and I will labour in earnest
to obtain the highest culture for myself. As
these natural things have no connection with
man, it follows again that the natural is the
strange and mysterious, and the supernatural
' the natural.

There being nothing human in nature or
the universe, and all things being ultra-
human and without design, shape, or pur—
pose, I conclude that no deity has anything
to do with nature. There is no god in
nature, nor in any matter anywhere, either
in the clods 011 the earth or in the com-
position of the stars. For What we under-
stand by the deity is the purest form of
Idea, of Mind, and no mind is exhibited
in these. That which controls them is dis
tinct altogether from deity. It is not force

in the sense of electricity, nor a deity as god,

THE STORY OF MY HEART 71

 

nor a spirit, not even an intelligence, but a
power quite different to anything yet ima-
gined. I cease, therefore, to look for deity
in nature or the cosmos at large, or to trace
any marks of divine handiwork. I search
for traces of this force which is not god, and
is certainly not the higher than deity of
whom I have written. It is a force without
a mind. I wish to indicate something more
subtle than electricity, but absolutely devoid
of consciousness, and with no more feeling
than the force which lifts the tides.

Next, in human affairs, in the relations of
man with man, in the conduct of life, in the
events that occur, in human affairs generally,
everything happens by chance. No pruf
dence in conduct, no wisdom or foresight
can effect anything, for the most trivial cir-
cumstance will upset the deepest plan of the
wisest mind. As Xenophon observed in old

times, wisdom is like casting dice and de-

72 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

termining your course by the number that
appears. Virtue, humanity, the best and
most beautiful conduct is Wholly in vain.
The history of thousands of years demon-
strates it. In all these years there is no
more moving instance on record than that of
_ Danae, when she was dragged to the preci—
pice, two thousand years ago. Sophron was
governor of Ephesus, and Laodice plotted to
assassinate him. Danae discovered the plot,
and warned Sophron, who fled, and saved
his life. Laodice_the murderess in intent
—had Danae seized and cast from a cliff.
On the verge Danae said that some persons
despised the deity, and they might now
prove the justice of their contempt by her
fate. For having saved the man who was
to her as a husband, she was rewarded in
this way With cruel death by the deity, but
Laodice was advanced to honour. The

bitterness of these words remains to this hour.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 73

 

In truth the deity, if responsible for such
a thing, or for similar things which occur
now, should be despised. One must always
despise the fatuous belief in such a deity.
But as everything in human affairs obviously
happens by chance, it is clear that no deity
is responsible. If the deity guides chance
in that manner, then let the deity be de-
spised. Apparently the deity does not in-
terfere, and all things happen by chance.
I cease, therefore, to look for traces of
the deity in life, because no such traces
exist.

I conclude that there is an existence, a
something higher than soul—higher, better,
and more perfect than deity. Earnestly I
pray to find this something better than a
god. There is something superior, higher,
more good. For this I search, labour,
think, and pray. If after all there be no—
thing, and my soul has to go out like a

74 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

flame, yet even then I have thought this
While it lives. With the whole force of my
existence, with the whole force of my thought,
mind, and soul, I pray to find this Highest
Soul, this greater than deity, this better than
god. Give me to live the deepest soul-life
now and always With this Soul. For want of
words I write soul, but I think that it is

something beyond soul.

THE STORY OF AIY HEART 75

 

CHAPTER V

IT is not possible to narrate these incidents
of the mind in strict order. I must now
return to a period earlier than anything
already narrated, and pass in review other
phases of my search from then up till recently.
So long since that I have forgotten the date,
I used every morning to visit a spot where I
could get a clear View of the east. Imme-
diately on rising I went out to some elms;
thence I could see across the dewy fields to
the distant hill over or near which the sun
rose. These elms partially hid me, for at
that time I had a dislike to being seen,
feeling that I should be despised if I was

noticed. This happened once or twice, and

‘76 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

I knew I was watched contemptuously,
though no one had the least idea of my
object. But I went every morning, and was
satisfied if I could get two or three minutes
to think unchecked. Often I saw the sun
rise over the line of the hills, but if it was
summer the sun had been up a long time.

I looked at the hills, at the dewy grass,
and then up through the elm branches to the
sky. In a moment all that was behind me,
the house, the people, the sounds, seemed to
disappear, and to leave me alone. Involun-
tarily I drew a long breath, then I breathed
slowly. My thought, or inner consciousness,
went up through the illumined sky, and I
was lost in a moment of exaltation. This
Only lasted a very short time, perhaps only
part of a second, and while it lasted there
was no formulated wish. I was absorbed; I
drank the beauty of the morning; I was

exalted. then it ceased I did wish for some

THE STORY OF MY HEART 77

 

increase or enlargement of my existence to
correspond with the largeness of feeling I
had momentarily enjoyed. Sometimes the
wind came through the tops of the elms,
and the slender boughs bent, and gazing up
through them, and beyond the fleecy clouds,
I felt lifted up. The light coming across the
grass and leaving itself on the dew—drops, the
sound of the wind, and the sense of mounting
to the lofty heaven, filled me with a deep
sigh, a wish to draw something out of the
beauty of it, some part of that which caused
my admiration, the subtle inner essence.
Sometimes the green tips of the highest
boughs seemed gilded, the light laid a gold
on the green. Or the trees bowed to a
stormy wind roaring through them, the grass
threw itself down, and in the east broad cur-
tains of a rosy tint stretched along. The
light was turned to redness in the vapour, and -
rain hid the summit of the hill. In the rush

78 THE STORY OF .MY [[EART

 

and roar of the stormy wind the same exalta—
tion, the same desire, lifted me for a moment.
I went there every morning, I could not
exactly define why; it was like going to a
rose bush to taste the scent of the flower and
feel the dew from its petals on the lips. But
I desired the beauty—the inner subtle mean—
ing—to be in me, that I might have it, and
with it an existence of a higher kind.

Later on I began to have daily pil—
grimages to think these things. There was
a feeling that I must go somewhere, and
be alone. It was a necessity to have a few
minutes of this separate life every day; my
mind required to live its own life apart from
other things. A great oak at a short distance
was one resort, and sitting on the grass at the
roots, or leaning against the trunk and look—
ing over the quiet meadows towards the
bright southern sky, I could live my own life

a little while. Behind the trunk I was alone;

THE STORY OF MY HEART 79

 

I liked to lean against it ; to touch the lichen
on the rough bark. High in the wood of
branches the birds were not alarmed; they
sang, or called, and passed to and fro happily.
The wind moved the leaves, and they replied
to it softly; and now at this distance of time
I can see the fragments of sky up through the
boughs. Bees were always humming in the
green field; ring—doves went over swiftly,
flying for the woods.

Of the sun I was conscious; I could not
look at it, but the boughs held back the
beams so that I could feel the sun’s presence
pleasantly. They shaded the sun, yet let me
know that it was there. There came to me
a delicate, but at the same time a deep,
strong, and sensuous enjoyment of the beauti—
ful green earth, the beautiful sky and sun; I
felt them, they gave me inexpressible delight,
as if they embraced and poured out their love

upon me. It was I who loved them, for

80 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

my heart was broader than the earth; it is
broader now than even then, more thirsty
and desirous. After the sensuous enjoy—
ment always came the thought, the desire:
That I might be like this; that I might
have the inner meaning of the sun, the light,
the earth, the trees and grass, translated into
some growth of excellence in myself, both of
body and of mind; greater perfection of
physique, greater perfection of mind and
soul; that I might be higher in myself. To
this oak I came daily for a long time; some-
times only for a minute, for just to View the
spot was enough. In the bitter cold of spring,
when the north Wind blackened everything,
I used to come now and then at night to
look from under the bare branches at the
splendour of the southern sky. The stars
burned with brilliance, broad Orion and
flashing Sirius—there are more or brighter

constellations Visible then than all the year;

THE STORY OF MY HEART 8x

 

and the clearness of the air and the black-
ness of the sky—black, not clouded—let
them gleam in their fulness. They lifted me
—they gave me fresh vigour of soul. Not
all that the stars could have given, had
they been destinies, could have satiated
me. This, all this, and more, I wanted in
myself.

There was a place a mile or so along the
road where the hills could be seen much
better; I went there frequently to think the
same thought. Another spot was by an
elm, a very short walk, where openings in
the trees, and the slope of the ground,
brought the hills well into view. This, too,
was a favourite thinking—place. Another
was a wood, half an hour’s walk distant,
through part of which a rude track went, so
that it was not altogether enclosed. The
ash-saplings, and the trees, the firs, the

hazel bushes—to be among these enabled
G

82 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

me to be myself. From the buds of spring
to the berries of autumn, I always liked to
be there. Sometimes in spring there was a
sheen of blue-bells covering acres; the doves
cooed; the blackbirds whistled sweetly;
there was a taste of green things in the air.
But it was the tall firs that pleased me most;
the glance rose up the flame—shaped fir—tree,
tapering to its green tip, and above was the
azure sky. By aid of the tree I felt the sky
more. By aid of everything beautiful I felt
myself, and in that intense sense of conscious—
ness prayed for greater perfection of soul and
body.

Afterwards, I walked almost daily more
than two miles along the road to a spot
where the hills began, where from the first
rise the road could be seen winding south-
wards over the hills, open and uninclosed.
I paused a minute or two by a clump of firs,

in whose branches the wind clways sighed-

 

 

 

THE STORY OF MY HEART 83

 

there is always a movement of the air on a
hill. Southwards the sky was illumined by
the sun, southwards the clouds moved across
the opening or pass in the amphitheatre,
and southwards, though far distant, was
the ‘sea. There I could think a moment.
These pilgrimages gave me a few sacred
minutes daily; the moment seemed holy
when the thought or desire came in its full
force.

A time came when, having to live in a
town, these pilgrimages had to be suspended.
The wearisome work on which I was en-
gaged would not permit of them. But I used
to look now and then, from a window, in the
evening at a birch-tree at some distance; its
graceful boughs drooped across the glow of
the sunset. The thought was not suspended;
it lived in me always. A bitterer time still
came when it was necessary to be separated
from those I loved. There is little indeed

G2

84 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

'in the more immediate suburbs of London to
gratify the sense of the beautiful. Yet there
was a cedar by which I used to walk up and
down, and think the same thoughts as under
the great oak in the solitude of the sunlit
meadows. In the course of slow time
happier circumstances brought us together
again, and, though near London, at a spot
where there was easy access to meadows and
woods. Hills that purify those who walk on
them there were not. Still I thought my old
thoughts.

I was much in London, and, engage-
ments completed, I wandered about in the
same way as in the woods of former days.
From the stone bridges I looked down 011
the river; the gritty dust, the straws that
lie on the bridges, flew up and whirled
round with every gust from the flowing tide;
gritty dust that settles in the nostrils and on

the lips, the very residuum of all that is

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 85

 

repulsive in the greatest city of the world.
The noise of the traffic and the constant
pressure from the crowds passing, their in—
cessant and disjointed talk, could not distract
me. One moment at least I had, a moment
when I thought of the push of the great
sea forcing the water to flow under the feet
of these crowds, the distant sea strong and
splendid; when I saw the sunlight gleam on
the tidal wavelets ; when I felt the wind, and
was conscious of the earth, the sea, the sun,
the air, the immense forces working on, while
the city hummed by the river. Nature was
deepened by the crowds and foot-worn
stones. If the tide had ebbed, and the masts
of the vessels were tilted as the hulls rested
on the shelving mud,‘sti11 even the blackened
mud did not prevent me seeing the water
as water flowing to the sea. The sea had
drawn down, and the wavelets washing the

strand here as they hastened were running

86 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

the faster to it. Eastwards from London
Bridge the river raced to the ocean.

The bright morning sun of summer
heated the eastern parapet of London Bridge;
I stayed in the recess to acknowledge it.
The smooth water was a, broad sheen of
light, the built-up river flowed calm and
silent by a thousand doors, rippling only
where the stream chafed against a chain.
Red pennants drooped, gilded vanes gleamcd
on polished masts, black—pitched hulls glis—
tened like a black rook’s feathers in sunlight;
the clear air out out the forward angles of
the warehouses, the shadowed wharves wen
quiet in shadows that carried light; far down
the ships that were hauling out moved in
repose, and with the stream floated away
into the summer mist. There was a faint
blue colour in the air hovering between
the built—up banks, against the lit walls, in

the hollows of the houses. The swallows

THE STORY OF MY HEART 87

 

wheeled and climbed, twittered and glided
downwards. Burning on, the great sun stood
in the sky, heating the parapet, glowing stead-
fastly upon me as when I rested in the
narrow valley grooved out in prehistoric times.
Burning on steadfast, and ever present as my
thought. Lighting the broad river, the
broad walls ; lighting the least speck of dust;
lighting the great heaven; gleaming on my
finger-nail. The fixed point of day—the
sun. I was intensely conscious of it ; I felt
it; I felt the presence of the immense
powers of the universe; I felt out into the
depths of the ether. So intensely conscious
of the sun, the sky, the limitless space, I felt
too in the midst of eternity then, in the
midst of the supernatural, among the im-
mortal, and the greatness of the material
realised the spirit. By these I saw my soul;
by these I knew the supernatural to be more

intensely real than the sun. I touched the

88 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

supernatural, the immortal, there that mo-
ment.

When, weary of walking on the pave-
ments, I went to rest in the National Gallery,
I sat and rested before one or other of the
human pictures. I am not a picture lover:
they are flat surfaces, but those that I call
human are nevertheless beautiful. The knee
in Daphnis and Chloe and the breast are
like living things; they draw the heart
towards them, the heart must love them. I
lived in looking; without beauty there is no
life for me, the divine beauty of flesh is life
itself to me. The shoulder in the Surprise,
the rounded rise of the bust, the exquisite
tints of the ripe skin, momentarily gratified
the sea—thirst in me. For I thirst with all
the thirst of the salt. sea, and the sun—heated
sands dry for the tide, with all the sea I thirst
for beauty. And I know full well that one

lifetime, however long, cannot fill my heart.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 89

 

My throat and tongue and Whole body have
often been parched and feverish dry with
this measureless thirst, and again moist to
the fingers’ ends like a sappy bough. It burns
in me as the sun burns in the sky.

The glowing face of Cytherea in Titian’s
Venus and Adonis, the heated cheek, the
lips that kiss each eye that gazes on them, the
desiring glance, the golden hair—sunbeams
moulded into features—this face answered me.
Juno’s wide back and mesial groove, is any-
thing so lovely as the back? Cytherea’s poised
hips unveiled for judgment; these called up
the same thirst I felt on the green sward in the
sun, on the wild beach listening to the quiet
sob as the summer wave drank at the land.
I will search the world through for beauty.
I came here and sat to rest before these in
the days when I could not afford to buy so
much as a glass of ale, weary and faint

from walkina on stone avements. I came
0

90 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

later on, in better times, often straight from
labours which though necessary will ever be
distasteful, always to rest my heart with
loveliness. I go still; the divine beauty of
flesh is life itself to me. It was, and is,
one of my London pilgrimages.

Another was to the Greek sculpture
galleries in the British Museum. The
statues are not, it is said, the best; broken
too, and mutilated, and seen in a dull, com—
monplaCe light. But they were shape—
divine shape of man and woman; the form
of limb and torso, of bust and neck, gave
me a sighing sense of rest. These were
they who would have stayed with me under
the shadow of the oaks while the blackbirds
fluted and the south air swung the cowslips.
They would have walked with me among
the reddened gold of the wheat. They
would have rested with me on the liill—tOps

and in the narrow valley grooved of ancient

THE STORY OF MY HEART 9t»

 

times. They would have listened with me
to the sob of the summer sea drinking the
land. These had thirsted of sun, and earth,
and sea, and sky. Their shape spoke this
thirst and desire like mine—if I had lived
with them from Greece till now I should not
have had enough of them. Tracing the form
of limb and torso with the eye gave me a
sense of rest. _

Sometimes I came in from the crowded
streets and ceaseless hum; one glance at
these shapes and I became myself. Some—
times I came from the Reading—room, where
under the dome I often looked 11p from
the desk and realised the crushing hope—
lessness of books, useless, not equal to one
bubble borne along on the running brook
I had walked by, giving no thought like the
spring when I lifted the water. in my hand
and saw the light gleam on it. Torso and

limb, bust and neck instantly returned me

92 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

to myself; I felt as I did lying on the turf
listening to the Wind among the grass; it
would have seemed natural to have found
butterflies fluttering among the statues. The
same deep desire was with me. I shall
always go to speak to them; they are a place
of pilgrimage; wherever there is a beautiful
statue there is a place of pilgrimage.

I always stepped aside, too, to look
awhile at the head of Julius Caesar. The
domes of the swelling temples of his broad
head are full of mind, evident to the eye
as a globe is full of substance to the sense
of feeling in the hands that hold it. The
thin worn cheek is entirely human; endless
difficulties surmounted by endless labour
are marked in it, as the sandblast, by dint
of particles ceaselessly driven, carves the
hardest material. If circumstances favoured
him he made those circumstances his own by

marvellous labour, so as justly to receive the

THE STORY OF MY HEART 93

 

credit of chance. Therefore the thin cheek
is entirely human—the sum of human life
made visible in one face—labour, and en-
durance, and mind, and all in vain. A
shadow of deep sadness has gathered on it in
the years that have passed, because endurance
was without avail. It is sadder to look at
than the grass—grown tumulus I used to sit
by, because it is a personality, and also on
account of the extreme folly of our human
race ever destroying our greatest.

Far better had they endeavoured, 110w—
ever hopelessly, to keep him living till this
day. Did but the race this hour possess
one—hundredth part of his breadth of View,
how happy for them! Of whom else can
it be said that he had no enemies to forgive
because he recognised no enemy? Nineteen
hundred years ago he put in actual practice,
with more arbitrary power than any despot,

those very principles of humanity which are

94 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

now put forward as the highest culture. But
he made them to be actual things under his
sway.

The one man filled with mind; the one
man without avarice, anger, pettiness, little-
ness; the one man generous and truly great
of all history. It is enough to make one
despair to think of the mere brutes butting
to death the great-minded Caesar. He comes
nearest to the ideal of a design—power arrang-
ing the affairs of the world for good in prac—
tical things. Before his face—the divine brow
of mind above, the human suffering-drawn
cheek beneath—my own thought became set
and strengthened. That I could but look at
things in the broad way he (lid; that I
could not possess one particle of such width
of intellect to guide my own course, to cope
with and drag forth from the iron—resisting
forces of the universe some one thing of my

prayer for the soul and for the flesh

THE STORY OF MY HEART 95

 

CHAPTER VI

THERE is a place in front of the Royal EX—
change where the wide pavement reaches out
like a promontory. It is in the shape of a
triangle with a rounded apex. A stream of
traflic runs on either side, and other streets
send their currents down into the open space
before it. Like the spokes of a wheel con-
verging streams of human life flow into this
agitated pool. Horses and carriages, carts,
vans, omnibuses, cabs, every kind of convey-
ance cross each other’s course in every possible
direction. Twisting in and out by the wheels
and under the horses’ heads, working a
devious way, men and women of all condi-

tions wind a path over. They fill the inter‘

96 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

stices between the carriages and blacken the
surface, till the vans almost float on human
beings. Now the streams slacken, and now
they rush amain, but never cease; dark
waves are always rolling down the incline
opposite, waves swell out from the side rivers,
all London converges into this focus. There
is an indistinguishable noise—it is not clatter,
hum, or roar, it is not resolvable; made up of
a thousand thousand footsteps, from a thou-
sand hoofs, a thousand wheels—of haste, and
shuffle, and quick movements, and ponderous
loads; no attention can resolve it into a fixed
sound.

Blue carts and yellow omnibuses, var-
nished carriages and brown vans, green
omnibuses and red cabs, pale loads of yellow
straw, rusty—red iron clanking on paintless
carts, high white wool-packs, grey horses,
bay horses, black teams; sunlight sparkling

on brass harness, gleaming from carriage

THE STORY OF MY HEART 97

 

panels; jingle, jingle, jingle! An intermixed
and intertangled, ceaselessly changing jingle,
too, of colour; flecks of colour champed, as it
were, like bits in the horses’ teeth, frothed
and strewn about, and a surface always of
dark-dressed people winding like the curves
on fast—flowing water. This is the vortex
and whirlpool, the centre of human life to—
day on the earth. Now the tide rises and
now it sinks, but the flow of these rivers
always continues. Here it seethes and whirls,
not for an hour only, but for all present time,
hour by hour, day by day, year by year.
Here it rushes and pushes, the atoms tri-
turate and grind, and, eagerly thrusting by,
pursue their separate ends. Here it appears
in its unconcealed personality, indifferent to all
else but itself, absorbed and rapt in eager self,
devoid and stripped of conventional gloss and
politeness, yielding only to get its own way;
driving, pushing, carried on in a stress of

II

98 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

feverish force like a bullet, dynamic force
apart from reason or Will, like the force that
lifts the tides and sends the clouds onwards.
The friction of a thousand interests evolves
a condition of electricity in which men are
moved to and fro without considering their
steps. Yet the agitated pool of life is stonily
indifi'erent, the thought is absent or preoccu—
pied, for it is evident that the mass are un—
conscious of the scene in which they act.

But it is more sternly real than the very
stones, for all these men and women that
pass through are driven on by the push of
accumulated circumstances; they cannot stay,
they must go, their necks are in the slave’s
ring, they are beaten like seaweed against the
solid walls of fact. In ancient times, Xerxes,
the king of kings, looking down upon his
myriads, wept to think that in a hundred
years not one of them would be left. Where

will be these millions of to-day in a hundred

THE STORY OF MY HEART 99

 

years? But, further than that, let us ask,
Where then will be the sum and outcome of
their labour? If they wither away like sum-
mer grass, will not at least a result be left
which those of a hundred years hence may
be the better for? No, not one jot! There
will not be any sum or outcome or result
of this ceaseless labour and movement; it
vanishes in the moment that it is done, and
in a hundred years nothing will be there, for
nothing is there now. There will be no more
sum or result than accumulates from the
motion of a revolving cowl on a housetop.
Nor do they receive any more sunshine
during their lives, for they are unconscious of
the sun.

I used to come and stand near the apex
of the promontory of pavement which juts
out towards the pool of life; I still go there to
ponder. Burning in the sky, the sun shone
on me as when I rested in the narrow valley

H2

Ioo THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

carved in prehistoric time. Burning in the
sky, I can never forget the sun. The heat
of summer is dry there as if the light carried
an impalpable dust; dry, breathless heat that
will not let the skin respire, but swathes up
the dry fire in the blood. But beyond the
heat and light, I felt the presence of the sun
as I felt it in the solitary valley, the presence
of the resistless forces of the universe; the
sun burned in the sky as I stood and pondered.
Is there any theory, philosophy, or creed, is
there any system or culture, any formulated
method able to meet and satisfy each separate
item of this agitated pool of human life? By
which they may be guided, by which hope,
by which look forward? Not a mere illusion
of the craving heart—something real, as real
as the solid walls of fact against which, like
drifted seaweed, they are dashed; something
to give each separate personality sunshine

and a flower in its own existence now; some-

THE STORY OF'MY HEART 101

 

thing to shape this million—handed labour to
an end and outcome that will leave more sun-
shine and more flowers to those who must
succeed? Something real now, and not in
the spirit—land; in this hour now, as I stand
and the sun burns. Can any creed, philo—
sophy, system, or culture endure the test and
remain unmolten in this fierce focus of human
life?

Consider, is there anything slowly painted
on the once mystic and now commonplace
papyri of ancient, ancient Egypt, held on the
mummy’s withered breast? In that elaborate
ritual, in the procession of the symbols, in the
winged circle, in the laborious sarcophagus?
Nothing; absolutely nothing! Before the
fierce heat of the human furnace, the papyri
smoulder away as paper smoulders under a
lens in the sun. Remember Nineveh and
the cult of the fir-cone, the turbaned and

bearded bulls of stone, the lion hunt, the

102 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

painted chambers loaded with tile books, the
lore of the arrow-headed writing. What is in
Assyria? There are sand, and failing rivers,
and in Assyria’s writings an utter nothing.
The aged caves of India, who shall tell when
they were sculptured ? Far back when the sun
was burning, burning in the sky as now in
untold precedent time. Is there any meaning
in those ancient caves? The indistinguish-
able noise not to be resolved, born of the
human struggle, mocks in answer.

In the strange characters of the Zend, in
the Sanscrit, in the effortless creed of Con-
fucius, in the Aztec coloured—string writings
and rayed stones, in the uncertain marks left
of the sunken Polynesian continent, hiero-
glyphs as useless as those of Memphis,
nothing. Nothing! They have been tried,
and were found an illusion. Think then, to-
day, now looking from this apex of the pave—

ment promontory outwards from our own

THE STORY OF 1111’ [IE/1187‘ 103

 

land to the utmost bounds of the farthest
sail, is there any faith or culture at this hour
which can stand in this fierce heat? From
the various forms of Semitic, Aryan, or
Turanian creed now existing, from the print-
ing—press to the palm-leaf volume on to those
who call on the jewel in the lotus, can aught
be gathered which can face this, the Reality?
The indistinguishable noise, non-resolvable,
roars a loud contempt.

Turn, then, to the calm reasoning of
Aristotle; is there anything in that? Can
the half—divine thought of Plato, rising in
storeys of sequential ideas, following each
other to the conclusion, endure here? No!
All the philosophers in Diogenes Laertius
fade away: the theories of mediazval days;
the organon of experiment; down to this
hour—they are useless alike. The science of
this hour, drawn from the printing—press in an

endless web of paper, is powerless here; the

104 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

indistinguishable noise echoed from the
smoke-shadowed walls despises the whole. A
thousand footsteps, a thousand hoofs, a
thousand wheels roll over and utterly con—
temn them in complete annihilation. Mere
illusions of heart or mind, they are tested
and thrust aside by the irresistible push of a
million converging feet.

Burning in the sky, the sun shines as it
shone on me in the solitary valley, as it
burned on when the earliest cave of India
was carved. Above the indistinguishable
roar of the many feet I feel the presence of
the sun, of the immense forces of the universe,
and beyond these the sense of the eternal
now, of the immortal. Full well aware that
all has failed, yet, side by side with the sad-
ness of that knowledge, there lives on in me
an unquenchable belief, thought burning like
the sun, that there is yet something to be

found, something real, something to give each

 

 

THE STORY OF 1111/ HEART 105

 

separate personality sunshine and flowers in
its own existence now. Something to shape
this million-handed labour to an end and out-
come, leaving accumulated sunshine and
flowers to those who shall succeed. It must
be dragged forth by might of thought from
the immense forces of the universe.

To prepare for such an effort, first the
mind must be cleared of the conceit that,
because we live to—day, we are wiser than the
ages gone. The mind must acknowledge its
ignorance; all the learning and lore of so
many eras must be erased from it as an en-
cumbrance. It is not from past or present
knowledge, science or faith, that it is to be
drawn. Erase these altogether as they are
erased under the fierce heat of the focus
before me. Begin wholly afresh. Go straight
to the sun, the immense forces of the uni—
verse, to the Entity unknown; go higher than

a god; deeper than prayer; and open a new

[06 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

day. That I might but have a fragment of
Caesar’s intellect to find a fragment of this
desire!

From my home near London I made a
pilgrimage almost daily to an aspen by a
brook. It was a mile and a quarter along
the road, far enough for me to walk off the
concentration of mind necessary for work.
The idea of the pilgrimage was to get away
from the endless and nameless circumstances '
of everyday existence, which by degrees build
a wall about the mind so that it travels in a
constantly narrowing circle. This tether 0f
the faculties tends to make them accept present
knowledge, and present things, as all that can
be attained to. This is all—there is nothing
more—is the iterated preaching of house-life.
Remain ; be content ; go round and round in
one barren path, a little money, a little food
and sleep, some ancient fables, old age and

death. Of all the inventions of casuistry with

 

 

THE STORY OF MY HEART 107

 

which man for ages has in various ways
manacled himself, and stayed his own advance,
there is none equally potent with the supposi—
tion that nothing more is possible. Once well
impress on the mind that it has already all,
that advance is impossible because there is
nothing further, and it is chained like a horse
to an iron pin in the ground. It is the most
deadly—the most fatal poison of the mind.
No such casuistry has ever for a moment held
me, but still, if permitted, the constant routine
of house-life, the same work, the same thought
in the work, the little circumstances regularly
recurring, will dull the keenest edge of
thought. By my daily pilgrimage, I escaped
from it back to the sun.

In summer the leaves of the aspen rustled
pleasantly, there was the tinkle of falling
water over a hatch, thrushes sang and black-
birds whistled, greenfinches laughed in their

talk to each other. The commonplace dusty

108 ' THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

road was commonplace no longer. In the
dust was the mark of the chaffinches’ little
feet; the white light rendered even the dust
brighter to look on. The air came from the
south—west—there were distant hills in that
direction—over fields of grass and corn. As
I visited the spot from day to day the wheat
i grew from green to yellow, the wild roses
flowered, the scarlet poppies appeared, and
again the beeches reddened in autumn. In
the march of time there fell away from my
mind, as the leaves from the trees in autumn,
the last traces and relics of superstitions and
traditions acquired compulsorily in childhood.
Always feebly adhering, they finally dis-
appeared.

There fell away, too, personal bias and
prejudices, enabling me to see clearer and
with wider sympathies. The glamour of
modern science and discoveries faded away,

for I found them no more than the first

THE STORY OF MY HEART 109

 

potter’s wheel. Erasure and reception pro-
ceeded together; the past accumulations of
casuistry were erased, and my thought
widened to receive the idea of something be—
yond all previous ideas. With disbelief, belief
increased. The aspiration and hope, the
prayer, was the same as that which I felt years
before on the hills, only it now broadened.
Experience of life, instead of curtailing
and checking my prayer, led me to reject ex-
perience altogether. As well might the horse
believe that the road the bridle forces it to
traverse every day encircles the earth as I
believe in experience. All the experience of
the greatest city in the world could notwith-
hold me. I rejected it wholly. I stood bare—
headed before the sun, in the presence of the
earth and air, in the presence of the immense
forces of the universe. I demand that which
will make me more perfect now, this hour.

London convinced me of my own thought.

110 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

That thought has always been with me, and
always grows wider.

One midsummer I went out of the road
into the fields, and sat down on the grass
between the yellowing wheat and the green
hawthorn bushes. The sun burned in the
sky, the Wheatwas full of a luxuriant sense
of growth, the grass high, the earth giving
its vigour to tree and leaf, the heaven blue.
The vigour and growth, the warmth and light,
the beauty and richness of it entered into me;
an ecstasy of soul accompanied the delicate
excitement of the senses: the soul rose with
the body. Rapt in the fulness of the moment,
I prayed there with all that expansion of
mind and frame; no words, no definition, in—
expressible desire of physical life, of soul—life,
equal to and beyond the highest imagining of
my heart.

These memories cannot be placed in exact

chronological order. There was a time when

THE STORY OF MY HEART III

 

aweary restlessness came upon me, perhaps
from too-long-continued labour. It was like
a drought—a moral drought—as if I had
been absent for many years from the sources
of life and hope. The inner nature was faint,
all was dry and tasteless; I was weary for the
pure, fresh springs of thought. Some in-
stinctive feeling uncontrollable drove me to
the sea; I was so under its influence that I
could not arrange the journey so as to get
the longest day. I merely started, and of
course had to wait and endure much incon-
venience. To get to the sea at some quiet
spot was my one thought; to do so I had to
travel farther, and from want of prearrange—
ment it was between two and three in the
afternoon before I reached the end of my
journey. Even then, being too much pre—
occupied to inquire the way, I missed the
road and had to walk a long distance before

coming to the shore. But I found the sea at

I

112 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

last; I walked beside it in a trance away
from the houses out into the wheat. The
ripe corn stood up to the beach, the waves
on one side of the shingle, and the yellow
wheat on the other.

There, alone, I went down to the sea. I
stood where the foam came to my feet, and
looked out over the sunlit waters. The great
earth bearing the richness of the harvest, and
its hills golden with corn, was at my back;
its strength and firmness under me. The
great sun shone above, the wide sea was
before me, the wind came sweet and strong
from the waves. The life of the earth and
the sea, the glow of the sun filled me; I
touched the surge with my hand, I lifted my»
face to the sun, I opened my lips to the wind.
I prayed aloud in the roar of the waves—my
soul was strong as the sea and prayed with
the sea’s might. Give me fulness of life like

to the sea and the sun, to the earth and the

THE STORY OF AIY HEART _II3

 

 

 

 

air; give me fulness of physical life, mind
equal and beyond their fulness; give me a
greatness and perfection of soul higher than
all things; give me my inexpressible desire
which swells in me like a tide—give it to me
with all the force of the sea.

Then I rested, sitting by the wheat; the
bank of beach was between me and the sea,
but the waves beat against it; the sea was
there, the sea was present and at hand. By
the dry wheat I rested, I did not think, I
was inhaling the richness of the sea, all the
strength and depth of meaning of the sea and
earth came to me again. I rubbed out some
of the wheat in my hands, I took up a piece
of clod and crumbled it in my fingers—it was
a joy to touch it—I held my hand so that I
could see the sunlight gleam on the slightly
moist surface of the skin. The earth and sun
were to me like my flesh and blood, and the
air of the sea life.

114 THE STORY OF IIIY HEART

 

With all the greater existence I drew from
them I prayed for a bodily life equal to it, for
a soul-life beyond my thought, for my inex—
pressible desire of more than I could shape
even into idea. There was something higher
than idea, invisible to thought as air to the
eye; give me bodily life equal in fulness to
the strength of earth, and sun, and sea ; give
me the soul—life of my desire. Once more I
Went down to the sea, touched it, and said
farewell. So deep was the inhalation of this
life that day, that it seemed to remain in me
for years. This was a real pilgrimage.

Time passed away, with more labour,
pleasure, and again at last, after much pain
and weariness of mind, I came down again
to the sea. The circumstances were changed
——it was not a hurried glance—there were
opportunities for longer thought. It mattered
scarcely anything to me now whether I was

alone, or whether houses and other people

THE STORY OF [MY HEART I15

 

were near. Nothing could disturb my inner
vision. By the sea, aware of the sun overhead,
and the blue heaven, I feel that there is no-
thing between me and space. This is the verge
of a gulf, and a tangent from my feet goee
straight unchecked into the unknown. It is
the edge of the abyss as much as if the earth
were cut away in a sheer fall of eight thou-
sand miles to the sky beneath, thence a hollow
to the stars. Looking straight out is looking
straight down; the eye—glance gradually de-
parts from the sea—level, and, rising as that
falls, enters the hollow of heaven. It is
gazing along the face of a vast precipice into
the hollow space which is nameless.

There mystery has been placed, but
realising the vast hollow yonder makes me
feel that the mystery is here. I, who am here
on the verge, standing on the margin of the
sky, am in the mystery itself. If I let my
eye look back upon me from the extreme

I 2

116 THE STORY OF .MY IIEART

 

opposite of heaven, then this spot where I
stand is in the centre of the hollow. Alone
with the sea and sky, I presently feel all the
depth and wonder of the unknown come back
surging up around, and touching me as the
foam runs to my feet. I am in it now, not
to—morrow, this moment; I cannot escape
from it. Though I may deceive myself with
labour, yet still I am in it; in sleep too.
There is no escape from this immensity.
Feeling this by the sea, under the sun,
my life enlarges and quickens, striving to take
to itself the largeness of the heaven. The
frame cannot expand, but the soul is able to
stand before it. No giant’s body could be
in proportion to the earth, but a little spirit
is equal to the entire cosmos, to earth and
ocean, sun and star—hollow. These are but a
few acres to it. Were the cosmos twice as
wide, the soul could run over it, and return to

itself in a time so small, no measure exists to

THE STORY OF 1111’ [{EART n7

 

mete it. Therefore, I think the soul may
sometimes find out an existence as superior as
my mind is to the dead chalk cliff.

With the great sun burning over the foam-

 

flaked sea, roofed With heaven aware of
myself, a consciousness forced on me by these
things—I feel that thought must yet grow
larger and correspond in magnitude of con-
ception to these. But these cannot content
me, these Titanic things of sea, and sun, and
profundity; I feel that my thought is stronger
than they are. I burn life like a torch. The
hot light shot back from the sea scorches my
cheek—my life is burning in me. The soul
throbs like the sea for a larger life. No
thought which I have ever had has satisfied

my soul.

118 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

CHAPTER VII

MY strength is not enough to fulfil my
I desire; if I had the strength of the ocean,
and of the earth, the burning vigour of the
sun implanted in my limbs, it would hardly
suffice to gratify the measureless desire of
life which possesses me. I have often walked
the day long over the sward, and, compelled
to pause, at length, in my weariness, I was
full of the same eagerness with which I
started. The sinews would obey no longer,
but the will was the same. My frame could
never take the violent exertion my heart
demanded. Labour of body was like meat
and drink to me. Over the open hills, up

the steep ascents, mile after mile, there was

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 119

 

deep enjoyment in the long-drawn breath,
the spring of the foot, in the act of rapid
movement. Never have I had enough of it;
I wearied long before I was satisfied, and
weariness did not bring a cessation of desire;
the thirst was still there.

I rowed, I used the axe, I split tree—
trunks with wedges; my arms tired, but my
spirit remained fresh and chafed against the.
physical weariness. My arms were not
strong enough to satisfy me with the axe, or
wedges, or oars. There was delight in the
moment, but it was not enough. I swam,
and what is more delicious than swimming?
It is exercise and luxury at once. But I
could not swim far enough; I was always dis—
satisfied with myself on leaving the water.
Nature has not given me a great frame, and
had it done so I should still have longed for
more. I was out of doors all day, and often

half the night; still I wanted more sunshine,

125 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

more air, the hours were too short. I feel
this even more now than in the Violence of
early youth: the hours are too short, the day
should' be sixty hours long. Slumber, too,
is abbreviated and restricted; forty hours of
night and sleep would not be too much. So
little can be accomplished in the longest
summer day, so little rest and new force
is accumulated in a short eight hours of
sleep.

I live by the sea now; I can see nothing
of it in a day; why, I do but get a breath of
it, and the sun sinks before I have well
begun to think. Life is so little and so
mean. I dream sometimes backwards of the
ancient times. If I could have the bow of
Ninus, and the earth full of wild bulls and
lions, to hunt them down, there would be rest
in that. To shoot with a gun is nothing; a
mere touch discharges it. Give me a bow,

that I may enjoy the delight of feeling

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 12!

 

myself draw the string and the strong wood
bending, that I may see the rush of the
arrow, and the broad head bury itself deep in
shaggy hide. Give me an iron mace that I
may crush the savage beast and hammer him
down. A spear to thrust through with, so
that I may feel the long blade enter and the
push of the shaft. The unwearied strength
of Ninus to hunt unceasingly in the fierce
sun. Still I should desire greater strength
and a stouter bow, wilder creatures to com—
bat. The intense life of the senses, there is
never enough for them. I envy Semiramis;
I would have been ten times Semiramis. I
envy Nero, because of the great concourse
of beauty he saw. I should like to be loved
by every beautiful woman on earth, from
the swart Nubian to the white and divine
Greek.

Wine is pleasant and meat refreshing;

but though I own with absolute honesty that

122 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

I like them, these are the least of all. Of
these two only have I ever had enough.
The vehemence of exertion, the vehemence
of the spear, the vehemence of sunlight and
life, the insatiate desire of insatiate Semi—
ramis, the still more insatiate desire of love,
divine and beautiful, the uncontrollable
adoration of beauty, these—these: give me
these in greater abundance than was ever
known to man or woman. The strength of
Hercules, the fulness of the senses, the rich—
ness of life, would not in the least impair my
desire of soul—life. On the reverse, with
every stronger beat of the pulse my desire of
soul-life would expand. So it has ever been
with me; in hard exercise, in sensuous
pleasure, in the embrace of the sunlight, even
in the drinking of a glass of wine, my heart
has been lifted the higher towards perfection
of soul. Fulness of physical life causes a

deeper desire of soul—life.

THE STORY OF Zl/[Y HEART 123

 

Let me be physically perfect, in shape,
vigour, and movement. My frame, naturally
slender, will not respond to labour, and in—
crease in proportion to effort, nor will expo-
sureaharden a delicate skin. It disappoints
me so far, but my spirit rises With the effort,
and my thought opens. This is the only
profit of frost, the pleasure of Winter, to
conquer cold, and to feel braced and
strengthened by that Whose province it is
to Wither and destroy, making of cold, life’s
enemy, life’s renewer. The black north Wind
hardens the resolution as steel is tempered in
ice-water. It is a sensual joy, as sensuous as
the warm embrace of the sunlight, but fulness
of physical life ever brings to me a more
eager desire of soul—life.

Splendid it is to feel the boat rise to
the roller, or forced through by the sail to
shear the foam aside like a share ; splendid to

undulate as the chest lies on the wave, swim-

:24 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

ming, the brimming ocean round : then I know
and feel its deep strong tide, its immense ful-
ness, and the sun glowing over; splendid to
climb the steep green hill: in these I feel my-
self, I drink the exquisite joy of the senses,
and my soul lifts itself with them. It is beau—
tiful even to watch a fine horse gallop, the
long stride, the rush of the wind as he passes
—my heart beats quicker to the thud of the
hoofs, and I feel his strength. Gladly would
I have the strength of the Tartar stallion
roaming the wild steppe; that very strength,
what vehemence of soul—thought would ac-
company it. But I should like it, too, for
itself. For I believe, with all my heart, in
the body and the flesh, and believe that
it should be increased and made more beau-
tiful by every means. I believe—~I do more
than think—I believe it to be a sacred
duty, incumbent upon every one, man and

woman, to add to and encourage their physical

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 125

 

life, by exercise, and in every manner. A
sacred duty each towards himself, and each
towards the whole of the human race. Each
one of us should do some little part for the
physical good of the race—health, strength,
vigour. There is no harm therein to the soul:
on the contrary, those Who stunt their physical
life are’most certainly stunting their souls.

I believe all manner of asceticism to be
the vilest blasphemy—blasphemy towards the
Whole of the human race. I believe in the
flesh and the body, which is worthy of
worship—to see a perfect human body un-
veiled causes a sense of worship. The ascetics
are the only persons Who are impure. In-
crease of physical beauty is attended by in-
crease of soul beauty. The soul is the higher
even by gazing on beauty. Let me be fleshly
perfect.

It is in myself that I desire increase

profit, and exaltation of body, mind, and soul.

126 THE STORY OF IVY HEART

 

Thesurroundings, the clothes, the dwelling,
the social status, the circumstances are to me
utterly indifferent. Let the floor of the room
be bare, let the furniture be a plank table, the
bed a mere pallet. Let the house be plain
and simple, but in the midst of air and light.
These are enough—a cave would be enough;
'in a warmer climate the open air would
suffice. Let me be furnished in myself with
health, safety, strength, the perfection of
physical existence ; let my mind be furnished
with highest thoughts of soul—life. Let me
be in myself myself fully. The pageantry of
power, the still more foolish pageant-ry of
wealth, the senseless precedence of place;
words fail me to express my utter contempt. for
such pleasure or such ambitions. Let me be
in myself myself fully, and those I love
equally so.

It- is enough to lie on the sward in the

shadow of green boughs, to listen to the songs

THE STORY OF MYHEART 127

 

of summer, to drink in the sunlight, the air,
the flowers, the sky, the beauty of all. Or
upon the hill—tops to watch the White clouds
rising over the curved hill—lines, their shadows
descending the slope. Or on the beach to
listen to the sweet sigh as the smooth sea
runs up and recedes. It is lying beside the
immortals, in-drawing the life of the ocean,
the earth, and the sun.

I want to be always in company with
these, with earth, and sun, and sea, and stars
by night. The pettiness of house-life—chairs
and tables—and the pettiness of Observances,
the petty necessity of useless labour, useless
because productive of nothing, chafe me the
year through. I want to be always in com—
pany with the sun, and sea, and earth.
These, and the stars by night, are my natural
companions.

My heart looks back and sympathises

with all the joy and life of ancient time.

128 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

With the circling (lance burned in still atti—
tude on the vase; with the chase and the
hunter eagerly pursuing, whose javelin
trembles to be thrown; with the extreme
fury of feeling, the whirl of joy in the
warriors from Marathon to the last battle of
Rome, not with the slaughter, but with the
‘ passion—the life in the passion; with the
garlands and the flowers; with all the breath—
ing busts that have panted beneath the sun.
0 beautiful human life! Tears come in my
eyes as I think of it. So beautiful, so in—
eXpressibly beautiful !

So deep is the passion of life that, if it
were possible to live again, it must be ex-
quisite to die pushing the eager breast against
the sword. I11 the flush of strength to face
the sharp pain joyously, and laugh in the last
glance of the sun—if only to live again, now
on earth, were possible. So subtle is the

chord of life that sometimes to watch troops

THE STORY OF 1111’ HEART 129
\\\_
marching in rhythmic order, undulating along
the column as the feet are lifted, brings tears
in my eyes. Yet could I have in my own
heart all the passion, the love and joy, burned
in the breasts that have panted, breathing
deeply, since the hour of Ilion, yet still I
should desire more. How willingly I would
strew the paths of all with flowers; how
beautiful a delight to make the world joyous !
The song? should never be silent, the dance
never still, the laugh should sound like water
which runs for ever.

I would submit to a severe discipline, and
to go without many things cheerfully, for the
good and happiness of the human race in the
future. Each one of us should do something,
however small, towards that great end. At
the present time the labour of our prede-
cessors in this country, in all other countries
of the earth, is entirely wasted. We live—-
that is, we snatch an existence—and our

K

130 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

 

works become nothing. The piling up of
fortunes, the building of cities, the establish-
ment of immense commerce, ends in a cipher.
These objects are so outside my idea that I
cannot understand them, and look upon the
struggle in amazement. Not even the pres-
sure of poverty can force upon me an under—
standing of, and sympathy with, these things.
It is the human being as the human being of
Whom I think. That the human being as the
human being, nude—apart altogether from
money, clothing, houses, properties—should
enjoy greater health, strength, safety, beauty,
and happiness, I would gladly agree to a dis—
cipline like that of Sparta. The Spartan
method did produce the finest race of men,
and Sparta was famous in antiquity for the
most beautiful women. So far, therefore, it
fits exactly to my ideas.

No science of modern times has yet dis—

covered a plan to meet the requirements of

THE STORY OF MY HEART I31

 

the millions who live now, no plan by which
they might attain similar physical proportion.
Some increase of longevity, some slight im—
provement in the general health is promised,
and these are great things, but far, far be—
neath the ideal. Probably the whole mode
of thought of the nations must be altered
before physical progress is possible. Not
while money, furniture, afi‘ected show and the
pageantry of wealth are the ambitions of the
multitude can the multitude become ideal in
form. When the ambition of the multitude
is fixed on the ideal of form and beauty, then
that ideal will become immediately possible,
and a marked advance towards it could be
made in three generations. Glad, indeed,
should I be to discover something that would
help towards this end.

How pleasant it would be each day to
think, To-day I have done something that
will tend to render future generations more

K2

132 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

happy. The very thought would make this
hour sweeter. It is absolutely necessary that
something of this kind should be discovered.
First, we must lay down the axiom that as
yet nothing has been found; we have nothing
to start With ; all has to be begun afresh. All
courses or methods of human life have
hitherto been failures. Some course of life is
needed based on things that are, irrespective
of tradition. The physical ideal must be kept

steadily in View.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 133

 

CHAPTER VIII

AN enumeration of the useless would almost
be an enumeration of everything hitherto
pursued. For instance, to go back as far as
possible, the study and labour expended on
Egyptian inscriptions and papyri, which con-
tain nothing but doubtful, because laudatory
history, invocations to idols, and similar
matters: all these labours are in vain. _Take
a broom and sweep the papyri away into the
dust. The Assyrian terra-cotta tablets, some
recording fables, and some even sadder—
contracts between men whose bodies were
dust twenty centuries since—take a hammer
and demolish them. Set a battery to beat

down the pyramids, and a mlnd-battery to

134 THE STORY OF IIIY HEART

 

destroy the deadening influence of tradition.
The Greek statue lives to this day, and has
the highest use of all, the use of true beauty.
The Greek and Roman philosophers have the
value of furnishing the mind with material
to think from. Egyptian and Assyrian, medi—
aeval and eighteenth-century culture, mis—
called, are all alike mere dust, and absolutely
useless.

There is a mass of knowledge so—called at
the present day equally useless, and nothing
but an encumbrance. We are forced by cir—
cumstances to become familiar with it, but the
time expended on it is lost. N 0 physical ideal
——far less any soul—ideal—will ever be reached
by it. In a recent generation erudition in the
text of the classics was considered the most
honourable of pursuits; certainly nothing
could be less valuable. In our own genera-
tion, another species of erudition is lauded——

erudition in the laws of matter—which, in

THE STORY OF [MY HEART I35

 

itself, is but one degree better. The study of
matter for matter’s sake is despicable ; if any
can turn that study to advance the ideal of
life, it immediately becomes most valuable.
But not without the human ideal. It is
nothing to me if the planets revolve around
the sun, or the sun around the earth, unless I
can thereby gather an increase of body or
mind. As the conception of the planets re-
volving around the sun, the present astrono-
mical conception of the heavens, is distinctly
grander than that of Ptolemy, it is therefore
superior, and a gain to the human mind. So
with other sciences, not immediately useful,
yet if they furnish the mind with material of
thought, they are an advance.

But not in themselves—only in conjunc-
tion with the human ideal. Once let that
slip out of the thought, and science is of no
more use than the invocations in the Egyptian

papyri. The world would be the gainer if

136 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

the Nile rose and swept away pyramid and
tomb, sarcophagus, papyri, and inscription;
for it seems as if most of the superstitions
Which still to this hour, in our own country,
hold minds in their sway, originated in
Egypt. The world would be the gainer if a
Nile flood of new thought arose and swept
' away the past, concentrating the effort of all
theraces of the earth upon man’s body, that
it might reach an ideal of shape, and health,
and happiness.

Nothing is of any use unless it gives me
a strOnger body and mind, a more beautiful
body, a happy existence, and a soul—life 110W.
The last phase of philosophy is equally use-
less With the rest. The belief that the human
mind was evolved, in the process of un-
numbered years, from a fragment of pal-
pitating slime through a thousand gradations,
is a modern superstition, and proceeds upon

assumption alone.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 137

 

Nothing is evolved, no evolution takes
place, there is no record of such an event;
it is pure assertion. The theory fascinates
many, because they find, upon study of
physiology, that the gradations between
animal and vegetable are so fine and so close
together, as if a common web bound them
together. But although they stand so near
they never change places. They are like the
figures on the face of a clock; there are minute
dots between, apparently connecting each
with the other, and the hands move round
over all. Yet ten never becomes twelve, and
each second even is parted from the next, as
you may hear by listening to the beat. So
the gradations of life, past and present,
though standing close together never change
places. Nothing is evolved. There is no
evolution any more than there is any design
in nature. By standing face to face with

nature, and not from books, I have convinced

138 TfIE STORY OF MY HEART

 

myself that there is no design and no evolu-
tion. What there is, what was the cause,
how and why, is not yet known; certainly it
was neither of these.

But it may be argued the world must have
been created, or it must have been made of
existing things, or it must have been evolved,
. or it must have existed for ever, through all
eternity. I think not. I do not think that
either of these are ‘musts,’ nor that any ‘ must’
has yet been discovered; not even that there
‘ must ’ be a first cause. There may be other
things—other physical forces even—of which
we know nothing. I strongly suspect there
are. There may be other ideas altogether
from any we have hitherto had the use of.
For many ages our ideas have been confined
to two or three. We have conceived the idea
of creation, which is the highest and grandest
of all, if not historically true; we have con—

ceived the idea of design, that is of an intel—

THE STORY OF MY HEART [39

 

ligence making order and revolution of chaos;
and we have conceived the idea of evolution
by physical laws of matter, which, though
now so much insisted on, is as ancient as
the Greek philosophers. But there may be
another alternative; I think there are other
alternatives.

Whenever the mind obtains a wider view
we may find that origin, for instance, is not
always due to what is understood by cause.
At this moment the mind is unable to con-
ceive of anything happening, or of anything
coming into existence, without a cause. From
cause to effect is the sequence of our ideas.
But I think that if at some time we should
obtain an altogether different and broader
sequence of ideas, we may discover that there
are various other alternatives. As the world,
and the universe at large, was not constructed
according to plan, so it is clear that the

sequence or circle of ideas which includes

140 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

plan, and cause, and effect, are not in the
circle of ideas which would correctly explain
it. Put aside the plan-circle of ideas, and it
will at once be evident that there is no in-
herent necessity or ‘must.’ There is no in—
herent necessity for a first cause, or that the
world and the universe was created, or that
it was shaped of existing matter, or that it
evolved itself and its inhabitants, or that the
cosmos has existed in varying forms for ever.
There may be other alternatives altogether.
The only idea I can give is the idea that
there is another idea.

In this ‘ must ’—‘ it must follow ’———lies my
objection to the logic of science. The argu-
ments proceed from premises to conclusions,
and end with the assumption ‘it therefore fol-
lows.’ But I say that, however carefully the
argument be built up, even though apparently
flawless, there is no such thing at present as

‘it must follow.’ Human ideas at present natu-

THE STORY OF MY HEART I41

 

rally form a plan, and abalanced design; they
might be indicated by a geometrical figure,
an upright straight line in the centre, and
branching from that straight line curves on
either hand exactly equal to each other. In
drawing that is how we are taught, to balance
the outline or curves on one side with the
curves on the other. In nature and in fact
there is no such thing. The stem of a tree
represents the upright line, but the branches
do not balance; those on one side are larger
or longer than those on the other. Nothing
is straight, but all things curved, crooked, and
unequal.

The human body is the most remarkable
instance of inequality, lack of balance, and
want of plan. The exterior is beautiful in
its lines, but the two hands, the two feet, the
two sides of the face, the two sides of the
profile, are not precisely equal. The very

nails of the fingers are set ajar, as it were, to

142 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

the lines of the hand, and not quite straight.
Examination of the interior organs shows a
total absence of balance. The heart is not
in the centre, nor do the organs correspond
in any way. The viscera are wholly opposed
to plan. Coming, lastly, to the bones, these
have no humanity, as it were, of shape; they
’ are neither round nor square; the first sight
of them causes a sense of horror, so extra-
human are they in shape; there is no balance
of design in them. These are very brief
examples, but the whole universe, so far as
it can be investigated, is equally unequal.
No straight line runs through it, with balanced
curves each side.

Let this thought now be carried into the
realms of thought. The mind, or circle, or
sequence of ideas, acts, or thinks, or exists in
a balance, or what seems a balance to it. A
straight line of thought is set in the centre,

with equal branches each side, and with a gene—

TllE STORY OF MY HEART I43

 

rally rounded outline. But this corresponds
to nothing in tangible fact. Hence I think,
by analogy, we may suppose that neither
does it correspond to the circle of ideas which
caused us and all things to be, or, at all
events, to the circle of ideas which accurately
understand us and all things. There are
other ideas altogether. From standing face
to face so long with the real earth, the real
sun, and the real sea, I am firmly convinced
that there is an immense range of thought
quite unknown to us yet.

The problem of my own existence also
convinces me that there is much more. The
questions are: Did my soul exist before my
body was formed? Or did it come into life
with my body, as a product, like a flame, of
combustion? What will become of it after
death? Will it simply go out like a flame
and become non—existent, or will it live for

ever in one or other mode? To these ques-

I44 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

tions I am unable to find any answer whatso-
ever. In our present range of ideas there is
no reply to them. I may have previously
existed; I may not have previously existed.
I may be a product of combustion; I may
exist on after physical life is suspended, or I
may not. No demonstration is possible. But
what I want to say is that the alternatives of
extinction or immortality may not be the only
alternatives. There may be something else,
more wonderful than immortality, and far
beyond and above that idea. There may be
something immeasurably superior to it. As
our ideas have run in circles for centuries, it
is difficult to find words to express the idea
that there are other ideas. For myself,
though I cannot fully express myself, I feel
fully convinced that there is a vast immensity
of thought, of existence, and of other things

beyond even immortal existence.

‘THE STORY OF MY HEART 145

 

CHAPTER 1X

IN human affairs everything happens by
chance—that is, in defiance of human ideas,
and without any direction of an intelligence.
A man bathes in a pool, a crocodile seizes and
lacerates his flesh. If any one maintains
that an intelligence directed that cruelty, I
can only reply that his mind is under an
illusion. ,A man is caught by a revolving
shaft and torn to pieces, limb from limb.
There is no directing intelligence in human
affairs, no protection, and no assistance.
Those who act uprightly are not rewarded,
but they and their children often wander in
the utmost indigence. Those who do evil are
not always punished, but frequently flourish

L

146 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

and have happy children. Rewards and
punishments are purely human institutions,
and if government be relaxed they entirely
disappear. No intelligence whatever inter-
feres in human affairs. There is a most
senseless belief now prevalent that effort,
and work, and cleverness, perseverance and
industry, are invariably successful. Were
this the case, every man would enjoy a com—
petence, at least, and be free from the cares of
money. This is an illusion ahnost equal to the
superstition of a directing intelligence, which
every fact and every consideration disproves.

How can I adequately express my con-
tempt for the assertion that all things occur
for the best, for a wise and beneficent end, and
are ordered by a humane intelligence ! It is
the most utter falsehood and a crime against
the human race. Even in my brief time I
have been contemporary with events of the

most horrible character; as when the mothers

THE STORY OF MY HEART I47

 

in the Balkans cast their own children from
the train to perish in the snow; as when the
Princess Alice foundered, and six hundred
human beings were smothered in foul water;
as when the hecatomb of two thousand
maidens were burned in the church at Sant—
iago; as when the miserable creatures tore at
the walls of the Vienna theatre. Consider
only the fates which overtake the little chil-
dren. Human suffering is so great, so endless,
so awful that I can hardly write of it. I could
not go into hospitals and face it, as some do,
lest mymind should be temporarily overcome.
The whole and the worst the worst pessimist
can say is far beneath the least particle of the
truth, so immense is the misery of man. It
is the duty of all rational beings to acknow—
ledge the truth. There is not the least trace

directing intelligence in human affairs.
This is a foundation of hope, because, if the
present condition of things were ordered by

L2

148 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

a superior power, there would be no possi-
bility of improving it for the better in the
spite of that power. Acknowledging that
no such direction exists, all things become at
once plastic to our will.

The credit given by the unthinking to the
statement that all affairs are directed has
been the bane of the world since the days of
the Egyptian papyri and the origin of super-
stition. So long as men firmly believe that
everything is fixed for them, so long is pro—
gress impossible. If you argue yourself into
the belief that you cannot walk to a place,
you cannot walk there. But if you start you
can walk there easily. Any one who will
consider the affairs of the world at large, and
of the individual, will see that they do not
proceed in the manner they would do for our
own happiness if a man of humane breadth of
view were placed at their head with unlimited

power, such as is credited to the intelligence

THE STORY OF .4117 HEART I49

 

which does not exist. A man of intellect and
humanity could cause everything to happen
in an infinitely superior manner. Could one
like the divine J ulius—humane, generous,
broadest of View, deep thinking—wield such
power, certainly every human being would
enjoy happiness.

But that which is thoughtlessly credited
to a non-existent intelligence should really be
claimed and exercised by the human race;
It is ourselves who should direct our affairs,
protecting ourselves from pain, assisting our—
selves, succouring and rendering our lives
happy. We must do for ourselves what
superstition has hitherto supposed an intelli—
gence to do for us. Nothing whatsoever is
done for us. \Ve are born naked, and not even
protected by a shaggy covering. Nothing is
done for us. The first and strongest com—
mand (using the word to convey the idea

only) that nature, the universe, our own

150 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

bodies give, is to do everything for ourselves.
The sea does not make boats for us, nor the
earth of her own will build us hosPitals. The
injured lie bleeding, and no invisible power
lifts them up. The maidens were scorched
in the midst of their devotions, and their
remains make a mound hundreds of yards
long. The infants perished in the snow, and
the ravens tore their limbs. Those in the
theatre crushed each other to the death-agony.
For how long, for how many thousand years,
must the earth and the sea, and the fire and
the air, utter these things and force them
upon us before they are admitted in their
full significance?

These things speak with a voice of
thunder. From every human being whose
body has been racked by pain; from every
_ human being who has suffered from accident
or disease; from every human being drowned,

burned, or slain by negligence, there goes up

THE STORY OF MY HEART I51

 

a continually increasing cry louder than the
thunder. An awe-inspiring cry dread to
listen to, which no one dares listen to, against
which ears are stopped by the wax of super-
stition and the wax of criminal selfishness :—
These miseries are your doing, because you
have mind and thought, and could have
prevented them. You can prevent them in
the future. You do not even try.

It is perfectly certain that all diseases
without exception are preventible, or, if not so,
that they can be so weakened as to do no harm.
It is perfectly certain that all accidents are
preventible; there is not one that does not
arise from folly or negligence. All accidents
are crimes. It is perfectly certain that all
human beings are capable of physical happi—
ness. It is absolutely incontrovertible that
the ideal shape of the human being is attain-
able to the exclusion of deformities. It is

incontrovertible that there is no necessity for

152 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

any man to die but of old age, and that if
death cannot be prevented life can be pro-
longed far beyond the farthest now known.
It is incontrovertible that at the present time
no one ever dies of old age. Not one single
person ever dies of old age, or of natural
causes, for there is no such thing as a natural
' cause of death. They die of disease or weak—
ness which is the result of disease either in
themselves or in their ancestors. No such
thing as old age is known to us. We do not
even know what old age would be like,
because no one ever lives to it.

Our bodies are full of unsuspected flaws,
handed down it may be for thousands of
years, and it is of these that we die, and not
of natural decay. Till these are eliminated,
or as nearly eliminated as possible, we shall
never even know what true old age is like, nor
what the true natural limit of human life is.

The utmost limit now appears to be about

THE STORY OF MY HEART 153

 

one hundred and five years, but as each person
who has got so far has died of weaknesses in-
herited through thousands of years, it is im-
possible to say to what number of years he
would have reached in a natural state. It
seems more than possible that true old age——
the slow and natural decay of the body apart
from inherited flaw—would be free from very
imany, if not all, of the petty miseries which
now render extreme age a doubtful blessing.
If the limbs grew weaker they would not totter;
if the teeth dropped it would not be till the
last; if the eyes were less strong they would
not be quite dim; nor would the mind lose its
memory.

But now we see eyes become dim and
artificial aid needed in comparative youth,
and teeth drop out in mere childhood. Many
men and women lose teeth before they are
twenty. This simple fact is evidence enough

of inherited weakness or flaw. How could a

154 THE STORY OF IIIY HEART

 

person who had lost teeth before twenty be
ever said to die of old age, though he died
at a hundred and ten? Death is not a super-
natural event; it is an event of the most
materialistic character, and may certainly be
postponed, by the united efforts of the human
race, to a period far more distant from the
date of birth than has been the case during
the historic period. The question has often
been debated in my mind whether death is or
is not Wholly preventible; whether, if the entire
human race were united in their efforts to
eliminate causes of decay, death might not
also be altogether eliminated.

If we consider ourselves by the analogy of
animals, trees, and other living creatures, the
reply is that, however postponed, in long'
process of time the tissues must wither.
Suppose an ideal man, free from inherited
flaw, then though his age might be prolonged

to several centuries, in the end the natural

THE STORY OF MY HEART 155

 

body must wear out. That is true so far.
But it so happens that the analogy is not just,
and therefore the conclusions it points to are
not tenable.

Man is altogether different from every
other animal, every other living creature
known. He is different in body. In his
purely natural state—in his true natural state
—he is immeasurably stronger. N 0 animal
approaches to the physical perfection of which
a man is capable. He can weary the strongest
horse, he can outrun the swiftest stag, he
can bear extremes of heat and cold, hunger
and thirst, which would exterminate every
known living thing. Merely in bodily strength
he is superior to all. The stories of antiquity,
which were deemed fables, may be fables
historically, but search has shown that they
are not intrinsically fables. Man of flesh and
blood is capable of all that Ajax, all that

Hercules did. Feats in modern days have

156 THE STORY OF AIY HEART

 

surpassed these, as when Webb swam the
Channel; mythology contains nothing equal
to that. The difference does not end here.
Animals think to a certain extent, but if their
conceptions be ever so clever, not having
hands they cannot execute them.

I myself maintain that the mind of man
is practically infinite. It ,‘an understand
anything brought before it. It has not the
power of its own motion to bring everything
before it, but when anything is brought it is
understood. It is like sitting in a room with
one window; you cannot compel everything
to pass the window, but whatever does pass
is seen. It is like a magnifying glass, which
magnifies and explains everything brought
into its focus. The mind of man is infinite.
Beyond this, man has a soul. I do not use
this word in the common sense which circum—
stances have given to it. I use it as the only

term to express that inner consciousness

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 157

 

which aspires. These brief reasons show that
the analogy is imperfect, and that therefore,
although an ideal animal—a horse, a dog, a
lion—must die, it does not follow that an
ideal man must. He has a body possessed of
exceptional recuperative powers, which, under
proper conditions, continually repairs itself.
He has a mind by which he can select re-
medies, and select his course and carefully
restore the waste of tissue. He has a soul,
as yet, it seems to me, lying in abeyance, by
the aid of which he may yet discover things
now deemed supernatural.

Considering these things I am obliged by
facts and incontrovertible argument to con—
clude that death is not inevitable to the ideal
man. He is shaped for a species of physical
immortality. The beauty of form of the ideal
human being indicates immortality—the con-
tour, the curve, the outline answer to the idea

of life. In the course of ages united effort

158 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

long continued may eliminate those causes of
decay which have grown up in ages past, and
after that has been done advance farther and
improve the natu ‘al state. As a river brings
down suspended particles of sand, and de-
positing them at its mouth forms a delta and
a new country; as the air and the rain and the
- heat of the sun desiccate the rocks and slowly
wear down mountains into sand, so the united
action of the human race, continued through
centuries, may build up the ideal man and
woman. Each individual labouring in his day
through geological time in front must pro—
duce an effect. The instance of Sparta, where
so much was done in a few centuries, is almost
proof of it.

The truth is, we die through our ancestors;
we are murdered by our ancestors. Their
dead hands stretch forth from the tomb and
drag us down to their mouldering bones. We

in our turn are 110w at this moment preparing

THE STORY OF MY HEART I59

 

death for our unborn posterity. This day .
those that die do not die in the sense of old
age, they are slain. Nothing has been
accumulated for our benefit in ages past. All
the labour and the toil of so many millions
continued through such vistas of time, down
to those millions who at this hour are rushing
to and fro in London, has accumulated nothing
for us. Nothing for our good. The only
things that have been stored up have been
for our evil and destruction, diseases and
weaknesses crossed and cultivated and ren-
dered almost part and parcel of our very
bones. Now let us begin to roll back the
tide of death, and to set our faces steadily to
a future of life. It should be the sacred and
sworn duty of every one, once at least during
lifetime, to do something in person towards
this end. It would be a delight and pleasure
to me to do something every day, were it ever

so minute. To reflect that another human

I60 TIIE STORY OF MY HEART

 

being, if at a distance of ten thousand years
from the year 1883, would enjoy one hour’s
more life, in the sense of fulness of life, in
consequence of anything I had done in my

little span, would be to me a peace of soul.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 161

 

CHAPTER X

UNITED efl'ort through geological time in front
is but the beginning of an idea. Ikam con-
vinced that much more can be done, and that
the length of time may be almost immeasur—
ably shortened. The general principles that
are now in operation are of the simplest and
most elementary character, yet they have
already made considerable difference. I am
not content with these. There must be much
more—there must be things which are at
present unknown by whose aid advance may
be made. Research proceeds upon the same
old lines and runs in the ancient grooves.
Further, it is restricted by the ultra-practical
views which are alone deemed reasonable. .

M

162 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

But there should be no limit placed on the
mind. The purely ideal is as worthy of
pursuit as the practical, and the mind is not
to be pinned to dogmas of science any more
than to dogmas of superstition. Most injuri-
ous of all is the continuous circling on the

same path, and it is from this that I wish to
free my mind.

The pursuit of theory—the organon of
pure thought—has led incidentally to great
discoveries, and for myself I am convinced it
is of the highest value. The process of ex-
periment has produced much, and has applied
What was previously found. Empiricism is
worthy of careful re-working out, for it is a
fact that most things are more or less empiri—
cal, especially in medicine. Denial may be
given to this statement, nevertheless it is true,
and I have had practical exemplification of it
in my own experience. Observation is per-

haps more powerful an organon than either

THE STORY OF MY HEART 163

 

experiment or empiricism. If the eye is al—
ways watching, and the mind on the alert,
ultimately chance supplies the solution.

The difficulties I have encountered have
generally been solved by chance in this way.
When I took an interest in archaeological
matters—an interest long since extinct—I
considered that a part of an army known to
have marched in a certain direction during
the Civil War must have visited a town in
which I was interested. But I exhausted
every mode of research in vain; there was
no evidence of it. If the knowledge had ever
existed it had dropped again. Some years
afterwards, when my interest had ceased, and
I had put such inquiries for ever aside (being
useless, like the Egyptian papyri), I was reading
in the British Museum. Presently I returned
my book to the shelf, and then slowly walked
along the curving wall lined with volumes,
looking to see if I could light on anything to

M2

164 THE STORY OF .MY HEART

 

amuse me. I took out avolume for a glance;
' it opened of itself at a certain page, and there
was the information I had so long sought—a
reprint of an old pamphlet describing the visit
of the army to the town in the Civil War.
So chance answered the question in the
course of time.

And I think that, seeing how great a
part chance plays in human affairs, it is
essential that study should be made of
chance; it seems to me that an organon
might be deduced from chance as much as
from experiment. Then there is the inner
consciousness—the psyche—that has never
yet been brought to bear upon life and its
questions. Besides which there is a super-
sensuous reason. Often I have argued with
myself that such and such a course was the
right one to follow, while in the intervals of
thinking about it an undercurrent of uncon-

scious impulse has desired me to do the

THE STORY OF MY HEART 165

 

reverse or to remain inactive. Sometimes it
has happened that the supersensuous reason—
ing has been correct, and the most faultless
argument wrong. I presume this supersen—
suous reasoning, proceeding independently in
the mind, arises from perceptions too delicate
for analysis.’ From these considerations alone
I am convinced that, by the aid of ideas yet
to be discovered, the geological time in front
may be immeasurably shortened. These modes
of research are not all. The psyche—the
soul in me—tells me that there is much more,
that these are merely beginnings of the
crudest kind.

I fully recognise the practical difficulty
arising from the ingrained, hereditary, and
unconscious selfishness which began before
history, and has been crossed and cultivated
for twelve thousand years since. This renders
me less sanguine of united effort through

geological time ahead, unless some idea can

166' THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

be formed to give a stronger impulse even
than selfishness, or unless the selfishness can
be utilised. The complacency with which
the mass of people go about their daily task,
absolutely indifferent to all other considera-
tions, is appalling in its concentrated stelidity.
They do not intend wrong—they intend
' rightly: in truth, they work against the
entire human race. So wedded and so con—
firmed is the world in its narrow groove of
self, so stolid and so complacent under the
immense weight of misery, so callous to its
own possibilities, and so grown to its chains,
that I almost despair to see it awakened.
Cemeteries are often placed 011 hillsides, and
the white stones are Visible far off. If the
whole of the dead in a hillside cemetery were
called up alive from their tombs, and walked
_ forth down into the valley, it would not rouse
the mass of people from the dense pyramid of

stolidity which presses on them.

THE STORY OF MY HEART I67

 

There would. be gaping and marvelling
and rushing about, and what then? In a
week or two the ploughman would settle
down to his plough, the carpenter to his
bench, the smith to his anvil, the merchant to
his money, and the dead come to life would
be utterly forgotten. No matter in what
manner the possibilities of human life are put
before the world, the crowd continues as
stolid as before. Therefore nothing hitherto
done, or suggested, or thought of, is of much
avail; but this fact in no degree stays me
from the search. 011 the contrary, the less
there has been accomplished the more anxious
I am; the truth it teaches is that the mind
must be lifted out of its old grooves before
anything will be certainly begun. Erase the
past from the mind—stand face to face with
the real now—and work out all anew. Call
the soul to our assistance; the soul tells me

that outside all the ideas that have yet

168 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

occurred there are others, whole circles of
others. _

I remember a cameo of Augustus Caesar
--—the head of the emperor is graven in delicate
lines, and shows the most exquisite propor—
tions. It is a balanced head, a head adjusted
to the calmest intellect. That head when it
‘ was living contained a circle of ideas, the
largest, the widest, the most profound current
in his time. All that philosophy had taught,
all that practice, experiment, and empiricism
had discovered, was familiar to him. There
was no knowledge in the ancient world but
what was accessible to the Emperor of Rome.
Now at this day there are amongst us heads
as finely proportioned as that cutout in the
cameo. Though these living men do not
possess arbitrary power, the advantages of
arbitrary power—as far as knowledge is con—
cerned—are secured to them by education,

by the printing-press, and the facilities of our

THE STORY OF MY HEART I69

 

era. It is reasonable to imagine a head of
our time filled with the largest, the widest,
the most profound ideas current in the age.
Augustus Caesar, however great his intellect,
could not in that balanced head have pos—
sessed the ideas familiar enough to the living
head of this day. As we have a circle of
ideas unknown to Augustus Caesar, so I argue
there are whole circles of ideas unknown to
us. It is these that I am so earnestly de-
sirous of discovering.

For nothing has as yet been of any value,
however good its intent. There is no virtue,
or reputed virtue, which has not been rigidly
pursued, and things have remained as before.
Men and women have practised self—denial,
and to what end? They have compelled
themselves to suffer hunger and thirst; in
. vain. They have clothed themselves in sack—
' cloth and lacerated the flesh. They have

mutilated themselves. Some have been scru-

I7o THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

pulous to bathe, and some have been scrupu-
lous to cake their bodies with the foulness of
years. Many have devoted their lives to
assist others in sickness or poverty. Chastity
has been faithfully observed, chastity both of
body and mind. Self-examination has been
pursued till it ended in a species of sacred in-
sanity, and all these have been of no more
value than the tortures undergone by the In—
dian mendicant who hangs himself up by a
hook through his back. All these are pure
folly.

Asceticism has not improved the form, or
the physical well—being, or the heart of any
human being. On the contrary, the hetaira
is often the warmest hearted and the most
generous. Casuistry and self—examination
are perhaps the most injurious of all the
Virtues, utterly destroying independence of
mind. Self—denial has had no result, and all

the self—torture of centuries has been thrown

THE STORY OF .MY HEART I71

 

away. Lives spent in doing good have been
lives nobly wasted. Everything is in vain.
The circle of ideas we possess is too limited
to aid us. We need ideas as far outside our
circle as ours are outside those that were
pondered over by Augustus Caesar.

The most extraordinary spectacle, as it
seems to me, is the vast expenditure of labour
and time wasted in obtaining mere subsistence.
As a man, in his lifetime, works hard and
saves money, that his children may be free
from the cares of penury and may at least
have sufficient to eat, drink, clothe, and roof
them, so the generations that preceded us
might, had they so chosen, have provided for
our subsistence. The labour and time of ten
generations, properly directed, would sustain
a hundred generations succeeding to them,
and that, too, with so little self—denial on the
part of the providers as to be scarcely felt.

So men now, in this generation, ought clearly

172 THE STORY OF IVY HEART

 

to be laying up a store, or, what is still more
powerful, arranging and organising that the
generations which follow may enjoy compara-
tive freedom from useless labour. Instead 0!
which, with transcendent improvidence, the
world works only for to-day, as the world
worked twelve thousand years ago, and our
children’s children will still have to toil and
slave for the bare necessities of life. This is,
indeed, an extraordinary spectacle.

That twelve thousand written years should
have elapsed, and the human race—able to
reason and to think, and easily capable of
combination in immense armies for its own
destruction—should still live from hand to
mouth, like cattle and sheep, like the animals
of the field and the birds of the woods; that
there should not even be roofs to cover the
children born, unless those children labour
and expend their time to pay for them; that

there should not be clothes, unless, again,

THE STORY OF .MY HEART I73

 

time and labour are expended to procure
them ; that there should not be even food for
the children of the human race, except they
labour as their fathers did twelve thousand
years ago; that even water should scarce be
accessible to them, unless paid for by labour !
In twelve thousand written years the world
has not yet built itself a House, nor filled a
Granary, nor organised itself for its own
comfort. It is so marvellous I cannot express
the wonder with which it fills me. And
more wonderful still, if that could be, there
are people so infatuated, or, rather, so limited
of View, that they glory in this state of things,
declaring that work is the main object of
man’s existence—work for subsistence—and
glorying in their wasted time. To argue
with such is impossible; to leave them is the
only resource.

This our earth this day produces sufficient

for our existence. This our earth produces

I74 TIIE STORY OF flIY HEART

 

not only a sufficiency, but a superabundance,
and pours a cornucopia of good things down
upon us. Further, it produces sufficient for
stores and granaries to be filled to the roof-
tree for years ahead. I verily believe that
the earth in one year produces enough food
to last for thirty. Why, then, have we not
enough? Why do people die of starvation,
or lead a miserable existence 011 the verge of
it? Why have millions upon millions to toil
from morning to evening just to gain a mere
crust of bread? Because of the absolute
lack of organisation by which such labour
should produce its effect, the absolute lack of
distribution, the absolute lack even of the
very idea that such things are possible. Nay,
even to mention such things, to say that they
are possible, is criminal with many. Madness
could hardly go farther.

That selfishness has all to do with it I

entirely deny. The human race for ages

THE STORY OF MY HEART I75

 

upon ages has been enslaved by ignorance
and by interested persons whose object it has
been to confine the minds of men, thereby
doing more injury than if with infected
hands they purposely imposed disease on the
heads of the people. Almost worse than
these, and at the present day as injurious, are
those persons incessantly declaring, teaching,
and impressing upon all that to work is man’s
highest condition. This falsehood is the
interested superstition of an age infatuated
with money, which having accumulated it
cannot even expend it in pageantry. It is a
falsehood propagated for the doubtful benefit
of two or three out of ten thousand. It is
the lie of a morality founded on money only,
and utterly outside and having no association
whatever with the human being in itself.
Many superstitions have been got rid of in
these days; time it is that this, the last and

worst, were eradicated.

176 THE STOI‘YY OF MY HEART

 

At this hour, out of thirty—four millions
who inhabit this country, two-thirds—say
twenty-two millions—live Within thirty years
of that abominable institution the poorhouse.
That any human being should dare to apply
to another the epithet ‘ pauper ’ is, to me, the
greatest, the vilest, the most unpardonable
crime that could be committed. Each human
being, by mere birth, has a birthright in this
earth and all its productions; and if they do
not receive it, then it is they who are injured,
and it is not the ‘ pauper ’—oh, ineXpressibly
wicked word I—it is the well-to-do, who are
the criminal classes. It matters not in the
least if the poor be improvident, or drunken,
or evil in any way. Food and drink, roof
and clothes, are the inalienable right of every
child born into the light. If the world does
not provide it freely—not as a grudging gift
but as a right, as a son of the house sits down

to breakfast——then is the world mad. But

THE STORY OF MY HEART I77

 

the world is not mad, only in ignorance—an
interested ignorance, kept up by strenuous
exertions, from which infernal darkness it
will, in course of time, emerge, marvelling at
the 'past as a man wonders at and glories in

the light Who has escaped from blindness.

178 THE STORY OF .AIY HEART

 

CHAPTER XI

THIS our earth produces not only a sufficiency
and a superabundance, but in one year pours
a cornucopia of good things forth, enough to
fill us all for many years in succession. The
only reason we do not enjoy it is the want of
rational organisation. I know, of course, and
all who think know, that some labour or super—
vision will be always necessary, since the
plough must travel the furrow and the seed
must be sown; but I maintain that a tenth,
nay, a hundredth, part of the labour and
slavery now gone through will be sufficient,
and that in the course of time, as organisation
perfects itself and discoveries advance, even

that part will diminish. For the rise and fall

THE STORY OF MY HEART 179

 

of the tides alone furnish forth sufficient
power to do automatically all the labour that
is done on the earth. Is ideal man, then, to
be idle? I answer that, if so, I see no wrong,
but a great good. I deny altogether that
idleness is an evil, or that it produces evil,
and I am well aware why the interested are
so bitter against idleness—namely, because it
gives time for thought, and if men had time
to think their reign would come to an end.
Idleness—that is, the absence of the necessity
to work for subsistence—is a great good.

I hope succeeding generations will be
able to be idle. I hope that nine~tenths of
their time will be leisure time; that they
may enjoy their days, and the earth, and the
beauty of this beautiful world; that they may
rest by the sea and dream; that they may
dance and sing, and eat and drink. I will
work towards that end with all my heart. If
employment they must have—and the rest-

N2

180 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

lessness of the mind will insure that some
Will be followed—then they will find scope
enough in the perfection of their physical
frames, in the expansion of the mind, and in
the enlargement of the soul. They shall not
work for bread, but for their souls. I am
Willing to divide and share all I shall ever
have for this purpose, though I think that the
end will rather be gained by organisation
than by sharing alone.

In these material things, too, I think that
we require another circle of ideas, and I
believe that such ideas are possible, and,
in a manner of speaking, exist. Let me
exhort every one to do their utmost to think
outside and beyond our present circle of ideas.
For every idea gained is a hundred years of
slavery remitted. Even with the idea of
organisation which promises most I am not
satisfied, but endeavour to get beyond and

outside it, so that the time now necessary may

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 181

 

be shortened. Besides which, I see that
many of our difficulties arise from obscure
and remote causes—obscure like the shape of
bones, for Whose strange curves there is no
familiar term. We must endeavour to under—
stand the crookedness and unfamiliar curves
of the conditions of life. Beyond that still
there are other ideas. Never, never rest con—
tented With any circle of ideas, but always be
certain that a Wider one is still possible. For
my thought is like a hyperbola that continually
Widens ascending.

For grief there is no known consolation. It
is useless to fill our hearts with bubbles. A
loved one gone is gone, and as to the future
—even if there is a future—it is unknown.
To assure ourselves otherwise is to soothe
the mind with illusions; the bitterness of it
is inconsolable. The sentiments of trust
chipped out on tombstones are touching

instances of the innate goodness of the human

182 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

heart, which naturally longs for good, and
sighs itself to sleep in the hope that, if parted,
the parting is for the benefit of those that are
gone. But these inscriptions are also awful
instances of the deep intellectual darkness
which presses still on the minds of men. The
least thought erases them. There is no con-
solation. There is no relief. There is no
hope certain; the whole system is a mere
illusion. I, who hope so much, and am so
rapt up in the soul, know full well that there
is no certainty.

The tomb cries aloud to us—its dead
silence presses on the drum of the ear like
thunder, saying, Look at this, and erase your
illusions; now know the extreme value of
human life; reflect on this and strew human
life with flowers; save every hour for the
sunshine; let your labour be so ordered that
in future times the loved ones may dwell

longer with those who love them; open your

THE STORY OF MY HEART 183

 

minds; exalt your souls; widen the sym—
pathies of your hearts; face the things that
are now as you will face the reality of death;
make joy real now to those you love, and
help forward the joy of those yet to be born.
Let these facts force the mind and the soul to
the increase of thought, and the consequent
remission of misery; so that those whose
time it is to die may have enjoyed all that is
possible in life. Lift up your mind and see
now in this bitterness of parting, in this
absence of certainty, the fact that there is
no directing intelligence ; remember that this
death is not of old age, which no one living
in the world has ever seen; remember that
old age is possible, and perhaps even more
than old age; and beyond these earthly things
——what? None know. But let us, turning
away from the illusion of a directing intelli—
gence, look earnestly for something better

than a god, seek for something higher than

184 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

prayer, and lift our souls to be with the more
than immortal now.

A river runs itself clear during the night,
and in sleep thought becomes pellucid. All
the hurrying to and fro, the unrest and
stress, the agitation and confusion subside.
Like a sweet pure spring, thought pours
forth to meet the light, and is illumined to
its depths. The dawn at my window ever
causes a desire for larger thought, the recog—
nition of the light at the moment of waking
kindles afresh the wish for a broad day of the
mind. There is a certainty that there are
yet ideas further, and greater—that there is
still a limitless beyond. I know at that
moment that there is no limit to the things
that may be yet in material and tangible
shape besides the immaterial perceptions of
the soul. The dim white light of the dawn
speaks it. This prophet which has come with

its wonders to the bedside of every human

THE STORY OF MY HEAR] 185

 

being for so many thousands of years faces
me once again with the upheld finger of light.
Where is the limit to that physical sign?
From space to the sky, from the sky to
the hills, and the sea; to every blade of
grass, to every leaf, to the smallest insect, to
the million waves of ocean. Yet this earth
itself appears but a mote in that sunbeam by
which we are conscious of one narrow streak
in the abyss. A beam crosses my silent
chamber from the window, and atoms are
visible in it; a beam slants between the fir—
trees, and particles rise and fall within, and
cross it while the air each side seems void.
Through the heavens a beam slants, and we
are aware of the star—stratum in which our
earth moves. But what may be without that
stratum? Certainly it is not a void.‘ This
light tells us much, but I think in the course
of time yet more delicate and subtle mediums

than light may be found, and through these

I86 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

we shall see into the shadows of the sky.
When will it be possible to be certain that the
capacity of a single atom has been exhausted?
At any moment some fortunate incident may
reveal a fresh power. One by one the powers
of light have been unfolded.

After thousands of years the telescope
opened the stars, the prism analysed the sub—
stance of the sun, the microscope showed the
minute structure of the rocks and the tissues
of living bodies. The winged men on the
Assyrian bas-reliefs, the gods of the Nile, the
chariot—borne immortals of Olympus, not the
greatest of imagined beings ever possessed in
fancied attributes one—tenth the power of light.
As the swallows twitter, the dim white finger
appears at my window full of wonders, such
as all the wise men in twelve thousand pre—
cedent years never even hoped to conceive.
But this is not all—light is not all ; light con-

ceals more than it reveals ; light is the darkest

THE STORY OF MY HEART 187

 

shadow of the sky; besides light there are
many other mediums yet to be explored. For
thousands of years the sunbeams poured on
the earth, full as now of messages, and light
is not a hidden thing to be searched out with
difficulty. Full in the faces of men the rays
came with their intelligence from the sun
when the papyri were painted beside the
ancient Nile, but they were not understood.
This hour, rays or undulations of more
subtle mediums are doubtless pouring on us
over the wide earth, unrecognised, and full of
messages and intelligence from the unseen.
Of these we are this day as ignorant as those
who painted the papyri were of light. There‘
is an infinity of knowledge yet to be known,
and beyond that an infinity of thought. No
mental instrument even has yet been invented
by which researches can be carried direct to
the object. ,Whatever has been found has

been discovered by fortunate accident; in

188 THE STORY OF [MY [{EART

 

looking for one thing another has been
chanced on. A reasoning process has yet to
be invented by which to go straight to the
desired end. For now the slightest particle is
enough to throw the search aside, and the
most minute circumstance sufficient to conceal
obvious and brilliantly shining truths. One
Summer evening sitting by my window I
watched for the first star to appear, knowing
the position of the brightest in the southern
sky. The dusk came on, grew deeper, but
the star did not shine. By—and—by, other stars
less bright appeared, so that it could not
be the sunset which obscured the expected
one. Finally, I considered that I must have
mistaken its position, when suddenly a puff
of air blew through the branch of a pear-tree
which overhung the window, a leaf moved,
and there was the star behind the leaf.

At present the endeavour to make dis—

coveries is like gazing at the sky up through

THE STORY OF [MY [[EART 189

 

the boughs of an oak. Here a beautiful star
shines clearly; here a constellation is hidden
by a branch; a universe by a leaf. Some
mental instrument or organon is required to
enable us to distinguish between the leaf
which may be removed and a real void; when
to cease to look in one direction, and to
work in another. Many men of broad brow
and great intellect lived in the days of ancient
Greece, but for lack of the accident of a lens,
and of knowing the way to use a prism, they
could but conjecture imperfectly. I am in
exactly the position they were when I look
beyond light. Outside my present knowledge
I am exactly in their condition. I feel that
there are infinities to be known, but they
are hidden by a leaf. If any one says to him-
self that the telescope, and the microscope,
the prism, and. other discoveries have made
all plain, then he is in the attitude of those

ancient priests who worshipped the scarabteus

190 THE STORY Off MY HEART

 

0r beetle. So, too, it is with thought; outside
our present circle of ideas I believe there is
an infinity of idea.‘ All this that has been
effected with light has been done by bits of
glass—mere bits of shaped glass, quickly
broken, and made of flint, so that by the rude
flint our subtlest ideas are gained. Could we
employ the ocean as a lens, and force truth
from the sky, even then I think there would
be much more beyond.

Natural things are known to us only
under two conditions—matter and force, or
matter and motion. A third, a fourth, a fifth
—no one can say how many conditions—may
exist in the ultra-stellar space, and such other
conditions may equally exist about us now
unsuspected. Something which is neither
matter nor force is difficult to conceive, yet, I
think, it is certain that there are other condi-
tions. When the mind succeeds in entering

on a wider series, or circle of ideas, other

THE STORY OF MY HEART 191

 

conditions would appear natural enough. In
this effort upwards I claim the assistance of
the soul—the mind of the mind. The eye
sees, the mind deliberates on what .it sees, the
soul understands the operation of the mind.
Before a bridge is built, or a structure erected,
or an interoceanic canal made, there must be
a plan, and before a plan the thought in the
mind. So that it is correct to say the mind
bores tunnels through the mountains, bridges
the rivers, and constructs the engines Which
are the pride of the world.

This is a wonderful tool, but it is capable
of work yet more wonderful in the explora—
tion of the heavens. Now the soul is the
mind of the mind. It can build and construct
and look beyond and penetrate space, and
create. It is the keenest, the sharpest tool
possessed by man. But what would be said
if a carpenter about to commence a piece of

work examined his tools and deliberately cast

192 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

away that with the finest edge? Such is the
conduct of those who reject the inner mind
or psyche altogether. So great is the value
of the soul that it seems to me, if the soul
lived and received its aspirations it would not
matter if the material universe melted away
as snow. Many turn aside the instant the
soul is mentioned, and I sympathise with them
in one sense; they fear lest, if they acknow—
ledge it, they will be fettered by medizeval
conditions. My contention is that the re-
strictions of the mediseval era should entirely
be cast into oblivion, but the soul recognised
and employed. Instead of slurring over the

soul I desire to see it at its highest perfection.

THE STORY OF MY HEART 193

 

CHAPTER XII

SUBTLE as the mind is, it can effect little
without knowledge. It cannot construct a
bridge, or a building, or make a canal, or
work a problem in algebra, unless it is pro-
vided with information. This is obvious, and
yet some say, What can you effect by the
soul? I reply because it has had no employ-
ment. Mediaaval conditions kept it in
slumber: science refuses to accept it. We
are taught to employ our minds, and furnished
With materials. The mind has its logic and
exercise of geometry, and thus assisted brings
a great force to the solution of problems.
The soul remains untaught, and can effect
little.

194 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

I consider that the highest purpose of
study is the education of the soul or psyche.
It is said that there is no proof of the existence
of the soul, but, arguing on the same grounds,
there is no proof of the existence of the mind,
which is not a tangible thing. For myself, I
feel convinced that there is a soul, a mind of
the mind—and that it really exists. Now,
glancing at the state of wild and uneducated
men, it is evident that they work with their
hands and make various things almost instinct—
ively. But when they arrive at the idea of
mind, and say to themselves, I possess a
mind, then they think and proceed farther,
forming designs and constructions both
tangible and mental.

Next then, when wevsay, I have a soul,
we can proceed to shape things yet further,
and to see deeper, and penetrate the mystery.
By denying the existence and the power of

the soul—refusing to employ it—we should

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 195

 

go back more than twelve thousand written
years of human history. But instead of this,
I contend, we should endeavour to go for-
ward, and to discover a fourth Idea, and after
that a fifth, and onwards continually.

I will not permit myself to be taken
captive by observing physical phenomena, as
many evidently are. Some gases are mingled
and produce a liquid; certainly it is worth
careful investigation, but it is no more than the
revolution of a wheel, which is so often seen
that it excites no surprise, though, in truth,
as wonderful. So is all motion, and so is a
grain of sand; there is nothing that is not
wonderful; as, for instance, the fact of the
existence of things at all. But the intense
concentration of the mind on mechanical
effects appears often to render it incapable of
perceiving anything that is not mechanical.
Some compounds are observed to precipitate
crystals, all of which contain known angles.

02

[96 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

Thence it is argued that all is mechanical,
and that action occurs in set ways only.
There is a tendency to lay it down as an
infallible law that because we see these
things therefore everything else that exists in
space must be or move exactly in the same
manner. But I do not think that because
crystals are precipitated with fixed angles
therefore the whole universe is necessarily
mechanical. I think there are things exempt
from mechanical rules. The restriction of
thought to purely mechanical grooves blocks
progress in the same way as the restrictions of
mediaaval superstition. Let the mind think,
dream, imagine : let it have perfect freedom.
To shut out the soul is to put us back more
than twelve thousand years.

Just as outside light, and the knowledge
gained from light, there are, I think, other
mediums from which, in times to come, intelli-

gence will be obtained, so outside the mental

THE STORY OF MY HEART 197

 

and the spiritual ideas we 110w possess
I believe there exists a whole circle of ideas.
In the conception of the idea that there
are others, I lay claim to another idea.

The mind is infinite and able to under-
stand everything that is brought before it;
there is no limit to its understanding. The
limit is in the littleness of the things and the
narrowness of the ideas which have been put
for it to consider. For the philosophies of
old time past and the discoveries of modern
research are as nothing to it. They do not
fill it. When they have been read, the mind
passes on, and asks for more. The utmost
of them, the whole together, make a mere
nothing. These things have been gathered
together by immense labour, labour so great
that it is a weariness to think of it; but yet,
when all is summed up and written, the mind
receives it all as easily as the hand picks

flowers. It is like one sentence—read and gone.

198 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

The mind requires more, and more, and
more. It is so strong that all that can be
put before it is devoured in a moment. Left
to itself it will not be satisfied with an invisible
idol any more than with a wooden one. An
idol whose attributes are omnipresence, omni-
potence, and so on, is no greater than light
or electricity, which are present everywhere
and all—powerful, and from which perhaps the
thought arose. Prayer which receives no
reply must be pronounced in vain. The
mind goes on and requires more than these,
something higher than prayer, something
higher than a god.

I have been obliged to write these things
by an irresistible impulse which has worked
in me since early youth. They have not
been written for the sake of argument, still
less for any thought of profit, rather indeed
the reverse. They have been forced from

me by earnestness of heart, and they express

THE STORY OF [MY HEART 199

 

my most serious convictions. For seventeen
years they have been lying in my mind, con-
tinually thought of and pondered over. I
was not more than eighteen when an inner
and esoteric meaning began to come to me
from all the visible universe, and indefinable
aspirations filled me. I found them in the
grass fields, under the trees, on the hill-tops,
at sunrise, and in the night. There was a
deeper meaning everywhere. The sun burned
with it, the broad front of morning beamed
with it; a deep feeling entered me while
gazing at the sky in the azure noon, and in
the star-lit evening.

I was sensitive to all things, to the earth
under, and the star-hollow round about ;‘ to
the least blade of grass, to the largest oak.
They seemed like exterior nerves and veins
for the conveyance of feeling to me. Some-
times a very ecstasy of exquisite enjoyment

of the entire visible universe filled me. I

20:) THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

was aware that in reality the feeling and the
thought were in me, and not in the earth or
sun; yet I was more conscious of it when in
company with these. A Visit to the sea in-
creased the strength of the original impulse.
I began to make efforts to express these
thoughts in writing, but could not succeed to
my own liking. Time went on, and harder
experiences, and the pressure of labour came,
but in no degree abated the fire of first
thought. Again and again I made resolu-
tions that I would write it, in some way or
other, and as often failed. I could express
any other idea with ease, but not this. Once
especially I remember, in a short interval of
distasteful labour, walking away to a spot by
a brook which skirts an ancient Roman wall,
and there trying to determine and really com-
mence to work. Again I failed. More time,
more changes, and still the same thought

running beneath everything. At last, in 1880,

THE STORY OF MY HEART 20!

 

in the old castle of Pevensey, under happy
circumstances, once more I resolved, and
actually did write down a few notes. Even
then I could not go on, but I kept the notes
(I had destroyed all former beginnings), and
in the end, two years afterwards, commenced
this book.

After all this time and thought it is only
a fragment, and a fragment scarcely hewn.
Had I not made it personal I could scarcely
have put it into any shape at all. But I felt
that I could no longer delay, and that it must
be done, however imperfectly. I am only too
conscious of its imperfections, for I have as
it were seventeen years of consciousness of
my own inability to express this the idea of
my life. I can only say that many of these
short sentences are the result of long—
continued thought. One of the greatest
difficulties I have encountered is the lack of

words to express ideas. By the word soul, or

202 THE STORY OF [MY HEART

 

psyche, I mean that inner consciousness which
aspires. By prayer I do not mean a request
for anything preferred to a deity; I mean
intense soul—emotion, intense aspiration. The
word immortal is very inconvenient, and yet
there is no other to convey the idea of soul-
life. Even these definitions are deficient,
and I must leave my book as a whole to give
its own meaning to its words.

Time has gone on, and still, after so
much pondering, I feel that I know nothing,
that I have not yet begun; I have only
just commenced to realise the immensity
of thought which lies outside the know-»
ledge of the senses. Still, on the hills and
by the sea—shore, I seek and pray deeper
than ever. The sun burns southwards over
the sea and before the wave runs its shadow,
constantly slipping on the advancing slope
till it curls and covers its dark image at the

shore. Over the rim of the horizon waves are

THE STORY OF [MY IIEART 203

 

flowing as high and wideas those that break
upon the beach. These that come to me and
beat the trembling shore are like the thoughts
that have been known so long; like the
ancient, iterated, and reiterated thoughts that
have broken on the strand of mind for thou-
sands of years. Beyond and over the horizon
I feel that there are other waves of ideas un
known to me, flowing as the stream of ocean
flows. Knowledge of facts is limitless: they
lie at my feet innumerable like the countless
pebbles ; knowledge of thought so circum—
scribed! Ever the same thoughts come that
have been written down centuries and cen-
turies.

Let me launch forth and sail over the rim
of the sea yonder, and when another rim arises
over that, and again and onwards into an
ever-widening ocean of idea and life. For
with all the strength of the wave, and its suc-

cecding wave, the depth and race of the tide,

204 THE STORY OF [MY HEART.

WA

 

the clear definition of the sky; with all the
subtle power of the great sea, there rises an
equal desire. Give me life strong and full as
the brimming ocean; give me thoughts wide
as its plain; give me a soul beyond these.
Sweet is the bitter sea by the shore where the
faint blue pebbles are lapped by the green-
grey wave, where the wind—quivering foam is
10th to leave the lashed stone. Sweet is the
bitter sea, and the clear green in which the
gaze seeks the soul, looking through the glass
into itself. The sea thinks for me as I listen
and ponder: the sea thinks, and every boom
of the wave repeats my prayer.

Sometimes I stay on the wet sands as the
tide rises, listening to the rush of the lines of
foam in layer upon layer; the wash swells
and circles about my feet, I lave my hands in
it, I lift a little in my hollowed palm, I take
the life of the sea to me.~ My soul rising to

the immensity utters its desire—prayer with

THE STORY OF MY HEART 205

 

all the strength of the sea. Or, again, the
' full stream of ocean beats upon the shore, and
the rich wind feeds the heart, the sun burns
brightly; the sense of soul—life burns in me
like a torch.

Leaving the shore I walk among the trees;
a cloud passes, and the sweet short rain comes
mingled with sunbeams and flower—scented
air. The finches sing among the fresh green
leaves of the beeches. Beautiful it is, in
summer days, to see the wheat wave, and the
long grass foam-fiecked of flower yield and
return to the wind. My soul of itself always
desires; these are to it as fresh food. I have
found in the hills another valley grooved in
prehistoric times, where, climbing to the top
of the hollow, I can see the sea. Down in
the hollow I look up; the sky stretches over,
the sun burns as it seems but just above the
hill, and the Wind sweeps onward. As the

sky extends beyond the valley, so I know

206 THE STORY OF MY HEART

 

that there are ideas beyond the valley of my
thought; I know that there is something
infinitely higher than deity. The great sun
burning in the sky, the sea, the firm earth, all
all, all the

cosmos is feeble; it is not strong enough

 

the stars of night are feeble

to utter my prayer—desire. My soul cannot
reach to its full desire of prayer. I need no
earth, or sea, or sun to think my thought.
If my thought—part_——the psyche—were en-
tirely separated from the body, and from
the earth, I should of myself desire the
same. In itself my soul desires; my exist-
ence, my soul—existence is in itself my prayer,
and so long as it exists so long will it pray

that I may have the fullest soul—life.

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1

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-'\ ' ‘ . . 1 . '.
. p. PUBLISHED BYMESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, 5: (:0. 15 *

McCULLOCH (J. R. ). -—THE DICTIONARY OF COMMERCE and Corn-
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MALMESBURY (The Earl of). ~MEMOIRS OF AN EX-MINISTER.

Crown 8vo. 75. 6d.

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each. .
1. Personal' Political. III. Theological: Philosophical.
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r6mo. 35. 6d.

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MAX MULLER (F.).—SELECTED ESSAYS ON LANGUAGE,
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[Continued

 

 

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“16, "4' CA TALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITErA TIME.

1

MAX MULLER (F.)——INTRODUCTION TO THE SCIENCE OF RE-
LIGION ; FourLectures delivered at the Royal Institution. Crown 8vo. 75. 6d.

—-————. NATURAL RELIGION. The Gifford Lectures, delivered before the
University of Glasgow in 1888. Crown 8vo. 105. 6d.

PHYSICAL RELIGION. The Gifford Lectures, delivered before the
University of Glasgow in 1890. Crown 8vo. 105. 6d.

—— THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. 8vo. 215.

THREE INTRODUCTORY LECTURES ON THE SCIENCE OF
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BIOGRAPHIES OF WORDS, AND THE HOME OF THE ARYAS.
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A SANSKRIT GRAMMAR FOR BEGINNERS. New and Abridged
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MAY (Sir Thomas Erskine).——THE CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY
OF ENGLAND since the Accession of George III. 3 vols. Crown 8vo. I85.
MEADE (L. T.).—THE O’DONNELLS OF INCHFAVVN. Crown 8vo. 65.
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DEB AND THE DUCHESS. Illustrated by M. E. Edwards. Cr. 8vo. 55.
HOUSE OF SURPRISES. Illustrated by E. M. Scannell. Cr.8vo. 35. 6d.
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MELVILLE (G. J. Whyte).—Novels by. Crown 8vo. 15. each, boards;
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The Gladiators. The Queen’s Merges. Digby Grand.
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MENDELSSOHN.—THE LETTERS OF FELIX MENDELSSOHN.
Translated by Lady Wallace. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. I05.

MERIVALE (Rev. Chas.).——HISTORY OF THE ROMANS UNDER
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THE FALL OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC: a Short History of the
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~—-——— GENERAL HISTORY OF ROME FROM B. C. 753 TO A.D. 476.
Cr. 8vo. 75. 6d.
THE ROMAN TRIUMVIRATES. With Maps. Fcp. 8vo. 25. 6d.
MILES(W. A.).~THE CORRESPONDENCE OF WILLIAM AUGUSTUS
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MILL (James).——ANALYSIS OF THE PHENOMENA OF THE HUMAN
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MILL (John Stuart).—PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL ECONOMY.
Library Edition, 2 vols. 8vo. 305. I People's Edition, Ivol.Crown 8vo.35. 6d.
A SYSTEM OF LOGIC. Crown 8m. 35. 6d.
ON LIBERTY. Crown 8vo. I5. 4d. [c‘olzz‘iuuc-d.

 

“x; 1'3, , ’\.

 

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‘pz‘zausmngngsszes.’ LoNoMANS GREEN, 5. ‘00.; “17

 

MILL (J. S. ). ——ON REPRESENTATIVE GOV ERNMENT. Crown 8vo 2:.
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i‘—-—— EXAMINATION OF SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON'S PHILO/
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_..__ NATURE, THE UTILITY OF RELIGION AND THEISM. Three ‘
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MOORE (Edward).—DANTE AND HIS EARLY BIOGRAPHERS.
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MULHALL (MiChael G.). —HISTORY OF PRICES SINCE THE YEAR
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MURRAY (David Christie and Henry). —A DANGEROUS CATS—
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NANSEN (Dr. Fridtj of).—THE FIRST CROSSING OF GREENLAND.
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NAPIER.——THE LIFE OF SIR JOSEPH NAPIER, BART, EX-LORD
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——~— THE LECTURES, ESSAYS, AND LETTERS OF THE RIGHT ,

HON. SIR JOSEPH NAPIER, BART. 8vo 125.611.
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NEWMAN.—THE LETTERS AND CORRESPONDENCE OF JOHN
HENRY NEWMAN during his Life in the English Church. \Vith abrief
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NEWMAN (Cardinal).—Works by z— ,
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Crown 8vo. 65. Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 65.

Sermons on Various Occasions. Cr. Cheap Edition, Crown Svo. 3:. 6d.
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Edition, 3 vols. Cr. 8vo. 35. 612’. each, , 8vo. 3s. 6d.

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NEWMAN (Cardinal).—;Works by z—(mzima).

- Apologia Pro Vita 8119.. Cabinet Ed.,

\ Crown 8vo. 65. Cheap Ed. 35. 6d.

, Development of Christian Doctrine.

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. . 35. 612’. each.

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Biblical and Ecclesiastical Miracles.
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I

Tracts. 1. Dissertatiunculae. 2. On
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Ignatius. 3. Doctrinal Causes of
Arianism. 4. Apollinarianism: 5.
St. Cyril's Formula. 6. Ordo de
Tempore. 7. Douay Version of
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An Essay in Aid of a' Grammar of
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Callista: a Tale of the Third Century.
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Loss and Gain: a Tale. Cabinet
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The Dream of Gerontius. 16mo. 6d.
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Verses on Various Occasions. Cabinet
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‘3 For Cardinal Newman’5 other [Vork5 5ee Me55r5. Long/Imus 61° C0.’5

Catalogue of T lzealogz'czzl Works.

NORRIS (W. E.).——M RS. FENTON : a Sketch.

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NORTON (Charles L.).—POLITICAL AMERICANISMS : a Glossary of

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NORTHCOTE (W. H.).—L.~\THES AND TURNING. Simple, Me—
‘ With 338 illustrations. .

 

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Translated by H. A. Strong.

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‘v..‘|.~‘,. '-\« a", '- z ,
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f ; PUBLISHED 8?:MESSRSI. LONGMANS, Gum’s. co. . :9
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I“

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2° ' J CATALOGUE OF BOOKS 11176511151931. LITE-RA TURE V ' .

 

RICHARDSON (Dr. B W. ). —NATION AL 'HEALI H. A Review of
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‘ RILEY (Athelstan). —ATHOS; or, The Mountain of the Monks. With
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RUSSELL.—A LIFE OF LORD JOHN RUSSELL. By SPENCER WALPOLE.
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—————— THE ENGLISH VILLAGE COMMUNITY Examined in its Re-
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—— THE ERA OF THE PROTESTANT REVOLUTION. W’ith Map.
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SEWELL (Elizabeth M.).—STORIES AND TALES. Crown 81:0. 15. 611’
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Amy Herbert. Katharine Ashton. Gertrude.
The Earl’s Daughter. Margaret Percival. Ivors.
The Experience of Life. Laneton Parsonage. Home Life.

 

ll Glimpse of the World. 1 Ursula. After Life.
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SHORT (T. V. ). —S‘KE"‘IL H 01‘ [Ill HISTORY OF TH E CHURCH OF
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{UBLISHED‘BY MESSRS. Larval/ANS, (mesme-

co.

 

21
SILVER LIBRARY, Thee—Crown Svo. price 33. 60’. each Volume.
BRKER’S (sn- 5. in.) Eight Years in sswnan’s - (Cardinal) Historical

Ceylon. With 6 Illustrations.

—— Rifle and Hound in Ceylon.

With 6 Illustrations.

' BRASSEY’S (Lady) ll Voyage in the
‘ Sunbeam ’. With 66 Illustrations.

CLODD’S (E.) Story of Creation z" a
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77 Illustrations.

DbVLE’S (A. Conan) Micah Clarke : a
Tale of Monmouth's Rebellion.

FROUDE’S (J. A.) Short Studies on
Great Subjects. 4 vols.

—— Casar : 9. Sketch.

 

—————— Thomas Carlyle: a History
of his Life. 1795-1835. 2 vols.
1834—1881. 2 vols.

—-«—— The Two Chiefs of Dunboy:

an Irish Romance of the Last
Century.

GLEIG'S (Rev. G. R.) Life of the Duke
of Wellington. With Portrait.

 

HAGGARD'S (H. R.) She : A History of :

Adventure. 32 Illustrations.

 

 

Allan Quatermain. With

20 llrustrations.

—-7—— Colonel Quaritch, V.C.: a
'l ale of Country Life.

With 29 Ful‘-

77— Cleopatra.
page Illustrations.

HOWITT’S (“1.) Visits to Remarkable
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JEFFERIES’ (R.) The Story of My
Heart: My Autobiography. “'ith
Portrait.

-——————— Field and Hedgerow. Last
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MACLEOD’S (H. D.) The Elements of
Banking.

MARSHMAN’S (J. C.) Memoirs of Sir
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MERIVALE’S (Dean) History of the {

Romans under the Empire. 8 vols.

MILL'S (J. 5.) Principles of Political
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____-——— System of Logic.

 

1
l

i
i

Sketches. 3 vols. ‘
Apologia. Pro Vita Sun; I

————— Callista : a Tale of the Third
Century.

 

Loss and Gain: a Tale.

-—————— Essays, Critical and His-
torical. 2 vols.

—————— An Essay on the Develop-
ment of Christian Doctrine.

——— The Arians of the Fourth
Century. ‘ '

——-—— Verses on Various Occa-
sions. /

———— Parochial and Plain Ser-
mons. 8vols.

———H Selection, adapted to the
Seasons of the Ecclesiastical Year,
from the ‘Parochial and Plain
Sermons’. '

——— Difficulties felt by Anglicans
in Catholic Teaching Considered.
2 vols.

——~——-— The Idea. of a University
defined and Illustrated.

———— Biblical and Ecclesiastical‘

Miracles.

 

—~ Discussions and Arguments
on Various Subjects.

Grammar of Assent.

———— The Via Media of the An-
glican Church, illustrated in Lec-
tures, &c. 2 vols.

———- Sermons bearing upon Sub-
jficts of the Day. Edited by the
ev.
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STANLEV’S (Bishop) Familiar History
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WOOD’S (Rev. J. G.) Petland Re-
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__—._ strange Dwellings. With 60
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Out of Doors. W’ith n Illus- ‘

trations.

J. W. Copeland, B.D., late ‘

 

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h '22 ‘A CA mwa’I/E 0171300165 11v GENERAL £17534 Tam; . .

 

' SMITH (R. Bosworth).i—CARTHAGE AND THE CARTHAGINIANS.

« Maps, Plans, &c. Crown 8vo. 65. , -
SOPHOCLES. Translated into English Verse. By ROBERT WHITELAW.
, Crown 8vo. 8s. 6d.
STANLEY (E.).—A FAMILIAR HISTORY OF BIRDS. With 160 Wood-
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‘ STEEL (J. H.).—~A TREATISE ON THE DISEASES OF THE DOG;

Peing a Manual of .Canine Pathology. 88 Illustrations. 8vo. 105. 6d.
——A TREATISE ON THE DISEASES OF THE OX; being a Manual
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A TREATISE ON THE DISEASES OF THE SHEEP; being a
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STEPHEN (Sir James).—ESSAYS IN ECCLESIASTICAL BIO-
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