FOR eight or nine years, while my sons were at school, Ilived at Rickmansworth. Unfortunately the Leweses had justleft it. Moor1 Park belonged to Lord Ebury, my wife's uncle,and the beauties of its magnificent park and the amenities2 ofits charming house were at all times open to us, and freelytaken advantage of. During those nine years I lived the lifeof a student, and wrote and published the book I haveelsewhere spoken of, the 'Creeds5 of the Day.'
Of the visitors of note whose acquaintance I made while I wasstaying at Moor Park, by far the most illustrious was Froude.
He was too reserved a man to lavish6 his intimacy7 when takenunawares; and if he suspected, as he might have done by myprobing, that one wanted to draw him out, he was much tooshrewd to commit himself to definite expressions of any kinduntil he knew something of his interviewer. Reticence8 ofthis kind, on the part of such a man, is both prudent9 andcommendable. But is not this habit of cautiousness sometimescarried to the extent of ambiguity10 in his 'Short Studies onGreat Subjects'? The careful reader is left in no sort ofdoubt as to Froude's own views upon Biblical criticism, as tohis theological dogmas, or his speculative12 opinions. But theconviction is only reached by comparing him with himself indifferent moods, by collating13 essay with essay, and one partof an essay with another part of the same essay. Sometimeswe have an astute14 defence of doctrines15 worthy16 at least of atemperate apologist, and a few pages further on we wonderwhether the writer was not masking his disdain17 for thecredulity which he now exposes and laughs at. Neitherexcessive caution nor timidity are implied by his editing ofthe Carlyle papers; and he may have failed - who that hasdone so much has not? - in keeping his balance on the swayingslack-rope between the judicious18 and the injudicious. In hisown line, however, he is, to my taste, the most scholarly,the most refined, and the most suggestive, of our recentessayists. The man himself in manner and in appearance wasin perfect keeping with these attractive qualities.
While speaking of Moor Park and its kind owner I may availmyself of this opportunity to mention an early reminiscenceof Lord Ebury's concerning the Grosvenor estate in London.
Mr. Gladstone was wont20 to amuse himself with speculations21 asto the future dimensions of London; what had been its growthwithin his memory; what causes might arise to cheek itsincrease. After listening to his remarks on the subject oneday at dinner, I observed that I had heard Lord Ebury talk ofshooting over ground which is now Eaton Square. Mr.
Gladstone of course did not doubt it; but some of the youngmen smiled incredulously. I afterwards wrote to Lord Eburyto make sure that I had not erred22. Here is his reply:
'Moor Park, Rickmansworth: January 9, 1883.
'MY dear Henry, - What you said I had told you about snipe-shooting is quite true, though I think I ought to havementioned a space rather nearer the river than Eaton Square.
In the year 1815, when the battle of Waterloo was fought,there was nothing behind Grosvenor Place but the (-?) fields- so called, a place something like the Scrubbs, where thehousehold troops drilled. That part of Grosvenor Place wherethe Grosvenor Place houses now stand was occupied by the LockHospital and Chapel23, and it ended where the small houses arenow to be found. A little farther, a somewhat tortuous24 lanecalled the King's Road led to Chelsea, and, I think, wherenow St. Peter's, Pimlico, was afterwards built. I remembergoing to a breakfast at a villa25 belonging to LadyBuckinghamshire. The Chelsea Waterworks Company had a sortof marshy26 place with canals and osier beds, now, I suppose,Ebury Street, and here it was that I was permitted to go andtry my hand at snipe-shooting, a special privilege given tothe son of the freeholder.
'The successful fox-hunt terminating in either Bedford orRussell Square is very strange, but quite appropriate,commemorated, I suppose, by the statue there erected27.
Yours affectionately,'E.'
The successful 'fox-hunt ' was an event of which I told LordEbury as even more remarkable28 than his snipe-shooting inBelgravia. As it is still more indicative of the growth ofLondon in recent times it may be here recorded.
In connection with Mr. Gladstone's forecasts, I had writtento the last Lord Digby, who was a grandson of my father's,stating that I had heard - whether from my father or not Icould not say - that he had killed a fox where now is BedfordSquare, with his own hounds.
Lord Digby replied:
'Minterne, Dorset: January 7, 1883.
'My dear Henry, - My grandfather killed a fox with his houndseither in Bedford or Russell Square. Old Jones, thehuntsman, who died at Holkham when you were a child, was myinformant. I asked my grandfather if it was correct. Hesaid "Yes" - he had kennels29 at Epping Place, and hunted theroodings of Essex, which, he said, was the best scenting-ground in England.
'Yours affectionately,'DIGBY.'
(My father was born in 1754.)Mr. W. S. Gilbert had been a much valued friend of oursbefore we lived at Rickmansworth. We had been his guests forthe 'first night' of almost every one of his plays - playsthat may have a thousand imitators, but the speciality ofwhose excellence31 will remain unrivalled and inimitable. Hisvisits to us introduced him, I think, to the picturesquecountry which he has now made his home. When Mr. Gilbertbuilt his house in Harrington Gardens he easily persuaded usto build next door to him. This led to my acquaintance withhis neighbour on the other side, Mr. Walter Cassels, now wellknown as the author of 'Supernatural Religion.'
When first published in 1874, this learned work, summarisingand elaborately examining the higher criticism of the fourGospels up to date, created a sensation throughout thetheological world, which was not a little intensified32 by theanonymity of its author. The virulence33 with which it wasattacked by Dr. Lightfoot, the most erudite bishop34 on thebench, at once demonstrated its weighty significance and itsdestructive force; while Mr. Morley's high commendation ofits literary merits and the scrupulous35 equity36 of its tone,placed it far above the level of controversial diatribes37.
In my 'Creeds of the Day' I had made frequent references tothe anonymous38 book; and soon after my introduction to Mr.
Cassels spoke3 to him of its importance, and asked him whetherhe had read it. He hesitated for a moment, then said:
'We are very much of the same way of thinking on thesesubjects. I will tell you a secret which I kept for sometime even from my publishers - I am the author of"Supernatural Religion."'
From that time forth30, we became the closest of allies. Iknow no man whose tastes and opinions and interests are morecompletely in accord with my own than those of Mr. WalterCassels. It is one of my greatest pleasures to meet himevery summer at the beautiful place of our mutual39 andsympathetic friend, Mrs. Robertson, on the skirts of theAshtead forest, in Surrey.
The winter of 1888 I spent at Cairo under the roof of GeneralSir Frederick Stephenson, then commanding the English forcesin Egypt. I had known Sir Frederick as an ensign in theGuards. He was adjutant of his regiment40 at the Alma, and atInkerman. He is now Colonel of the Coldstreams and Governorof the Tower. He has often been given a still higher title,that of 'the most popular man in the army.'
Everybody in these days has seen the Pyramids, and has beenup the Nile. There is only one name I have to mention here,and that is one of the best-known in the world. Mr. ThomasCook was the son of the original inventor of the 'Globe-trotter.' But it was the extraordinary energy and powers oforganisation of the son that enabled him to develop to itspresent efficiency the initial scheme of the father.
Shortly before the General's term expired, he invited Mr.
Cook to dinner. The Nile share of the Gordon ReliefExpedition had been handed over to Cook. The boats, theprovisioning of them, and the river transport service up toWady Halfa, were contracted for and undertaken by Cook.
A most entertaining account he gave of the whole affair. Hetold us how the Mudir of Dongola, who was by way of renderingevery possible assistance, had offered him an enormous bribeto wreck41 the most valuable cargoes42 on their passage throughthe Cataracts43.
Before Mr. Cook took leave of the General, he expressed theregret felt by the British residents in Cairo at thetermination of Sir Frederick's command; and wound up a prettylittle speech by a sincere request that he might be allowedto furnish Sir Frederick GRATIS44 with all the means at hisdisposal for a tour through the Holy Land. The liberal andhighly complimentary45 offer was gratefully acknowledged, butat once emphatically declined. The old soldier, (at least,this was my guess,) brave in all else, had not the courage toface the tourists' profanation46 of such sacred scenes.
Dr. Bird told me a nice story, a pendant to this, of Mr.
Thomas Cook's liberality. One day, before the GordonExpedition, which was then in the air, Dr. Bird was smokinghis cigarette on the terrace in front of Shepherd's Hotel, incompany with four or five other men, strangers to him and toone another. A discussion arose as to the best means ofrelieving Gordon. Each had his own favourite general.
Presently the doctor exclaimed: 'Why don't they put thething into the hands of Cook? I'll be bound to say he wouldundertake it, and do the job better than anyone else.'
'Do you know Cook, sir?' asked one of the smokers47 who hadhitherto been silent.
'No, I never saw him, but everybody knows he has a genius fororganisation; and I don't believe there is a general in theBritish Army to match him.'
When the company broke up, the silent stranger asked thedoctor his name and address, and introduced himself as ThomasCook. The following winter Dr. Bird received a letterenclosing tickets for himself and Miss Bird for a trip toEgypt and back, free of expense, 'in return for his goodopinion and good wishes.'
After my General's departure, and a month up the Nile, I -already disillusioned48, alas49! - rode through Syria, followingthe beaten track from Jerusalem to Damascus. On my way fromAlexandria to Jaffa I had the good fortune to make theacquaintance of an agreeable fellow-traveller, Mr. HenryLopes, afterwards member for Northampton, also bound forPalestine. We went to Constantinople and to the Crimeatogether, then through Greece, and only parted at CharingCross.
It was easy to understand Sir Frederick Stephenson's(supposed) unwillingness50 to visit Jerusalem. It was probablyfar from being what it is now, or even what it was whenPierre Loti saw it, for there was no railway from Jaffa inour time. Still, what Loti pathetically describes as 'unebanalite de banlieue parisienne,' was even then too painfullycasting its vulgar shadows before it. And it was rather withthe forlorn eyes of the sentimental51 Frenchman than with theveneration of Dean Stanley, that we wandered about the ever-sacred Aceldama of mortally wounded and dying Christianity.
One dares not, one could never, speak irreverently ofJerusalem. One cannot think heartlessly of a disappointedlove. One cannot tear out creeds interwoven with thetenderest fibres of one's heart. It is better to be silent.
Yet is it a place for unwept tears, for the deep sadness andhard resignation borne in upon us by the eternal loss ofsomething dearer once than life. All we who are weary andheavy laden52, in whom now shall we seek the rest which is notnothingness?
My story is told, but I fain would take my leave with wordsless sorrowful. If a man has no better legacy53 to bequeaththan bid his fellow-beings despair, he had better take itwith him to his grave.
We know all this, we know!
But it is in what we do not know that our hope and ourreligion lies. Thrice blessed are we in the certainty thathere our range is infinite. This infinite that makes ourbrains reel, that begets54 the feeling that makes us 'shrink,'
is perhaps the most portentous55 argument in the logic11 of thesceptic. Since the days of Laplace, we have been haunted insome form or other with the ghost of the MECANIQUE CELESTE.
Take one or two commonplaces from the text-books ofastronomy:
Every half-hour we are about ten thousand miles nearer to theconstellation of Lyra. 'The sun and his system must travelat his present rate for far more than a million years (dividethis into half-hours) before we have crossed the abyssbetween our present position and the frontiers of Lyra'
(Ball's 'Story of the Heavens').
'Sirius is about one million times as far from us as the sun.
If we take the distance of Sirius from the earth andsubdivide it into one million equal parts, each of theseparts would be long enough to span the great distance of92,700,000 miles from the earth to the sun,' yet Sirius isone of the NEAREST of the stars to us.
The velocity56 with which light traverses space is 186,300miles a second, at which rate it has taken the rays fromSirius which we may see to-night, nine years to reach us.
The proper motion of Sirius through space is about onethousand miles a minute. Yet 'careful alignment57 of the eyewould hardly detect that Sirius was moving, in . . . eventhree or four centuries.'
'There may be, and probably are, stars from which Noah mightbe seen stepping into the Ark, Eve listening to thetemptation of the serpent, or that older race, eating theoysters and leaving the shell-heaps behind them, when theBaltic was an open sea' (Froude's 'Science of History').
Facts and figures such as these simply stupefy us. Theyvaguely convey the idea of something immeasurably great, butnothing further. They have no more effect upon us than wordsaddressed to some poor 'bewildered creature, stunned58 andparalysed by awe59; no more than the sentence of death to theterror-stricken wretch60 at the bar. Indeed, it is in thissense that the sceptic uses them for our warning.
'Seit Kopernikus,' says Schopenhauer, 'kommen die Theologenmit dem lieben Gott in Verlegenheit.' 'No one,' he adds,'has so damaged Theism as Copernicus.' As if limitation andimperfection in the celestial61 mechanism62 would make for thebelief in God; or, as if immortality63 were incompatible64 withdependence. Des Cartes, for one, (and he counts for many,)held just the opposite opinion.
Our sun and all the millions upon millions of suns whoselight will never reach us are but the aggregation65 of atomsdrawn together by the same force that governs their orbit,and which makes the apple fall. When their heat, howevergenerated, is expended66, they die to frozen cinders67; possiblyto be again diffused68 as nebulae, to begin again the eternalround of change.
What is life amidst this change? 'When I consider the workof Thy fingers, the moon and the stars which Thou hastordained, what is man that Thou art mindful of him?'
But is He mindful of us? That is what the sceptic asks. IsHe mindful of life here or anywhere in all this boundlessspace? We have no ground for supposing (so we are told) thatlife, if it exists at all elsewhere, in the solar system atleast, is any better than it is here? 'Analogy compels us tothink,' says M. France, one of the most thoughtful of livingwriters, 'that our entire solar system is a gehenna where theanimal is born for suffering. . . . This alone would sufficeto disgust me with the universe.' But M. France is too deepa thinker to abide70 by such a verdict. There must besomething 'behind the veil.' 'Je sens que ces immensites nesont rien, et qu'enfin, s'il y a quelque chose, ce quelquechose n'est pas ce que nous voyons.' That is it. All theseimmensities are not 'rien,' but they are assuredly not whatwe take them to be. They are the veil of the Infinite,behind which we are not permitted to see.
It were the seeing Him, no flesh shall dare.
The very greatness proves our impotence to grasp it, provesthe futility71 of our speculations, and should help us best ofall though outwardly so appalling72, to stand calm while thesnake of unbelief writhes73 beneath our feet. The unutterableinsignificance of man and his little world connotes theinfinity which leaves his possibilities as limitless asitself.
Spectrology informs us that the chemical elements of matterare everywhere the same; and in a boundless69 universe wheresuch unity19 is manifested there must be conditions similar tothose which support life here. It is impossible to doubt, onthese grounds alone, that life does exist elsewhere. Were werashly to assume from scientific data that no form of animallife could obtain except under conditions similar to our own,would not reason rebel at such an inference, on the mereground that to assume that there is no conscious being in theuniverse save man, is incomparably more unwarrantable, and initself incredible?
Admitting, then, the hypothesis of the universal distributionof life, has anyone the hardihood to believe that this iseither the best or worst of worlds? Must we not suppose thatlife exists in every stage of progress, in every state ofimperfection, and, conversely, of advancement76? Have we stillthe audacity77 to believe with the ancient Israelites, or asthe Church of Rome believed only three centuries ago, thatthe universe was made for us, and we its centre? Or must wenot believe that - infinity74 given - the stages and degrees oflife are infinite as their conditions? And where is this tostop? There is no halting place for imagination till wereach the ANIMA MUNDI, the infinite and eternal Spirit fromwhich all Being emanates78.
The materialist79 and the sceptic have forcible arguments ontheir side. They appeal to experience and to common sense,and ask pathetically, yet triumphantly80, whether aspiration,however fervid81, is a pledge for its validity, 'or does beingweary prove that he hath where to rest?' They smile at theflights of poetry and imagination, and love to repeat:
Fools! that so often hereHappiness mocked our prayer,I think might make us fearA like event elsewhere;Make us not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.
But then, if the other view is true, the Elsewhere is not theHere, nor is there any conceivable likeness82 between the two.
It is not mere75 repugnance83 to truths, or speculations rather,which we dread84, that makes us shrink from a creed4 so shallow,so palpably inept85, as atheism86. There are many sides to ournature, and I see not that reason, doubtless our trustiestguide, has one syllable87 to utter against our loftiest hopes.
Our higher instincts are just as much a part of us as anythat we listen to; and reason, to the end, can neverdogmatise with what it is not conversant88.
The End
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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collating
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| v.校对( collate的现在分词 )；整理；核对；整理（文件或书等） | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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equity
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| n.公正，公平，（无固定利息的）股票 | |
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diatribes
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| n.谩骂，讽刺( diatribe的名词复数 ) | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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smokers
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| 吸烟者( smoker的名词复数 ) | |
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disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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alignment
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| n.队列；结盟，联合 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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aggregation
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| n.聚合，组合；凝聚 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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emanates
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的第三人称单数 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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