No More Learning

Round green emeralds were ranged in order upon thin plates of ivory, and
in one corner were silk bags filled, some with turquoise-stones, and
others with beryls. The ivory horns were heaped with purple amethysts,
and the horns of brass with chalcedonies and sards. The pillars, which
were of cedar, were hung with strings of yellow lynx-stones. In the flat
oval shields there were carbuncles, both wine-coloured and coloured like
grass. And yet I have told thee but a tithe of what was there.

'And when the Emperor had taken away his hands from before his face he
said to me: "This is my house of treasure, and half that is in it is
thine, even as I promised to thee. And I will give thee camels and camel
drivers, and they shall do thy bidding and take thy share of the treasure
to whatever part of the world thou desirest to go. And the thing shall
be done to-night, for I would not that the Sun, who is my father, should
see that there is in my city a man whom I cannot slay. "

'But I answered him, "The gold that is here is thine, and the silver also
is thine, and thine are the precious jewels and the things of price. As
for me, I have no need of these. Nor shall I take aught from thee but
that little ring that thou wearest on the finger of thy hand. "

'And the Emperor frowned. "It is but a ring of lead," he cried, "nor has
it any value. Therefore take thy half of the treasure and go from my
city. "

'"Nay," I answered, "but I will take nought but that leaden ring, for I
know what is written within it, and for what purpose. "

'And the Emperor trembled, and besought me and said, "Take all the
treasure and go from my city. The half that is mine shall be thine
also. "

'And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a cave
that is but a day's journey from this place have, I hidden the Ring of
Riches. It is but a day's journey from this place, and it waits for thy
coming. He who has this Ring is richer than all the kings of the world.
Come therefore and take it, and the world's riches shall be thine. '--_The
Fisherman and His Soul_.




COVENT GARDEN


Where he went he hardly knew. He had a dim memory of wandering through a
labyrinth of sordid houses, of being lost in a giant web of sombre
streets, and it was bright dawn when he found himself at last in
Piccadilly Circus. As he strolled home towards Belgrave Square, he met
the great waggons on their way to Covent Garden. The white-smocked
carters, with their pleasant sunburnt faces and coarse curly hair, strode
sturdily on, cracking their whips, and calling out now and then to each
other; on the back of a huge grey horse, the leader of a jangling team,
sat a chubby boy, with a bunch of primroses in his battered hat, keeping
tight hold of the mane with his little hands, and laughing; and the great
piles of vegetables looked like masses of jade against the morning sky,
like masses of green jade against the pink petals of some marvellous
rose. Lord Arthur felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There
was something in the dawn's delicate loveliness that seemed to him
inexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break in
beauty, and that set in storm. These rustics, too, with their rough,
good-humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what a strange London
they saw! A London free from the sin of night and the smoke of day, a
pallid, ghost-like city, a desolate town of tombs! He wondered what they
thought of it, and whether they knew anything of its splendour and its
shame, of its fierce, fiery-coloured joys, and its horrible hunger, of
all it makes and mars from morn to eve. Probably it was to them merely a
mart where they brought their fruits to sell, and where they tarried for
a few hours at most, leaving the streets still silent, the houses still
asleep. It gave him pleasure to watch them as they went by. Rude as
they were, with their heavy, hob-nailed shoes, and their awkward gait,
they brought a little of a ready with them. He felt that they had lived
with Nature, and that she had taught them peace. He envied them all that
they did not know.

By the time he had reached Belgrave Square the sky was a faint blue, and
the birds were beginning to twitter in the gardens. --_Lord Arthur
Savile's Crime_.




A LETTER FROM MISS JANE PERCY TO HER AUNT


THE DEANERY, CHICHESTER,

27_th May_.

My Dearest Aunt,

Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and also for
the gingham. I quite agree with you that it is nonsense their wanting to
wear pretty things, but everybody is so Radical and irreligious nowadays,
that it is difficult to make them see that they should not try and dress
like the upper classes. I am sure I don't know what we are coming to. As
papa has often said in his sermons, we live in an age of unbelief.

We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent papa last
Thursday. It arrived in a wooden box from London, carriage paid, and
papa feels it must have been sent by some one who had read his remarkable
sermon, 'Is Licence Liberty? ' for on the top of the clock was a figure of
a woman, with what papa said was the cap of Liberty on her head. I
didn't think it very becoming myself, but papa said it was historical, so
I suppose it is all right. Parker unpacked it, and papa put it on the
mantelpiece in the library, and we were all sitting there on Friday
morning, when just as the clock struck twelve, we heard a whirring noise,
a little puff of smoke came from the pedestal of the figure, and the
goddess of Liberty fell off, and broke her nose on the fender! Maria was
quite alarmed, but it looked so ridiculous, that James and I went off
into fits of laughter, and even papa was amused. When we examined it, we
found it was a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it to a
particular hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a little hammer,
it went off whenever you wanted. Papa said it must not remain in the
library, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it away to the schoolroom,
and does nothing but have small explosions all day long. Do you think
Arthur would like one for a wedding present? I suppose they are quite
fashionable in London. Papa says they should do a great deal of good, as
they show that Liberty can't last, but must fall down. Papa says Liberty
was invented at the time of the French Revolution. How awful it seems!

I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your most
instructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your idea is, that in their
rank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I must say it is
absurd, their anxiety about dress, when there are so many more important
things in this world, and in the next. I am so glad your flowered poplin
turned out so well, and that your lace was not torn. I am wearing my
yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at the Bishop's on Wednesday,
and think it will look all right. Would you have bows or not? Jennings
says that every one wears bows now, and that the underskirt should be
frilled. Reggie has just had another explosion, and papa has ordered the
clock to be sent to the stables. I don't think papa likes it so much as
he did at first, though he is very flattered at being sent such a pretty
and ingenious toy. It shows that people read his sermons, and profit by
them.

Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all unite,
and, hoping that Uncle Cecil's gout is better, believe me, dear aunt,
ever your affectionate niece,

JANE PERCY.

PS. --Do tell me about the bows. Jennings insists they are the
fashion. --_Lord Arthur Savile's Crime_.




THE TRIUMPH OF AMERICAN 'HUMOR'


At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was
disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the light-
hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves before
they retired to rest, but at a quarter past eleven all was still, and, as
midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the window
panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind wandered
moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family slept
unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he could
hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He
stepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his
cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole
past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his murdered
wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like an evil
shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed. Once he
thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only the baying
of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange sixteenth-
century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger in the
midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that led to
luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the wind
blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into grotesque
and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's shroud. Then
the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was come. He chuckled
to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had he done so, than,
with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid his blanched face in
his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was standing a horrible
spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous as a madman's dream!
Its head was bald and burnished; its face round, and fat, and white; and
hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its features into an eternal
grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet light, the mouth was a wide
well of fire, and a hideous garment, like to his own, swathed with its
silent snows the Titan form. On its breast was a placard with strange
writing in antique characters, some scroll of shame it seemed, some
record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime, and, with its right
hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened,
and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to
his room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the
corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's jack-
boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the
privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small pallet-
bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however, the
brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to go and
speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly, just
as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards the
spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling that,
after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid of his
new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching the
spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had evidently
happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from its hollow
eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it was leaning
up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable attitude. He rushed
forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his horror, the head slipped
off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a recumbent posture, and he
found himself clasping a white dimity bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush,
a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow turnip lying at his feet! --_The
Canterville Ghost_.




THE GARDEN OF DEATH


'Far away beyond the pine-woods,' he answered, in a low dreamy voice,
'there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there
are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale
sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal
moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the
sleepers. '

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

'You mean the Garden of Death,' she whispered.

'Yes, Death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown
earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence.
To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life,
to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of
Death's house, for Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than
Death is. '

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments
there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.

Then the Ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of the
wind.

'Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window? '

'Oh, often,' cried the little girl, looking up; 'I know it quite well. It
is painted in curious black letters, and it is difficult to read. There
are only six lines:

When a golden girl can win
Prayer from out the lips of sin,
When the barren almond bears,
And a little child gives away its tears,
Then shall all the house be still
And peace come to Canterville.

But I don't know what they mean. '

'They mean,' he said sadly, 'that you must weep for me for my sins,
because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no
faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle, the
Angel of Death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in
darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not
harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell
cannot prevail. '

Virginia made no answer, and the Ghost wrung his hands in wild despair as
he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very
pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. 'I am not afraid,' she said
firmly, 'and I will ask the Angel to have mercy on you. '

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent
over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold
as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as he
led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were
broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with
their tiny hands waved to her to go back. 'Go back! little Virginia,'
they cried, 'go back! ' but the Ghost clutched her hand more tightly, and
she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails, and
goggle eyes, blinked at her from the carven chimney-piece, and murmured
'Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,' but the
Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When they
reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words she could
not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly fading away
like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A bitter cold
wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her dress.
'Quick, quick,' cried the Ghost, 'or it will be too late,' and, in a
moment, the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry Chamber
was empty. --_The Canterville Ghost_.




AN ETON KIT-CAT


"Well," said Erskine, lighting a cigarette, "I must begin by telling you
about Cyril Graham himself. He and I were at the same house at Eton. I
was a year or two older than he was, but we were immense friends, and did
all our work and all our play together. There was, of course, a good
deal more play than work, but I cannot say that I am sorry for that. It
is always an advantage not to have received a sound commercial education,
and what I learned in the playing fields at Eton has been quite as useful
to me as anything I was taught at Cambridge. I should tell you that
Cyril's father and mother were both dead. They had been drowned in a
horrible yachting accident off the Isle of Wight. His father had been in
the diplomatic service, and had married a daughter, the only daughter, in
fact, of old Lord Crediton, who became Cyril's guardian after the death
of his parents. I don't think that Lord Crediton cared very much for
Cyril. He had never really forgiven his daughter for marrying a man who
had not a title. He was an extraordinary old aristocrat, who swore like
a costermonger, and had the manners of a farmer. I remember seeing him
once on Speech-day. He growled at me, gave me a sovereign, and told me
not to grow up 'a damned Radical' like my father. Cyril had very little
affection for him, and was only too glad to spend most of his holidays
with us in Scotland. They never really got on together at all. Cyril
thought him a bear, and he thought Cyril effeminate. He was effeminate,
I suppose, in some things, though he was a very good rider and a capital
fencer. In fact he got the foils before he left Eton. But he was very
languid in his manner, and not a little vain of his good looks, and had a
strong objection to football. The two things that really gave him
pleasure were poetry and acting. At Eton he was always dressing up and
reciting Shakespeare, and when he went up to Trinity he became a member
of the A. D. C. his first term. I remember I was always very jealous of
his acting. I was absurdly devoted to him; I suppose because we were so
different in some things. I was a rather awkward, weakly lad, with huge
feet, and horribly freckled. Freckles run in Scotch families just as
gout does in English families. Cyril used to say that of the two he
preferred the gout; but he always set an absurdly high value on personal
appearance, and once read a paper before our debating society to prove
that it was better to be good-looking than to be good. He certainly was
wonderfully handsome. People who did not like him, Philistines and
college tutors, and young men reading for the Church, used to say that he
was merely pretty; but there was a great deal more in his face than mere
prettiness. I think he was the most splendid creature I ever saw, and
nothing could exceed the grace of his movements, the charm of his manner.
He fascinated everybody who was worth fascinating, and a great many
people who were not. He was often wilful and petulant, and I used to
think him dreadfully insincere. It was due, I think, chiefly to his
inordinate desire to please. Poor Cyril! I told him once that he was
contented with very cheap triumphs, but he only laughed. He was horribly
spoiled. All charming people, I fancy, are spoiled. It is the secret of
their attraction.

"However, I must tell you about Cyril's acting. You know that no
actresses are allowed to play at the A. D. C. At least they were not in my
time. I don't know how it is now. Well, of course, Cyril was always
cast for the girls' parts, and when _As You Like It_ was produced he
played Rosalind. It was a marvellous performance. In fact, Cyril Graham
was the only perfect Rosalind I have ever seen. It would be impossible
to describe to you the beauty, the delicacy, the refinement of the whole
thing. It made an immense sensation, and the horrid little theatre, as
it was then, was crowded every night. Even when I read the play now I
can't help thinking of Cyril. It might have been written for him. The
next term he took his degree, and came to London to read for the
diplomatic. But he never did any work. He spent his days in reading
Shakespeare's Sonnets, and his evenings at the theatre. He was, of
course, wild to go on the stage. It was all that I and Lord Crediton
could do to prevent him. Perhaps if he had gone on the stage he would be
alive now. It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give good
advice is absolutely fatal. I hope you will never fall into that error.
If you do, you will be sorry for it. "--_The Portrait of Mr. W. H_.




MRS. ERLYNNE EXERCISES THE PREROGATIVE OF A GRANDMOTHER


Lady Windermere, before Heaven your husband is guiltless of all offence
towards you!
And I--I tell you that had it ever occurred to me that such
a monstrous suspicion would have entered your mind, I would have died
rather than have crossed your life or his--oh! died, gladly died! Believe
what you choose about me. I am not worth a moment's sorrow. But don't
spoil your beautiful young life on my account! You don't know what may
be in store for you, unless you leave this house at once. You don't know
what it is to fall into the pit, to be despised, mocked, abandoned,
sneered at--to be an outcast! to find the door shut against one, to have
to creep in by hideous byways, afraid every moment lest the mask should
be stripped from one's face, and all the while to hear the laughter, the
horrible laughter of the world, a thing more tragic than all the tears
the world has ever shed. You don't know what it is. One pays for one's
sin, and then one pays again, and all one's life one pays. You must
never know that. --As for me, if suffering be an expiation, then at this
moment I have expiated all my faults, whatever they have been; for to-
night you have made a heart in one who had it not, made it and broken
it. --But let that pass. I may have wrecked my own life, but I will not
let you wreck yours. You--why, you are a mere girl, you would be lost.
You haven't got the kind of brains that enables a woman to get back. You
have neither the wit nor the courage. You couldn't stand dishonour! No!
Go back, Lady Windermere, to the husband who loves you, whom you love.
You have a child, Lady Windermere. Go back to that child who even now,
in pain or in joy, may be calling to you. God gave you that child. He
will require from you that you make his life fine, that you watch over
him. What answer will you make to God if his life is ruined through you?
Back to your house, Lady Windermere--your husband loves you! He has
never swerved for a moment from the love he bears you. But even if he
had a thousand loves, you must stay with your child. If he was harsh to
you, you must stay with your child. If he ill-treated you, you must stay
with your child. If he abandoned you, your place is with your
child. --_Lady Windermere's Fan_.




MOTHERHOOD MORE THAN MARRIAGE


Men don't understand what mothers are. I am no different from other
women except in the wrong done me and the wrong I did, and my very heavy
punishments and great disgrace. And yet, to bear you I had to look on
death. To nurture you I had to wrestle with it. Death fought with me
for you. All women have to fight with death to keep their children.
Death, being childless, wants our children from us. Gerald, when you
were naked I clothed you, when you were hungry I gave you food. Night
and day all that long winter I tended you. No office is too mean, no
care too lowly for the thing we women love--and oh! how _I_ loved _you_.
Not Hannah, Samuel more. And you needed love, for you were weakly, and
only love could have kept you alive. Only love can keep any one alive.
And boys are careless often and without thinking give pain, and we always
fancy that when they come to man's estate and know us better they will
repay us. But it is not so. The world draws them from our side, and
they make friends with whom they are happier than they are with us, and
have amusements from which we are barred, and interests that are not
ours: and they are unjust to us often, for when they find life bitter
they blame us for it, and when they find it sweet we do not taste its
sweetness with them . . . You made many friends and went into their
houses and were glad with them, and I, knowing my secret, did not dare to
follow, but stayed at home and closed the door, shut out the sun and sat
in darkness. What should I have done in honest households? My past was
ever with me. . . . And you thought I didn't care for the pleasant things
of life. I tell you I longed for them, but did not dare to touch them,
feeling I had no right. You thought I was happier working amongst the
poor. That was my mission, you imagined. It was not, but where else was
I to go? The sick do not ask if the hand that smooths their pillow is
pure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the
kiss of sin. It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to them the
love you did not need: lavished on them a love that was not theirs . . .
And you thought I spent too much of my time in going to Church, and in
Church duties. But where else could I turn? God's house is the only
house where sinners are made welcome, and you were always in my heart,
Gerald, too much in my heart. For, though day after day, at morn or
evensong, I have knelt in God's house, I have never repented of my sin.
How could I repent of my sin when you, my love, were its fruit! Even now
that you are bitter to me I cannot repent. I do not. You are more to me
than innocence. I would rather be your mother--oh! much rather! --than
have been always pure . . . Oh, don't you see? don't you understand? It
is my dishonour that has made you so dear to me. It is my disgrace that
has bound you so closely to me. It is the price I paid for you--the
price of soul and body--that makes me love you as I do. Oh, don't ask me
to do this horrible thing. Child of my shame, be still the child of my
shame! --_A Woman of No Importance_.




THE DAMNABLE IDEAL


Why can't you women love us, faults and all? Why do you place us on
monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay, women as well as men; but
when we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their
follies, their imperfections, love them all the more, it may be, for that
reason. It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love.
It is when we are wounded by our own hands, or by the hands of others,
that love should come to cure us--else what use is love at all? All
sins, except a sin against itself, Love should forgive. All lives, save
loveless lives, true Love should pardon. A man's love is like that. It
is wider, larger, more human than a woman's. Women think that they are
making ideals of men. What they are making of us are false idols merely.
You made your false idol of me, and I had not the courage to come down,
show you my wounds, tell you my weaknesses. I was afraid that I might
lose your love, as I have lost it now. And so, last night you ruined my
life for me--yes, ruined it! What this woman asked of me was nothing
compared to what she offered to me. She offered security, peace,
stability. The sin of my youth, that I had thought was buried, rose up
in front of me, hideous, horrible, with its hands at my throat. I could
have killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed its
record, burned the one witness against me. You prevented me. No one but
you, you know it. And now what is there before me but public disgrace,
ruin, terrible shame, the mockery of the world, a lonely dishonoured
life, a lonely dishonoured death, it may be, some day? Let women make no
more ideals of men! let them not put them on alters and bow before them,
or they may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom I have so
wildly loved--have ruined mine! --_An Ideal Husband_.




FROM A REJECTED PRIZE-ESSAY


Nations may not have missions but they certainly have functions. And the
function of ancient Italy was not merely to give us what is statical in
our institutions and rational in our law, but to blend into one elemental
creed the spiritual aspirations of Aryan and of Semite. Italy was not a
pioneer in intellectual progress, nor a motive power in the evolution of
thought. The owl of the goddess of Wisdom traversed over the whole land
and found nowhere a resting-place. The dove, which is the bird of
Christ, flew straight to the city of Rome and the new reign began. It
was the fashion of early Italian painters to represent in mediaeval
costume the soldiers who watched over the tomb of Christ, and this, which
was the result of the frank anachronism of all true art, may serve to us
as an allegory. For it was in vain that the Middle Ages strove to guard
the buried spirit of progress. When the dawn of the Greek spirit arose,
the sepulchre was empty, the grave-clothes laid aside. Humanity had
risen from the dead.

The study of Greek, it has been well said, implies the birth of
criticism, comparison and research. At the opening of that education of
modern by ancient thought which we call the Renaissance, it was the words
of Aristotle which sent Columbus sailing to the New World, while a
fragment of Pythagorean astronomy set Copernicus thinking on that train
of reasoning which has revolutionised the whole position of our planet in
the universe. Then it was seen that the only meaning of progress is a
return to Greek modes of thought. The monkish hymns which obscured the
pages of Greek manuscripts were blotted out, the splendours of a new
method were unfolded to the world, and out of the melancholy sea of
mediaevalism rose the free spirit of man in all that splendour of glad
adolescence, when the bodily powers seem quickened by a new vitality,
when the eye sees more clearly than its wont and the mind apprehends what
was beforetime hidden from it. To herald the opening of the sixteenth
century, from the little Venetian printing press came forth all the great
authors of antiquity, each bearing on the title-page the words [Greek
text]; words which may serve to remind us with what wondrous prescience
Polybius saw the world's fate when he foretold the material sovereignty
of Roman institutions and exemplified in himself the intellectual empire
of Greece.

The course of the study of the spirit of historical criticism has not
been a profitless investigation into modes and forms of thought now
antiquated and of no account. The only spirit which is entirely removed
from us is the mediaeval; the Greek spirit is essentially modern. The
introduction of the comparative method of research which has forced
history to disclose its secrets belongs in a measure to us. Ours, too,
is a more scientific knowledge of philology and the method of survival.
Nor did the ancients know anything of the doctrine of averages or of
crucial instances, both of which methods have proved of such importance
in modern criticism, the one adding a most important proof of the
statical elements of history, and exemplifying the influences of all
physical surroundings on the life of man; the other, as in the single
instance of the Moulin Quignon skull, serving to create a whole new
science of prehistoric archaeology and to bring us back to a time when
man was coeval with the stone age, the mammoth and the woolly rhinoceros.
But, except these, we have added no new canon or method to the science of
historical criticism. Across the drear waste of a thousand years the
Greek and the modern spirit join hands.

In the torch race which the Greek boys ran from the Cerameician field of
death to the home of the goddess of Wisdom, not merely he who first
reached the goal but he also who first started with the torch aflame
received a prize. In the Lampadephoria of civilisation and free thought
let us not forget to render due meed of honour to those who first lit
that sacred flame, the increasing splendour of which lights our footsteps
to the far-off divine event of the attainment of perfect truth. --_The
Rise of Historical Criticism_.




THE POSSIBILITIES OF THE USEFUL


There are two kinds of men in the world, two great creeds, two different
forms of natures: men to whom the end of life is action, and men to whom
the end of life is thought. As regards the latter, who seek for
experience itself and not for the fruits of experience, who must burn
always with one of the passions of this fiery-coloured world, who find
life interesting not for its secret but for its situations, for its
pulsations and not for its purpose; the passion for beauty engendered by
the decorative arts will be to them more satisfying than any political or
religious enthusiasm, any enthusiasm for humanity, any ecstasy or sorrow
for love. For art comes to one professing primarily to give nothing but
the highest quality to one's moments, and for those moments' sake. So
far for those to whom the end of life is thought. As regards the others,
who hold that life is inseparable from labour, to them should this
movement be specially dear: for, if our days are barren without industry,
industry without art is barbarism.

Hewers of wood and drawers of water there must be always indeed among us.
Our modern machinery has not much lightened the labour of man after all:
but at least let the pitcher that stands by the well be beautiful and
surely the labour of the day will be lightened: let the wood be made
receptive of some lovely form, some gracious design, and there will come
no longer discontent but joy to the toiler. For what is decoration but
the worker's expression of joy in his work? And not joy merely--that is
a great thing yet not enough--but that opportunity of expressing his own
individuality which, as it is the essence of all life, is the source of
all art. 'I have tried,' I remember William Morris saying to me once, 'I
have tried to make each of my workers an artist, and when I say an artist
I mean a man. ' For the worker then, handicraftsman of whatever kind he
is, art is no longer to be a purple robe woven by a slave and thrown over
the whitened body of a leprous king to hide and to adorn the sin of his
luxury, but rather the beautiful and noble expression of a life that has
in it something beautiful and noble. --_The English Renaissance of Art_.




THE ARTIST


ONE evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of
_The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment_. And he went forth into the
world to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.

But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in
the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of
the image of _The Sorrow that endureth for Ever_.

Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and had
set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of
the dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own
fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that dieth
not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth for ever. And in
the whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.

And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace,
and gave it to the fire.

And out of the bronze of the image of _The Sorrow that endureth for Ever_
he fashioned an image of _The Pleasure that abideth for a Moment_. --_Poems
in Prose_.




THE DOER OF GOOD


It was night-time and He was alone.

And He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city.

And when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of
joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many
lutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gate-keepers opened
to Him.

And He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble
before it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without
there were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.

And when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of
jasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of
sea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were
red with wine.

And He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him,
'Why do you live like this? '

And the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and
said, 'But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I
live? '

And He passed out of the house and went again into the street.

And after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted
and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a
hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the
woman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were
bright with lust.

And He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to
him, 'Why do you look at this woman and in such wise? '

And the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, 'But I was
blind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look? '

And He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said
to her, 'Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin? '

And the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, 'But
you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way. '

And He passed out of the city.

And when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a
young man who was weeping.

And He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said
to him, 'Why are you weeping? '

And the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, 'But I
was dead once, and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do
but weep? '--_Poems in Prose_.




THE DISCIPLE


When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet
waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the
woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.

And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters
into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair
and cried to the pool and said, 'We do not wonder that you should mourn
in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he. '

'But was Narcissus beautiful? ' said the pool.

'Who should know that better than you? ' answered the Oreads. 'Us did he
ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look
down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own
beauty. '

And the pool answered, 'But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my
banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own
beauty mirrored. '--_Poems in Prose_.




THE MASTER


Now when the darkness came over the earth Joseph of Arimathea, having
lighted a torch of pinewood, passed down from the hill into the valley.
For he had business in his own home.

And kneeling on the flint stones of the Valley of Desolation he saw a
young man who was naked and weeping. His hair was the colour of honey,
and his body was as a white flower, but he had wounded his body with
thorns and on his hair had he set ashes as a crown.

And he who had great possessions said to the young man who was naked and
weeping, 'I do not wonder that your sorrow is so great, for surely He was
a just man. '

And the young man answered, 'It is not for Him that I am weeping, but for
myself. I too have changed water into wine, and I have healed the leper
and given sight to the blind. I have walked upon the waters, and from
the dwellers in the tombs I have cast out devils. I have fed the hungry
in the desert where there was no food, and I have raised the dead from
their narrow houses, and at my bidding, and before a great multitude, of
people, a barren fig-tree withered away.