No More Learning

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. All things that this man has
done I have done also. And yet they have not crucified me. '--_Poems in
Prose_.




THE HOUSE OF JUDGMENT


And there was silence in the House of Judgment, and the Man came naked
before God.

And God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.

And God said to the Man, 'Thy life hath been evil, and thou hast shown
cruelty to those who were in need of succour, and to those who lacked
help thou hast been bitter and hard of heart. The poor called to thee
and thou didst not hearken, and thine ears were closed to the cry of My
afflicted. The inheritance of the fatherless thou didst take unto
thyself, and thou didst send the foxes into the vineyard of thy
neighbour's field. Thou didst take the bread of the children and give it
to the dogs to eat, and My lepers who lived in the marshes, and were at
peace and praised Me, thou didst drive forth on to the highways, and on
Mine earth out of which I made thee thou didst spill innocent blood. '

And the Man made answer and said, 'Even so did I. '

And again God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.

And God said to the Man, 'Thy life hath been evil, and the Beauty I have
shown thou hast sought for, and the Good I have hidden thou didst pass
by. The walls of thy chamber were painted with images, and from the bed
of thine abominations thou didst rise up to the sound of flutes. Thou
didst build seven altars to the sins I have suffered, and didst eat of
the thing that may not be eaten, and the purple of thy raiment was
broidered with the three signs of shame. Thine idols were neither of
gold nor of silver that endure, but of flesh that dieth. Thou didst
stain their hair with perfumes and put pomegranates in their hands. Thou
didst stain their feet with saffron and spread carpets before them. With
antimony thou didst stain their eyelids and their bodies thou didst smear
with myrrh. Thou didst bow thyself to the ground before them, and the
thrones of thine idols were set in the sun. Thou didst show to the sun
thy shame and to the moon thy madness. '

And the Man made answer and said, 'Even so did I. '

And a third time God opened the Book of the Life of the Man.

And God said to the Man, 'Evil hath been thy life, and with evil didst
thou requite good, and with wrongdoing kindness. The hands that fed thee
thou didst wound, and the breasts that gave thee suck thou didst despise.
He who came to thee with water went away thirsting, and the outlawed men
who hid thee in their tents at night thou didst betray before dawn. Thine
enemy who spared thee thou didst snare in an ambush, and the friend who
walked with thee thou didst sell for a price, and to those who brought
thee Love thou didst ever give Lust in thy turn. '

And the Man made answer and said, 'Even so did I. '

And God closed the Book of the Life of the Man, and said, 'Surely I will
send thee into Hell. Even into Hell will I send thee. '

And the Man cried out, 'Thou canst not. '

And God said to the Man, 'Wherefore can I not send thee to Hell, and for
what reason? '

'Because in Hell have I always lived,' answered the Man.

And there was silence in the House of Judgment.

And after a space God spake, and said to the Man, 'Seeing that I may not
send thee into Hell, surely I will send thee unto Heaven. Even unto
Heaven will I send thee. '

And the Man cried out, 'Thou canst not. '

And God said to the Man, 'Wherefore can I not send thee unto Heaven, and
for what reason? '

'Because never, and in no place, have I been able to imagine it,'
answered the Man.

And there was silence in the House of Judgment. --_Poems in Prose_.




THE TEACHER OF WISDOM


From his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfect knowledge
of God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of the saints, as well
as certain holy women who dwelt in the free city of his birth, had been
stirred to much wonder by the grave wisdom of his answers.

And when his parents had given him the robe and the ring of manhood he
kissed them, and left them and went out into the world, that he might
speak to the world about God. For there were at that time many in the
world who either knew not God at all, or had but an incomplete knowledge
of Him, or worshipped the false gods who dwell in groves and have no care
of their worshippers.

And he set his face to the sun and journeyed, walking without sandals, as
he had seen the saints walk, and carrying at his girdle a leathern wallet
and a little water-bottle of burnt clay.

And as he walked along the highway he was full of the joy that comes from
the perfect knowledge of God, and he sang praises unto God without
ceasing; and after a time he reached a strange land in which there were
many cities.

And he passed through eleven cities. And some of these cities were in
valleys, and others were by the banks of great rivers, and others were
set on hills. And in each city he found a disciple who loved him and
followed him, and a great multitude also of people followed him from each
city, and the knowledge of God spread in the whole land, and many of the
rulers were converted, and the priests of the temples in which there were
idols found that half of their gain was gone, and when they beat upon
their drums at noon none, or but a few, came with peacocks and with
offerings of flesh as had been the custom of the land before his coming.

Yet the more the people followed him, and the greater the number of his
disciples, the greater became his sorrow. And he knew not why his sorrow
was so great. For he spake ever about God, and out of the fulness of
that perfect knowledge of God which God had Himself given to him.

And one evening he passed out of the eleventh city, which was a city of
Armenia, and his disciples and a great crowd of people followed after
him; and he went up on to a mountain and sat down on a rock that was on
the mountain, and his disciples stood round him, and the multitude knelt
in the valley.

And he bowed his head on his hands and wept, and said to his Soul, 'Why
is it that I am full of sorrow and fear, and that each of my disciples is
an enemy that walks in the noonday? ' And his Soul answered him and said,
'God filled thee with the perfect knowledge of Himself, and thou hast
given this knowledge away to others. The pearl of great price thou hast
divided, and the vesture without seam thou hast parted asunder. He who
giveth away wisdom robbeth himself. He is as one who giveth his treasure
to a robber. Is not God wiser than thou art? Who art thou to give away
the secret that God hath told thee? I was rich once, and thou hast made
me poor. Once I saw God, and now thou hast hidden Him from me. '

And he wept again, for he knew that his Soul spake truth to him, and that
he had given to others the perfect knowledge of God, and that he was as
one clinging to the skirts of God, and that his faith was leaving him by
reason of the number of those who believed in him.

And he said to himself, 'I will talk no more about God. He who giveth
away wisdom robbeth himself. '

And after the space of some hours his disciples came near him and bowed
themselves to the ground and said, 'Master, talk to us about God, for
thou hast the perfect knowledge of God, and no man save thee hath this
knowledge. '

And he answered them and said, 'I will talk to you about all other things
that are in heaven and on earth, but about God I will not talk to you.
Neither now, nor at any time, will I talk to you about God. '

And they were wroth with him and said to him, 'Thou hast led us into the
desert that we might hearken to thee. Wilt thou send us away hungry, and
the great multitude that thou hast made to follow thee? '

And he answered them and said, 'I will not talk to you about God. '

And the multitude murmured against him and said to him, 'Thou hast led us
into the desert, and hast given us no food to eat. Talk to us about God
and it will suffice us. '

But he answered them not a word. For he knew that if he spake to them
about God he would give away his treasure.

And his disciples went away sadly, and the multitude of people returned
to their own homes. And many died on the way.

And when he was alone he rose up and set his face to the moon, and
journeyed for seven moons, speaking to no man nor making any answer. And
when the seventh moon had waned he reached that desert which is the
desert of the Great River. And having found a cavern in which a Centaur
had once dwelt, he took it for his place of dwelling, and made himself a
mat of reeds on which to lie, and became a hermit. And every hour the
Hermit praised God that He had suffered him to keep some knowledge of Him
and of His wonderful greatness.

Now, one evening, as the Hermit was seated before the cavern in which he
had made his place of dwelling, he beheld a young man of evil and
beautiful face who passed by in mean apparel and with empty hands. Every
evening with empty hands the young man passed by, and every morning he
returned with his hands full of purple and pearls. For he was a Robber
and robbed the caravans of the merchants.

And the Hermit looked at him and pitied him. But he spake not a word.
For he knew that he who speaks a word loses his faith.

And one morning, as the young man returned with his hands full of purple
and pearls, he stopped and frowned and stamped his foot upon the sand,
and said to the Hermit: 'Why do you look at me ever in this manner as I
pass by? What is it that I see in your eyes? For no man has looked at
me before in this manner. And the thing is a thorn and a trouble to me. '

And the Hermit answered him and said, 'What you see in my eyes is pity.
Pity is what looks out at you from my eyes. '

And the young man laughed with scorn, and cried to the Hermit in a bitter
voice, and said to him, 'I have purple and pearls in my hands, and you
have but a mat of reeds on which to lie. What pity should you have for
me? And for what reason have you this pity? '

'I have pity for you,' said the Hermit, 'because you have no knowledge of
God. '

'Is this knowledge of God a precious thing? ' asked the young man, and he
came close to the mouth of the cavern.

'It is more precious than all the purple and the pearls of the world,'
answered the Hermit.

'And have you got it? ' said the young Robber, and he came closer still.

'Once, indeed,' answered the Hermit, 'I possessed the perfect knowledge
of God. But in my foolishness I parted with it, and divided it amongst
others. Yet even now is such knowledge as remains to me more precious
than purple or pearls. '

And when the young Robber heard this he threw away the purple and the
pearls that he was bearing in his hands, and drawing a sharp sword of
curved steel he said to the Hermit, 'Give me, forthwith this knowledge of
God that you possess, or I will surely slay you. Wherefore should I not
slay him who has a treasure greater than my treasure? '

And the Hermit spread out his arms and said, 'Were it not better for me
to go unto the uttermost courts of God and praise Him, than to live in
the world and have no knowledge of Him? Slay me if that be your desire.
But I will not give away my knowledge of God. '

And the young Robber knelt down and besought him, but the Hermit would
not talk to him about God, nor give him his Treasure, and the young
Robber rose up and said to the Hermit, 'Be it as you will. As for
myself, I will go to the City of the Seven Sins, that is but three days'
journey from this place, and for my purple they will give me pleasure,
and for my pearls they will sell me joy. ' And he took up the purple and
the pearls and went swiftly away.

And the Hermit cried out and followed him and besought him. For the
space of three days he followed the young Robber on the road and
entreated him to return, nor to enter into the City of the Seven Sins.

And ever and anon the young Robber looked back at the Hermit and called
to him, and said, 'Will you give me this knowledge of God which is more
precious than purple and pearls? If you will give me that, I will not
enter the city. '

And ever did the Hermit answer, 'All things that I have I will give thee,
save that one thing only. For that thing it is not lawful for me to give
away. '

And in the twilight of the third day they came nigh to the great scarlet
gates of the City of the Seven Sins. And from the city there came the
sound of much laughter.

And the young Robber laughed in answer, and sought to knock at the gate.
And as he did so the Hermit ran forward and caught him by the skirts of
his raiment, and said to him: 'Stretch forth your hands, and set your
arms around my neck, and put your ear close to my lips, and I will give
you what remains to me of the knowledge of God. ' And the young Robber
stopped.

And when the Hermit had given away his knowledge of God, he fell upon the
ground and wept, and a great darkness hid from him the city and the young
Robber, so that he saw them no more.

And as he lay there weeping he was ware of One who was standing beside
him; and He who was standing beside him had feet of brass and hair like
fine wool. And He raised the Hermit up, and said to him: 'Before this
time thou hadst the perfect knowledge of God. Now thou shalt have the
perfect love of God. Wherefore art thou weeping? ' And he kissed
him. --_Poems in Prose_.




WILDE GIVES DIRECTIONS ABOUT 'DE PROFUNDIS'


H. M. PRISON, READING.

April 1st, 1897.

My Dear Robbie,--I send you a MS. separate from this, which I hope will
arrive safely. As soon as you have read it, I want you to have it
carefully copied for me. There are many causes why I wish this to be
done. One will suffice. I want you to be my literary executor in case
of my death, and to have complete control of my plays, books, and papers.
As soon as I find I have a legal right to make a will, I will do so. My
wife does not understand my art, nor could be expected to have any
interest in it, and Cyril is only a child. So I turn naturally to you,
as indeed I do for everything, and would like you to have all my works.
The deficit that their sale will produce may be lodged to the credit of
Cyril and Vivian. Well, if you are my literary executor, you must be in
possession of the only document that gives any explanation of my
extraordinary behaviour .