grossed in far-away savages and their welfare, that she absolutely forgot the unkempt children and the poor overdriven anxious father in the frowsy house at home. Everything the charming writer could say in condemnation of such a woman (if she ever existed, and perhaps she did somewhere) I accept and repeat from the heart. No words of reprobation can be strong enough. But the person depicted (you see) was a fool, a self-conceited fool, not without a dash of the impostor. And she is shown to us as having been encouraged in her heartless and wicked idiotcy by a number of persons as bad as herself. There is no public concern whatsoever: not the minister's concern for his parish and congregation, not the statesman's care for the things of the state; which can justify the neglect of the primary duties of the family and the home. And when these primary duties have been in fact neglected (as they have been), it was not pure zeal for Christ that led to this. It was a fussy, meddling, domineering, self-advertising spirit. The misery and mischief came of the presence of an extremely hard heart, coinciding with a total absence of common sense. I could easily name more than one or two leaders of men (energetic and influential leaders too) who, when it came to themselves, and their own public appearances, were absolutely without common sense. This did not come of zeal for the good cause, but of a selfishness so extreme that it was unconscious, and of a preposterouslyinflated estimate of that which is called Number One. The notion that people could grow sick of listening to them never once entered their heads. But I turn away from a matter which some day, somewhere, shall have a chapter to itself. Forasmuch as it needs one, sorely. And I should write it with feeling. For I have for many years had to be a member of what are called Church-Courts. And words fail to express the moral loathing I have felt for certain continual spouters in them. Nor am I now to mention names, though I might. Yet I repeat, one has known men and women, not many, who, righteously, and neglecting no other call, have given themselves to Christ's cause in this world with that devotion, that everything was right with them if that cause prospered, and everything was wrong with them if that cause languished. Of course it cannot fail. But, in fact, it may languish, this day or that, here or there. It is often a vain illusion that you have discovered your Thorn: the one thing between you and peace, between you and spiritual betterment: and that if it were away, all would be well with you. Indeed it would not be so. A rush of other troubles would fill the vacant space. Troubles which do not now make themselves manifest to your consciousness, would do so then. Perhaps other people see, though you do not, that what you fancy your Thorn is not your Thorn at all. A man says, If I were placed somewhere else in life: if I had taken another turn on that testing day. No! In yourself is your great trouble and you will not get away from yourself here. 319 CHAPTER V THAT PERIODICITY OF SENSATIONS YES that is the lake which a recent visitor to the Holy Land has declared to be very like the Dead Sea. He had been contradicting the received belief (rendered in wonderful words in Eothen) that the Dead Sea is a gloomy and awful-looking sheet of water. And it is to be admitted that the famous name was given by people who had never seen the place: and that many visitors have read into the scene the impression derived from an unforgotten and awful history. But this writer of these latter days was resolved to see with his own eyes, and to put on record what they showed him. He expected, he tells us, a scene of unequalled horror. Instead of that, he found (upon that day) a bright cheerful lake, edged with strongly-coloured flowers: a pleasant ripple upon its surface. Finally, summing up, he declares that he thought it 'very like Loch Awe.' But, just this morning, the beautiful lake wears an aspect not unlike the traditional picture of the Salt Sea. This window is high in a quaint Tower: outside, a large oak-tree is battling with the wind and beyond, below, spreads the water. A thick mist veils it, and hides the hills which bound it: the outlook is black, though it be a summer morning. On the right, intensely green, thick wood which no human hand planted up to a great height, and beyond the trees the bare rocky hillside, you may see the first slope of Ben Cruachan. But the wind is moaning in a wintry way. A black squall comes at intervals, with sickly sunshine between: and looking towards the loch, three hundred feet below, all is gloom. An expedition of a modest character which had been planned must be given up. And so there are time and place for these lines. They were suggested by certain words uttered in this chamber by a friend, which though uttered in my presence were not addressed to me. I need not tell any reader whence I derived my title. The passage is classical. the same, when I quoted a line from George Eliot the other day, somebody told me that it was painful to hear any of her words repeated. I cannot in any way bring myself to like the woman. But of her genius, specially at the outset of her short career, it seems as though there can be no question. All He was looking out, the friend in question, on a July morning from the same window, upon a scene of lake and mountain which cannot be easily surpassed in this world. It was blazing summer: the world looked quite fit to be Paradise, were but evil away. He had finished writing his letters; which in these days it is to some a very burdensome task to do: and he had enquired when the next Post came in. He was told, Not till next morning. Whereupon I heard him say, looking down upon the lake, and speaking to himself, Then nothing can come for a good many hours.' It was plain he meant, nothing worrying nothing trying: nothing painful. One thought, recognising a familiar experience, That is the way in which many folk now think of post-time. George Eliot's words come into memory that periodicity of sensations called post-time.' It is the time at which, from the outer world, trouble and sorrow may enter into the quiet home. The door is no longer shut in the face of the wolf: it is of necessity opened for a little space. And indeed the letter-box, always ready to receive, may give admittance to God knows what shock. We hear, only too quickly, how it is faring, all round this world, with all we care for: with the scattered members of the little household that grew up side by side. But no news is good news. Oftentimes it is a great comfort when there is 'nothing by post.' Not so very often can that comfort be. People 'write their letters' now, as they did not long ago. It is a serious matter, at the beginning of each day in the holiday-time: and at a later period on a day of the usual work. For, notably, those whose business it is to write, know better than to exhaust their fresh energy upon their letters. The task which awaits one may be far short of Sir Walter's: but it may lie as heavily on the modest faculty which is also far short of the greatest Scotsman's and it has to be done first. Chalmers, to the last, would have no day without a line. It may come of long habit: but there are those to whom the day seems to have been lost if it have not left some Y |