UNI H 
 
GIFT OF 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 Arthur C. Benson 
 i\ 
 
 New York 
 
 Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 
 Publishers 
 
B4- 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1907 
 BY E. P. BUTTON & Co. 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1909 
 BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & Co. 
 
 Reprinted from " The Thread of Gold" by permission 
 ofE. P. Dutton $ Co. 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PRAYER 5 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF SUFFERING 15 
 
 THE FAITH OF CHRIST 20 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF EVIL 27 
 
 RENEWAL 33 
 
 AFTER DEATH 39 
 
 THE ETERNAL WILL ....'.... 48 
 
 UNTIL THE EVENING 56 
 
UNTIL THE EVENING 
 
 PRAYER 
 
 I AM often baffled when I try to think what 
 prayer is; if our thoughts do indeed lie 
 open before the eyes of the Father, like a 
 little clear globe of water which a man may hold 
 in his hand and I am sure they do it cer- 
 tainly seems hardly worth while to put those de- 
 sires into words. Many good Christians seem to 
 me to conceive of prayers partly as a kind of 
 tribute they are bound to pay, and partly as re- 
 quests that are almost certain to be refused. 
 With such people religion, then, means the effort 
 which they make to trust a Father who hears 
 prayers, and very seldom answers them. But 
 this does not seem to be a very reasonable 
 attitude. 
 
 I confess that liturgical prayer does not very 
 much appeal to me. It does not seem to me to 
 correspond to any particular need in my mind. 
 It seems to me to sacrifice almost all the things 
 that I mean by prayer the sustained intention 
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Until the Evening 
 
 of soul, the laying of one's own problems before 
 the Father, the expression of one's hopes for 
 others, the desire that the sorrows of the world 
 should be lightened. Of course, a liturgy touches 
 these thoughts at many points; but the exercise 
 of one's own liberty of aspiration and wonder, the 
 pursuing of a train of thought, the quiet dwelling 
 upon mysteries, are all lost if one has to stumble 
 and run in a prescribed track. To follow a ser- 
 vice with uplifted attention requires more mental 
 agility than I possess; point after point is raised, 
 and yet, if one pauses to meditate, to wonder, to 
 aspire, one is lost, and misses the thread of the 
 service. I suppose that there is or ought to be 
 something in the united act of intercession. But 
 I dislike all public meetings, and think them a 
 waste of time. I should make an exception in 
 favour of the Sacrament, but the rapid disappear- 
 ance of the majority of a congregation before the 
 solemn act seems to me to destroy the sense of 
 unity with singular rapidity. As to the old theory 
 that God requires of his followers that they should 
 unite at intervals in presenting him with a certain 
 amount of complimentary effusion, I cannot even 
 approach the idea. The holiest, simplest, most 
 benevolent being of whom I can conceive would 
 be inexpressibly pained and distressed by such an 
 [6] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 intention on the part of the objects of his care; 
 and to conceive of God as greedy of recognition 
 seems to me to be one of the conceptions which 
 insult the dignity of the soul. 
 
 I have heard lately one or two mediseval stories 
 which illustrate what I mean. There is a story of 
 a pious monk, who, worn out by long vigils, fell 
 asleep, as he was saying his prayers before a 
 crucifix. He was awakened by a buffet on the 
 head, and heard a stern voice saying, "Is this 
 an oratory or a dormitory?" I cannot conceive 
 of any story more grotesquely human than the 
 above, or more out of keeping with one's best 
 thoughts about God. Again, there is a story 
 which is told, I think, of one of the first monas- 
 teries of the Benedictine order. One of the monks 
 was a lay brother, who had many little menial 
 tasks to fulfil ; he was a well-meaning man, but 
 extremely forgetful, and he was often forced to 
 retire from some service in which he was taking 
 part, because he had forgotten to put the vege- 
 tables on to boil, or omitted other duties which 
 would lead to the discomfort of the brethren. 
 Another monk, who was fond of more secular 
 occupations, such as wood-carving and garden- 
 work, and not at all attached to habits of prayer, 
 seeing this, thought that he would do the same; 
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Until the Evening 
 
 and he too used to slip away from a service, in 
 order to return to the business that he loved 
 better. The Prior of the monastery, an anxious, 
 humble man, was at a loss how to act; so he 
 called in a very holy hermit, who lived in a cell 
 hard by, that he might have the benefit of his 
 advice. The hermit came and attended an Office. 
 Presently the lay brother rose from his knees and 
 slipped out. The hermit looked up, followed him 
 with his eyes, and appeared to be greatly moved. 
 But he took no action, and only addressed him- 
 self more assiduously to his prayers. Shortly 
 after, the other brother rose and went out. The 
 hermit looked up, and seeing him go, rose too, 
 and followed him to the door, where he fetched 
 him a great blow upon the head that nearly 
 brought him to the ground. Thereupon the 
 stricken man went humbly back to his place and 
 addressed himself to his prayers ; and the hermit 
 did the same. 
 
 The Office was soon over, and the hermit 
 went to the Prior's room to talk the matter 
 over. The hermit said: "I bore in my mind 
 what you told me, dear Father, and when I saw 
 one of the brethren rise from his prayers, I 
 asked God to show me what I should do; but 
 I saw a wonderful thing; there was a shining 
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Until the Evening 
 
 figure with our brother, his hand upon the 
 other's sleeve; and this fair comrade, I have 
 no doubt, was an angel of God, that led the 
 brother forth, that he might be about his Father's 
 business. So I prayed the more earnestly. But 
 when our other brother rose, I looked up; and 
 I saw that he had been plucked by the sleeve 
 by a little naked, comely boy, very swarthy of 
 hue, that I saw had no business among our 
 holy prayers; he wore a mocking smile on his 
 face, as though he prevailed in evil. So I rose 
 and followed; and just as they came to the 
 door, I aimed a shrewd blow, for it was told me 
 what to do, at the boy, and struck him on the 
 head, so that he fell to the ground, and presently 
 went to his own place; and then our brother 
 came back to his prayers." 
 
 The Prior mused a little over this wonder, 
 and then he said, smiling: "It seemed to me 
 that it was our brother that was smitten." "Very 
 like," said the hermit, "for the two were close 
 together, and I think the boy was whispering 
 in the brother's ear; but give God the glory; 
 for the dear brother will not offend again." 
 
 There is an abundance of truth in this whole- 
 some ancient tale; but I will not draw the morals 
 out here. All I will say is that the old theory 
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Until the Evening 
 
 of prayer, simple and childlike as it is, seems 
 to have a curious vitality even nowadays. It 
 presupposes that the act of prayer is in itself 
 pleasing to God; and that is what I am not 
 satisfied of. 
 
 That theory seems to prevail even more 
 strongly in the Roman Church of to-day than 
 in our own. The Roman priest is not a man 
 occupied primarily with pastoral duties; his 
 business is the business of prayer. To neglect 
 his daily offices is a mortal sin, and when he has 
 said them, his priestly duty is at an end. This 
 does not seem to me to bear any relation to 
 the theory of prayer as enunciated in the Gospel. 
 There the practice of constant and secret prayer, 
 of a direct and informal kind, is enjoined upon all 
 followers of Christ; but Our Lord seems to be 
 very hard upon the lengthy and public prayers of 
 the Pharisees, and indeed against all formality in 
 the matter at all. The only united service that he 
 enjoined upon his followers was the Sacrament of 
 the common meal ; and I confess that the saying 
 of formal liturgies in an ornate building seems to 
 me to be a practice which has drifted very far 
 away from the simplicity of individual religion 
 which Christ appears to have aimed at. 
 
 My own feeling about prayer is that it should 
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Until the Evening 
 
 not be relegated to certain seasons, or attended 
 by certain postures, or even couched in definite 
 language; it should rather be a constant uplift- 
 ing of the heart, a stretching out of the hands to 
 God. I do not think we should ask for definite 
 things that we desire; I am sure that our defi- 
 nite desires, our fears, our plans, our schemes, 
 the hope that visits one a hundred times a day, 
 our cravings for wealth or success or influence, 
 are as easily read by God, as a man can discern 
 the tiny atoms and filaments that swim in his 
 crystal globe. But I think we may ask to be 
 led, to be guided, to be helped; we may put 
 our anxious little decisions before God ; we may 
 ask for strength to fulfil hard duties; we may 
 put our desires for others' happiness, our hopes 
 <for our country, our compassion for sorrowing 
 or afflicted persons, our horror of cruelty and 
 tyranny before him ; and here I believe lies the 
 force of prayer; that by practising this sense of 
 aspiration in his presence, we gain a strength to 
 do our own part. If we abstain from prayer, if 
 we limit our prayers to our own small desires, 
 we grow, I know, petty and self-absorbed and 
 feeble. We can leave the fulfilment of our con- 
 crete aims to God; but we ought to be always 
 stretching out our hands and opening our hearts 
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Until the Evening 
 
 to the high and gracious mysteries that lie all 
 about us. 
 
 A friend of mine told me that a little Russian 
 peasant, whom he had visited often in a military 
 hospital, told him, at their last interview, that he 
 would tell him a prayer that was always effective, 
 and had never failed of being answered. "But 
 you must not use it," he said, "unless you are in 
 a great difficulty, and there seems no way out." 
 The prayer which he then repeated was this: 
 "Lord, remember King David, and all his 
 grace." 
 
 I have never tested the efficacy of this prayer, 
 but I have a thousand times tested the efficacy 
 of sudden prayer in moments of difficulty, when 
 confronted with a little temptation, when over- 
 whelmed with irritation, before an anxious inter- 
 view, before writing a difficult passage. How 
 often has the temptation floated away, the irri- 
 tation mastered itself, the right word been said, 
 the right sentence written ! To do all we are 
 capable of, and then to commit the matter to 
 the hand of the Father, that is the best that we 
 can do. 
 
 Of course, I am well aware that there are many 
 who find this kind of help in liturgical prayer; 
 and I am thankful that it is so. But for myself, 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 I can only say that as long as I pursued the 
 customary path, and confined myself to fixed 
 moments of prayer, I gained very little benefit. I 
 do not forego the practice of liturgical attendance 
 even now; for a solemn service, with all the 
 majesty of an old and beautiful building full of 
 countless associations, with all the resources of 
 musical sound and ceremonial movement, does 
 uplift and rejoice the soul. And even with 
 simpler services, there is often something vaguely 
 sustaining and tranquillising in the act. But the 
 deeper secret lies in the fact that prayer is an 
 attitude of soul and not a ceremony ; that it is an 
 individual mystery, and not a piece of venerable 
 pomp. I would have every one adopt his own 
 method in the matter. I would not for an instant 
 discourage those who find that liturgical usage 
 uplifts them ; but neither would I have those to 
 be discouraged who find that it has no meaning 
 for them. The secret lies in the fact that our 
 aim should be a relation with the Father, a frank 
 and reverent confidence, a humble waiting upon 
 God. That the Father loves all his children 
 with an equal love I doubt not. But he is nearest 
 to those who turn to him at every moment, and 
 speak to him with a quiet trustfulness. He alone 
 knows why he has set us in the middle of such a 
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Until the Evening 
 
 bewildering world, where joy and sorrow, dark- 
 ness and light, are so strangely intermingled; 
 and all that we can do is to follow wisely and 
 patiently such clues as he gives us, into the 
 cloudy darkness in which he seems to dwell. 
 
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Until the Evening 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF SUFFERING 
 
 HERE is a story which has much occupied my 
 thoughts lately. A man in middle life, with 
 a widowed sister and her children depending on 
 him, living by professional exertions, is suddenly 
 attacked by a painful, horrible, and fatal com- 
 plaint. He goes through a terrible operation, and 
 then struggles back to his work again, with the 
 utmost courage and gallantry. Again the com- 
 plaint returns, and the operation is repeated. 
 After this he returns again to his work, but at 
 last, after enduring untold agonies, he is forced to 
 retire into an invalid life, after a few months of 
 which he dies in terrible suffering, and leaves his 
 sister and the children nearly penniless. 
 
 The man was a quiet, simple-minded person, 
 fond of his work, fond of his home, conven- 
 tional and not remarkable except for the simply 
 heroic quality he displayed, smiling and joking 
 up to the moment of the administering of anaes- 
 thetics for his operations, and bearing his suffer- 
 ings with perfect patience and fortitude, never 
 saying an impatient word, grateful for the small- 
 est services. 
 
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Until the Evening 
 
 His sister, a simple, active woman, with much 
 tender affection and considerable shrewdness, 
 finding that the fear of incurring needless ex- 
 pense distressed her brother, devoted herself 
 to the ghastly and terrible task of nursing him 
 through his illnesses. The children behaved with 
 the same straightforward affection and goodness. 
 None of the circle ever complained, ever said 
 a word which would lead one to suppose that 
 they had any feeling of resentment or cowardice. 
 They simply received the blows of fate humbly, 
 resignedly, and cheerfully, and made the best of 
 the situation. 
 
 Now, let us look this sad story in the face, 
 and see if we can derive any hope or comfort 
 from it. In the first place, there was nothing in 
 the man's life which would lead one to suppose 
 that he deserved or needed this special chasten- 
 ing, this crucifixion of the body. He was by in- 
 stinct humble, laborious, unselfish, and good, all 
 of which qualities came out in his illness. Neither 
 was there anything in the life or character of the 
 sister which seemed to need this stern and severe 
 trial. The household had lived a very quiet, 
 active, useful life, models of good citizens 
 religious, contented, drawing great happiness 
 from very simple resources. 
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 One's belief in the goodness, the justice, the 
 patience of the Father and Maker of men forbids 
 one to believe that he can ever be wantonly 
 cruel, unjust, or unloving. Yet it is impossible 
 to see the mercy or justice of his actions in this 
 case. And the misery is that, if it could be 
 proved that in one single case, however small, 
 God's goodness had, so to speak, broken down ; 
 if there were evidence of neglect or carelessness 
 or indifference, in the case of one single child 
 of his, one single sentient thing that he has 
 created, it would be impossible to believe in his 
 omnipotence any more. Either one would feel 
 that he was unjust and cruel, or that there was 
 some evil power at work in the world which 
 he could not overcome. 
 
 For there is nothing remedial in this suffering. 
 The man's useful, gentle life is over, the sister is 
 broken down, unhappy, a second time made des- 
 olate; the children's education has suffered, their 
 home is made miserable. The only thing that one 
 can see, that is in any degree a compensation, is 
 the extraordinary kindness displayed by friends, 
 relations, and employers in making things easy 
 for the afflicted household. And then, too, 
 there is the heroic quality of soul displayed by 
 the sufferer himself and his sister a heroism 
 2 [17] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 which is ennobling to think of, and yet humiliat- 
 ing too, because it seems to be so far out of one's 
 own reach. 
 
 This is a very dark abyss of the world into 
 which we are looking. The case is an extreme 
 one perhaps, but similar things happen every day, 
 in this sad and wonderful and bewildering world. 
 Of course, one may take refuge in a gloomy 
 acquiescence, saying that such things seem to be 
 part of the world as it is made, and we cannot 
 explain them, while we dumbly hope that we may 
 be spared such woes. But that is a dark and de- 
 spairing attitude, and, for one, I cannot live at 
 all, unless I feel that God is indeed more upon 
 our side than that. I cannot live at all, I say. 
 And yet I must live; I must endure the Will of 
 God in whatever form it is laid upon me in 
 joy or in pain, in contentment or sick despair. 
 Why am I at one with the Will of God when it 
 gives me strength, and hope, and delight ? Why 
 am I so averse to it when it brings me languor, 
 and sorrow, and despair? That I cannot tell; 
 and that is the enigma which has confronted men 
 from generation to generation. 
 
 But I still believe that there is a Will of God ; 
 and, more than that, I can still believe that a 
 day comes for all of us, however far off it may 
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Until the Evening 
 
 be, when we shall understand ; when these trage- 
 dies, that now blacken and darken the very air 
 of Heaven for us, will sink into their places in a 
 scheme so august, so magnificent, so joyful, that 
 we shall laugh for wonder and delight ; when we 
 shall think not more sorrowfully over these suf- 
 ferings, these agonies, than we think now of the 
 sad days in our childhood when we sat with a 
 passion of tears over a broken toy or a dead bird, 
 feeling that we could not be comforted. We 
 smile as we remember such things we smile at 
 our blindness, our limitations. We smile to reflect 
 at the great range and panorama of the world 
 that has opened upon us since, and of which, in 
 our childish grief, we were so ignorant. Under 
 what conditions the glory will be revealed to us 
 I cannot guess. But I do not doubt that it will 
 be revealed ; for we forget sorrow, but we do not 
 forget joy. 
 
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 THE FAITH OF CHRIST 
 
 1READ a terrible letter in a newspaper this 
 morning, a letter from a clergyman of high 
 position, finding fault with a manifesto put out 
 by certain other clergymen; the letter had a 
 certain volubility about it, and the writer seemed 
 to me to pull out rather adroitly one or two 
 loose sticks in his opponents' bundle, and to lay 
 them vehemently about their backs. But, alas ! 
 the acrimony, the positiveness, the arrogance 
 of it! 
 
 I do not know that I admired the manifesto 
 very much myself; it was a timid and half- 
 hearted document, but it was at least sympa- 
 thetic and tender. The purport of it was to say 
 that, just as historical criticism has shown that 
 some of the Old Testament must be regarded as 
 fabulous, so we must be prepared for a possible 
 loss of certitude in some of the details of the New 
 Testament. It is conceivable, for instance, that 
 without sacrificing the least portion of the essen- 
 tial teaching of Christ, men may come to feel jus- 
 tified in a certain suspension of judgment with 
 
 regard to some of the miraculous occurrences 
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Until the Evening 
 
 there related; may even grow to believe that an 
 element of exaggeration is there, that element of 
 exaggeration which is never absent from the writ- 
 ings of any age in which scientific historical meth- 
 ods had no existence. A suspension of judgment, 
 say: because in the absence of any converging 
 historical testimony to the events of the New 
 Testament, it will never be possible either to 
 affirm or to deny historically that the facts took 
 place exactly as related; though, indeed, the 
 probability of their having so occurred may seem 
 to be diminished. 
 
 The controversialist, whose letter I read with 
 bewilderment and pain, involved his real belief 
 in ingenious sentences, so that one would think 
 that he accepted the statements of the Old Tes- 
 tament, such as the account of the Creation 
 and the Fall, the speaking of Balaam's ass, the 
 swallowing of Jonah by the whale, as historical 
 facts. He went on to say that the miraculous 
 element of the New Testament is accredited by 
 the Revelation of God, as though some definite 
 revelation of truth had taken place at some 
 time or other, which all rational men recognized. 
 But the only objective process which has ever 
 taken place is, that at certain Councils of the 
 Church, certain books of Scripture were selected 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 as essential documents, and the previous selection 
 of the Old Testament books was confirmed. But 
 would the controversialist say that these Councils 
 were infallible ? It must surely be clear to all 
 rational people that the members of these Coun- 
 cils were merely doing their best, under the con- 
 ditions that then prevailed, to select the books 
 that seemed to them to contain the truth. It is 
 impossible to believe that if the majority at these 
 Councils had supposed that such an account as 
 the account in Genesis of the Creation was 
 mythological, they would thus have attested its 
 literal truth. It never occurred to them to doubt 
 it, because they did not understand the principle 
 that, while a normal event can be accepted, if it 
 is fairly well confirmed, an abnormal event re- 
 quires a far greater amount of converging testi- 
 mony to confirm it. 
 
 If only the clergy could realise that what 
 ordinary laymen like myself want is a greater 
 elasticity instead of an irrational certainty ! If 
 only instead of feebly trying to save the out- 
 works, which are already in the hands of the 
 enemy, they would man the walls of the central 
 fortress ! If only they would say plainly that a 
 man could remain a convinced Christian, and yet 
 not be bound to hold to the literal accuracy of 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 the account of miraculous incidents recorded in 
 the Bible, it would be a great relief. 
 
 I am myself in the position of thousands of 
 other laymen. I am a sincere Christian; and 
 yet I regard the Old Testament and the New 
 Testament alike as the work of fallible men and 
 of poetical minds. I regard the Old Testament 
 as a noble collection of ancient writings, contain- 
 ing myths, chronicles, fables, poems, and dramas, 
 the value of which consists in the intense faith 
 in a personal God and Father with which it is 
 penetrated. 
 
 When I come to the New Testament, I feel 
 myself, in the Gospels, confronted by the most 
 wonderful personality which has ever drawn 
 breath upon the earth. I am not in a position to 
 affirm or to deny the exact truth of the miraculous 
 occurrences there related; but the more con- 
 scious I am of the fallibility, the lack of subtlety, 
 the absence of trained historical method that the 
 writers display, the more convinced I am of the 
 essential truth of the Person and teaching of 
 Christ, because he seems to me a figure so 
 infinitely beyond the intellectual power of 
 those who described him to have invented or 
 created. 
 
 If the authors of the Gospels had been men 
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 of delicate literary skill, of acute philosophical 
 or poetical insight, like Plato or Shakespeare, 
 then I should be far less convinced of the integral 
 truth of the record. But the words and sayings 
 of Christ, the ideas which he disseminated, seem 
 to me so infinitely above the highest achieve- 
 ments of the human spirit, that I have no diffi- 
 culty in confessing, humbly and reverently, that 
 I am in the presence of one who seems to me to 
 be above humanity, and not only of it. If all the 
 miraculous events of the Gospels could be proved 
 never to have occurred, it would not disturb my 
 faith in Christ for an instant. But I am content, 
 as it is, to believe in the possibility of so abnormal 
 a personality being surrounded by abnormal 
 events, though I am not in a position to disen- 
 tangle the actual truth from the possibilities of 
 misrepresentation and exaggeration. 
 
 Dealing with the rest of the New Testament, 
 I see in the Acts of the Apostles a deeply inter- 
 esting record of the first ripples of the faith in 
 the world. In the Pauline and other epistles I 
 see the words of fervent primitive Christians, 
 men of real and untutored genius, in which one 
 has amazing instances of the effect produced, on 
 contemporary or nearly contemporary persons, of 
 the same overwhelming personality, the person- 
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Until the Evening 
 
 ality of Christ. In the Apocalypse I see a vision 
 of deep poetical force and insight. 
 
 But in none of these compositions, though they 
 reveal a glow and fervour of conviction that 
 places them high among the memorials of the 
 human spirit, do I recognise anything which is 
 beyond human possibilities. I observe, indeed, 
 that St. Paul's method of argument is not always 
 perfectly consistent, nor his conclusions absolutely 
 cogent. Such inspiration as they contain they 
 draw from their nearness to and their close ap- 
 prehension of the dim and awe-inspiring pres- 
 ence of Christ Himself. 
 
 If, as I say, the Church would concentrate her 
 forces in this inner fortress, the personality of 
 Christ, and quit the debatable ground of histori- 
 cal enquiry, it would be to me and to many an 
 unfeigned relief; but meanwhile, neither scien- 
 tific critics nor irrational pedants shall invali- 
 date my claim to be of the number of believing 
 Christians. I claim a Christian liberty of thought, 
 while I acknowledge, with bowed head, my belief 
 in God the Father of Men, in a Divine Christ, the 
 Redeemer and Saviour, and in the presence in 
 the hearts of men of a Divine spirit, leading 
 humanity tenderly forward. I can neither affirm 
 nor deny the literal accuracy of Scripture records ; 
 
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 I am not in a position to deny the superstructure 
 of definite dogma raised by the tradition of the 
 Church about the central truths of its teaching, 
 but neither can I deny the possibility of an ad- 
 mixture of human error in the fabric. I claim 
 my right to receive the Sacraments of my Church, 
 believing as I do that they invigorate the soul, 
 bring the presence of its Redeemer near, and 
 constitute a bond of Christian unity. But I 
 have no reason to believe that any human pro- 
 nouncement whatever, the pronouncements of 
 men of science as well as the pronouncements 
 of theologians, are not liable to error. There is 
 indeed no fact in the world except the fact of 
 my own existence of which I am absolutely 
 certain. And thus I can accept no system of 
 religion which is based upon deductions, however 
 subtle, from isolated texts, because I cannot be 
 sure of the infallibility of any form of human 
 expression. Yet, on the other hand, I seem to 
 discern with as much certainty as I can discern 
 anything in this world, where all is so dark, 
 the presence upon earth at a certain date of a 
 personality which commands my homage and 
 allegiance. And upon this I build my trust. 
 
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 THE MYSTERY OF EVIL 
 
 1WAS staying the other day in a large old 
 country-house. One morning, my host came 
 to me and said: "I should like to show you a 
 curious thing. We have just discovered a cellar 
 here that seems never to have been visited or 
 used since the house was built, and there is the 
 strangest fungoid growth in it I have ever seen." 
 He took a big bunch of keys, rang the bell, gave 
 an order for lights to be brought, and we went 
 together to the place. There were ranges of 
 brick-built, vaulted chambers, through which we 
 passed, pleasant, cool places, with no plaster to 
 conceal the native brick, with great wine-bins on 
 either hand. It all gave one an inkling of the 
 change in material conditions which must have 
 taken place since they were built ; the quantity of 
 wine consumed in eighteenth-century days must 
 have been so enormous, and the difficulty of con- 
 veyance so great, that every great householder 
 must have felt like the Rich Fool of the parable, 
 with much goods laid up for many years. In the 
 corner of one of the great vaults was a low-arched 
 door, and my friend explained that some panel- 
 ling which had been taken out of an older house, 
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 demolished to make room for the present man- 
 sion, had been piled up here, and thus the en- 
 trance had been hidden. He unlocked the door, 
 and a strange scent came out. An abundance of 
 lights were lit, and we went into the vault. It 
 was the strangest scene I have ever beheld; the 
 end of the vault seemed like a great bed, hung 
 with brown velvet curtains, through the gaps of 
 which were visible what seemed like white velvet 
 pillows, strange humped conglomerations. My 
 friend explained to'me that there had been a bin 
 at the end of the vault, out of the wood of which 
 these singular fungi had sprouted. The whole 
 place was uncanny and horrible. The great vel- 
 vet curtains swayed in the current of air, and it 
 seemed as though at any moment some myste- 
 rious sleeper might be awakened, might peer forth 
 from his dark curtains, with a fretful enquiry as 
 to why he was disturbed. 
 
 The scene dwelt in my mind for many days, 
 and aroused in me a strange train of thought; 
 these dim vegetable forms, with their rich luxu- 
 riance, their sinister beauty, awoke a curious re- 
 pugnance in the mind. They seemed unholy and 
 evil. And yet it is all part of the life of nature; 
 it is just as natural, just as beautiful to find life 
 at work in this gloomy and unvisited place, 
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 wreathing the bare walls with these dark, soft 
 fabrics. It was impossible not to feel that there 
 was a certain joy of life in these growths, sprout- 
 ing with such security and luxuriance in a place 
 so precisely adapted to their well-being ; and yet 
 there was the shadow of death and darkness 
 about them, to us whose home is the free air and 
 the sun. It seemed to me to make a curious para- 
 ble of the baffling mystery of evil, the luxuriant 
 growth of sin in the dark soul. I have always 
 felt that the reason why the mystery of evil is so 
 baffling is because we so resolutely think of evil as 
 of something inimical to the nature of God ; and 
 yet evil must derive its vitality from him. The 
 one thing that it is impossible to believe is that, 
 in a world ruled by an all-powerful God, anything 
 should come into existence which is in opposition 
 to his Will. It is impossible to arrive at any solu- 
 tion of the difficulty, unless we either adopt the 
 belief that God is not all-powerful, and that there 
 is a real dualism in nature, two powers in eternal 
 opposition ; or else realise that evil is in some way 
 a manifestation of God. If we adopt the first 
 theory, we may conceive of the stationary ten- 
 dency in nature, its inertness, the force that tends 
 to bring motion to a standstill, as one power, the 
 power of Death; and we may conceive of all 
 [29] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 motion and force as the other power, the quicken- 
 ing spirit, the power of life. But even here we 
 are met with a difficulty, for when we try to trans- 
 fer this dualism to the region of humanity, we 
 see that in the phenomena of disease we are con- 
 fronted, not with inertness fighting against mo- 
 tion, but with one kind of life, which is inimical 
 to human life, fighting with another kind of life 
 which is favourable to health. I mean that when 
 a fever or a cancer lays hold of a human frame, it 
 is nothing but the lodging inside the body of a 
 bacterial and an infusorial life which fights against 
 the healthy native life of the human organism. 
 There must be, I will not say a consciousness, but 
 a sense of triumphant life, in the cancer which 
 feeds upon the limb, in spite of all efforts to dis- 
 lodge it ; and it is impossible to me to believe that 
 the vitality of those parasitical organisms, which 
 prey upon the human frame, is not derived from 
 the vital impulse of God. We, who live in the 
 free air and the sun, have a way of thinking and 
 speaking as if the plants and animals which 
 develop under the same conditions were of a 
 healthy type, w T hile the organisms which flourish 
 in decay and darkness, such as the fungi of which 
 I saw so strange an example, the larvae which 
 prey on decaying matter, the soft and pallid 
 [30] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 worm-like forms that tunnel in vegetable ooze, 
 were of an unhealthy type. But yet these crea- 
 tures are as much the work of God as the flowers 
 and trees, the brisk animals which we love to see 
 about us. We are obliged in self-defence to do 
 battle with the creatures which menace our health ; 
 we do not question our right to deprive them of 
 life for our own comfort; but surely with this 
 analogy before us, we are equally compelled to 
 think of the forms of moral evil, with all their 
 dark vitality, as the work of God's hand. It is a 
 sad conclusion to be obliged to draw, but I can 
 have no doubt that no comprehensive system of 
 philosophy can ever be framed, which does not 
 trace the vitality of what we call evil to the same 
 hand as the vitality of what we call good. I have 
 no doubt myself of the supremacy of a single 
 power; but the explanation that evil came into 
 the world by the institution of free-will, and that 
 suffering is the result of sin, seems to me to be 
 wholly inadequate, because the mystery of strife 
 and pain and death is "far older than any history 
 which is written in any book." The mistake that 
 we make is to count up all the qualities which 
 seem to promote our health and happiness, and 
 to invent an anthropomorphic figure of God, 
 whom we array upon the side which we wish to 
 [31] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 prevail. The truth is far darker, far sterner, far 
 more mysterious. The darkness is his not less 
 than the light; selfishness and sin are the work 
 of his hand, as much as unselfishness and holi- 
 ness. To call this attitude of mind pessimism, 
 and to say that it can only end in acquiescence or 
 despair, is a sin against truth. A creed that does 
 not take this thought into account is nothing but 
 a delusion, with which we try to beguile the seri- 
 ousness of the truth which we dread ; but such a 
 stern belief does not forbid us to struggle and to 
 strive ; it rather bids us believe that effort is a law 
 of our natures, that we are bound to be enlisted 
 for the fight, and that the only natures that fail 
 are those that refuse to take a side at all. 
 
 There is no indecision in nature, though there 
 is some illusion. The very star that rises, pale 
 and serene, above the darkening thicket, is in 
 reality a globe wreathed in fiery vapour, the 
 centre of a throng of whirling planets. What 
 we have to do is to see as deep as we can into 
 the truth of things, not to invent paradises of 
 thought, sheltered gardens, from which grief and 
 suffering shall tear us, naked and protesting; 
 to gaze into the heart of God, and then to 
 follow as faithfully as we can the imperative 
 voice that speaks within the soul. 
 [32] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 RENEWAL 
 
 THERE sometimes falls upon me a great hun- 
 ger of heart, a sad desire to build up and re- 
 new something a broken building it may be, a 
 fading flower, a failing institution, a ruinous char- 
 acter. I feel a great and vivid pity for a thing 
 which sets out to be so bright and beautiful, and 
 lapses into shapeless and uncomely neglect. 
 Sometimes, indeed, it must be a desolate grief, a 
 fruitless sorrow : as when a flower that has stood 
 on one's table, and cheered the air with its fresh- 
 ness, and fragrance, begins to droop, and to grow 
 stained and sordid. Or I see some dying crea- 
 ture, a wounded animal ; or even some well-loved 
 friend under the shadow of death, with the hue of 
 health fading, the dear features sharpening for the 
 last change; and then one can only bow, with 
 such resignation as one can muster, before the 
 dreadful law of death, pray that the passage may 
 not be long or dark, and try to dream of the 
 bright secrets that may be waiting on the other 
 side. 
 
 But sometimes it is a more fruitful sadness, 
 when one feels that decay can be arrested, that 
 3 [33] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 new life can be infused ; that a fresh start may 
 be taken, and a life may be beautifully renewed, 
 and be even the brighter, one dares to hope, for a 
 lapse into the dreary ways of bitterness. 
 
 This sadness is most apt to beset those who 
 have anything to do with the work of education. 
 One feels sometimes, with a sudden shiver, as 
 when the shadow of a cloud passes over a sunlit 
 garden, that many elements are at work in a small 
 society; that an evil secret is spreading over lives 
 that were peaceful and contented, that suspicion 
 and disunion and misunderstanding are springing 
 up, like poisonous weeds, in the quiet corner that 
 God has given one to dress and keep. Then 
 perhaps one tries to put one's hand on what is 
 amiss ; sometimes one does too much, and in the 
 wrong way ; one has not enough faith, one dares 
 not leave enough to God. Or from timidity or 
 diffidence, or from the base desire not to be 
 troubled, from the poor hope that perhaps things 
 will straighten themselves out, one does too little; 
 and that is the worst shadow of all, the shadow of 
 cowardice or sloth. 
 
 Sometimes, too, one has the grief of seeing a 
 
 slow and subtle change passing over the manner 
 
 and face of one for whom one cares not the 
 
 change of languor or physical weakness ; that can 
 
 [34] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 be pityingly borne ; but one sees innocence with- 
 ering, indifference to things wholesome and fair 
 creeping on, even sometimes a ripe and evil sort 
 of beauty maturing, such as comes of looking at 
 evil unashamed, and seeing its strong seductive- 
 ness. One feels instinctively that the door which 
 had been open before between such a soul and 
 one's own spirit is being slowly and firmly 
 closed, or even, if one attempts to open it, pulled 
 to with a swift motion ; and then one may hear 
 sounds within, and even see, in that moment, a 
 rush of gliding forms, that makes one sure that 
 a visitant is there, who has brought with him a 
 wicked company; and then one has to wait in 
 sadness, with now and then a timid knocking, 
 even happy, it may be, if the soul sometimes calls 
 fretfully within, to say that it is occupied and can- 
 not come forth. 
 
 But sometimes, God be praised, it is the other 
 way. A year ago a man came at his own request 
 to see me. I hardly knew him ; but I could see 
 at once that he was in the grip of some hard 
 conflict, which withered his natural bloom. I do 
 not know how all came to be revealed ; but in a 
 little while he was speaking with simple frankness 
 and naturalness of all his troubles, and they were 
 many. What was the most touching thing of all 
 [35] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 was that he spoke as if he were quite alone in his 
 experience, isolated and shut off from his kind, in 
 a peculiar horror of darkness and doubt ; as if the 
 thoughts and difficulties at which he stumbled had 
 never strewn a human path before. I said but 
 little to him; and, indeed, there was but little to 
 say. It was enough that he should "cleanse the 
 stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs 
 upon the heart." I tried to make him feel that he 
 was not alone in the matter and that other feet 
 had trodden the dark path before him. No ad- 
 vice is possible in such cases; "therein the pa- 
 tient must minister to himself"; the solution lies 
 in the mind of the sufferer. He knows what he 
 ought to do ; the difficulty is for him sufficiently 
 to desire to do it; yet even to speak frankly of 
 cares and troubles is very often to melt and dis- 
 perse the morbid mist that gathers round them, 
 which grows in solitude. To state them makes 
 them plain and simple; and, indeed, it is more 
 than that ; for I have often noticed that the mere 
 act of formulating one's difficulties in the hearing 
 of one who sympathises and feels often brings 
 the solution with it. One finds, like Christian in 
 Doubting Castle, the key which has lain in one's 
 bosom all the time the key of Promise ; and 
 when one has finished the recital, one is lost in 
 [36] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 bewilderment that one ever was in any doubt 
 at all. 
 
 A year has passed since that date, and I have 
 had the happiness of seeing health and content- 
 ment stream back into the man's face. He has 
 not overcome, he has not won an easy triumph; 
 but he is in the way now, not wandering on 
 trackless hills. 
 
 So, in the mood of which I spoke at first the 
 mood in which one desires to build up and renew 
 one must not yield oneself to luxurious and 
 pathetic reveries, or allow oneself to muse and 
 wonder in the half-lit region in which one may 
 beat one's wings in vain the region, I mean, of 
 sad stupefaction as to why the world is so full 
 of broken dreams, shattered hopes, and unful- 
 filled possibilities. One must rather look round 
 for some little definite failure that is within the 
 circle of one's vision. And even so, there some- 
 times comes what is the most evil and subtle temp- 
 tation of all, which creeps upon the mind in lowly 
 guise, and preaches inaction. What concern 
 have you, says the tempting voice, to meddle 
 with the lives and characters of others to guide, 
 to direct, to help when there is so much that 
 is bitterly amiss with your own heart and life? 
 How will you dare to preach what you do not 
 [37] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 practise ? The answer of the brave heart is 
 that, if one is aware of failure, if one has suffered, 
 if one has gathered experience, one must be 
 ready to share it. If I falter and stumble under 
 my own heavy load, which I have borne so queru- 
 lously, so clumsily, shall I not say a word which 
 can help a fellow-sufferer to bear his load more 
 easily, help him to avoid the mistakes, the falls 
 into which my own perversity has betrayed me? 
 To make another's burden lighter is to lighten 
 one's own burden; and, sinful as it may be to 
 err, it is still more sinful to see another err, and 
 be silent, to withhold the word that might save 
 him. Perhaps no one can help so much as one 
 that has suffered himself, who knows the turns 
 of the sad road, and the trenches which beset 
 the way. 
 
 For this comes most truly the joy of repentance ; 
 it is joy to feel that one's own lesson is learnt, 
 and that the feeble feet are a little stronger; but 
 if one may also feel that another has taken heed, 
 has been saved the fall that must have come if 
 he had not been warned, one does not grudge 
 one's own pain, that has brought a blessing with 
 it, that is outside of one's own blessing; one 
 hardly even grudges the sin. 
 
 [38] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 AFTER DEATH 
 
 I HAD so strange a dream or vision the other 
 night, that I cannot refrain from setting it 
 down; because the strangeness and the wonder 
 of it seem to make it impossible for me to have 
 conceived of it myself ; it was suggested by noth- 
 ing, originated by nothing that I can trace; it 
 merely came to me out of the void. 
 
 After confused and troubled dreams of terror 
 and bewilderment, enacted in blind passages and 
 stifling glooms, with crowds of unknown figures 
 passing rapidly to and fro, I seemed to grow 
 suddenly light-hearted and joyful. I next ap- 
 peared to myself to be sitting or reclining on the 
 grassy top of a cliff, in bright sunlight. The 
 ground fell precipitously in front of me, and I 
 saw to left and right the sharp crags and horns 
 of the rock-face below me ; behind me was a wide 
 space of grassy down, with a fresh wind racing 
 over it. The sky was cloudless. Far below I 
 could see yellow sands, on which a blue sea broke 
 in crisp waves. To the left a river flowed through 
 a little hamlet, clustered round a church; I 
 looked down on the roofs of the small houses, and 
 [39] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 saw people passing to and fro, like ants. The 
 river spread itself out in shallow shining channels 
 over the sand, to join the sea. Further to the left 
 rose shadowy headland after headland, and to the 
 right lay a broad well- watered plain, full of trees 
 and villages, bounded by a range of blue hills. 
 On the sea moved ships, the wind filling their 
 sails, and the sun shining on them with a pe- 
 culiar brightness. The only sound in my ears 
 was that of the whisper of the wind in the grass 
 and stone crags. 
 
 But I soon became aware with a shock of 
 pleasant surprise that my perception of the whole 
 scene was of a different quality to any perception 
 I had before experienced. I have spoken of 
 seeing and hearing ; but I became aware that I 
 was doing neither; the perceptions, so to speak, 
 both of seeing and hearing were not distinct, but 
 the same. I was aware, for instance, at the same 
 moment, of the whole scene, both of what was 
 behind me and what was in front of me. I have 
 described what I saw successively, because there 
 is no other way of describing it ; but it was all 
 present at once in my mind, and I had no need 
 to turn my attention to one point or another, but 
 everything was there before me, in a unity at 
 which I cannot even hint in words. I then be- 
 [40] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 came aware too, that, though I have spoken of 
 myself as seated or reclined, I had no body, but 
 was merely, as it were, a sentient point. In a 
 moment I became aware that to transfer that 
 sentience to another point was merely an act of 
 will. I was able to test this; in an instant I was 
 close above the village, which a moment before 
 was far below me, and I perceived the houses, 
 the very faces of the people close at hand; at 
 another moment I was buried deep in the cliff, 
 and felt the rock with its fissures all about me; 
 at another moment, following my wish, I was 
 beneath the sea, and saw the untrodden sands 
 about me, with the blue sunlit water over my 
 head. I saw the fish dart and poise above me, 
 the ribbons of sea-weed floating up, just swayed 
 by the currents, shells crawling like great snails 
 on the ooze, crabs hurrying about among piles of 
 boulders. But something drew me back to my 
 first station, I know not why ; and there I poised, 
 as a bird might have poised, and lost myself in a 
 blissful dream. Then it darted into my mind 
 that I was what I had been accustomed to call 
 dead. So this was what lay on the other side of 
 the dark passage, this lightness, this perfect free- 
 dom, this undreamed-of peace ! I had not a 
 single care or anxiety. It seemed as if nothing 
 [41] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 could trouble my repose and happiness. I could 
 only think with a deep compassion of those who 
 were still pent in uneasy bodies, under strait and 
 sad conditions, anxious, sad, troubled, and blind, 
 not knowing that the shadow of death which en- 
 compassed them was but the cloud which veiled 
 the gate of perfect and unutterable happiness. 
 
 I felt rising in my mind a sense of all that lay 
 before me, of all the mysteries that I would pene- 
 trate, all the unvisited places that I would see. 
 But at present I was too full of peace and quiet 
 happiness to do anything but stay in an infinite 
 content where I was. All sense of ennui or rest- 
 lessness had left me. I was utterly free, utterly 
 blest. I did, indeed, once send my thought to 
 the home which I loved, and saw a darkened 
 house, and my dear ones moving about with grief 
 written legibly on their faces. I saw my mother 
 sitting looking at some letters which I perceived 
 to be my own, and was aware that she wept. 
 But I could not even bring myself to grieve at 
 that, because I knew that the same peace and joy 
 that filled me was also surely awaiting them, and 
 the darkest passage, the sharpest human suffer- 
 ing, seemed so utterly little and trifling in the 
 light of my new knowledge ; and I was soon back 
 on my cliff- top again, content to wait, to rest, to 
 [42] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 luxuriate in a happiness which seemed to have 
 nothing selfish about it, because the satisfaction 
 was so perfectly pure and natural. 
 
 While I thus waited I became aware, with the 
 same sort of sudden perception, of a presence 
 beside me. It had no outward form; but I 
 knew that it was a spirit full of love and kind- 
 ness: it seemed to me to be old; it was not 
 divine, for it brought no awe with it; and yet 
 it was not quite human; it was a spirit that 
 seemed to me to have been human, but to have 
 risen into a higher sphere of perception. I simply 
 felt a sense of deep and pure companionship. And 
 presently I became aware that some communica- 
 tion was passing between my consciousness and 
 the consciousness of the newly-arrived spirit. It 
 did not take place in words, but in thought; 
 though only by words can I now represent it. 
 
 "Yes," said the other, "you do well to rest 
 and to be happy: is it not a wonderful ex- 
 perience? and yet you have been through it 
 many times already, and will pass through 
 it many times again." 
 
 I suppose that I did not wholly understand 
 this, for I said: "I do not grasp that thought, 
 though I am certain it is true ; have I then died 
 before?" 
 
 [43] 
 
U ntil the Evening 
 
 "Yes," said the other; "many times. It is a 
 long progress; you will remember soon, when 
 you have had time to reflect, and when the sweet 
 novelty of the change has become more custom- 
 ary. You have but returned to us again for a 
 little; one needs that, you know, at first; one 
 needs some refreshment and repose after each 
 one of our lives, to be renewed, to be strength- 
 ened for what comes after." 
 
 All at once I understood. I knew that my last 
 life had been one of many lives lived at all sorts 
 of times and dates, and under various conditions ; 
 that at the end of each I had returned to this 
 joyful freedom. 
 
 It was the first cloud that passed over my 
 thought. "Must I return again to life?" I 
 said. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the other; "you see that; you 
 will soon return again but never mind that 
 now ; you are here to drink your fill of the beau- 
 tiful things which you will only remember by 
 glimpses and visions when you are back in the 
 little life again." 
 
 And then I had a sudden intuition. I seemed 
 
 to be suddenly in a small and ugly street of a dark 
 
 town. I saw slatternly women run in and out of 
 
 the houses; I saw smoke-stained grimy children 
 
 [44] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 playing in the gutter. Above the poor, ill-kept 
 houses a factory poured its black smoke into the 
 air, and hummed behind its shuttered windows. 
 I knew in a sad flash of thought that I was to be 
 born there, to be brought up as a wailing child, 
 under sad and sordid conditions, to struggle into 
 a life of hard and hopeless labour, in the midst of 
 vice, and poverty, and drunkenness, and hard 
 usage. It filled me for a moment with a sort of 
 nauseous dread, remembering the free and liberal 
 conditions of my last life, the wealth and comfort 
 I had enjoyed. 
 
 "No," said the other; for in a moment I was 
 back again, "that is an unworthy thought it is 
 but for a moment; and you will return to this 
 peace again." 
 
 But the sad thought came down upon me like 
 a cloud. "Is there no escape?" I said; and at 
 that, in a moment, the other spirit seemed to chide 
 me, not angrily, but patiently and compassion- 
 ately. "One suffers," he said, "but one gains ex- 
 perience; one rises," adding more gently: "We 
 do not know why it must be, of course but it 
 is the Will ; and however much one may doubt 
 and suffer in the dark world there, one does 
 not doubt of the wisdom or the love of it here." 
 And I knew in a moment that I did not doubt, 
 [45] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 but that I would go willingly wherever I should 
 be sent. 
 
 And then my thought became concerned with 
 the spirit that spoke with me, and I said, "And 
 what is your place and work ? for I think you are 
 like me and yet unlike." And he said : " Yes, it is 
 true; I have to return thither no more; that is 
 finished for me, and I grudge no single step of the 
 dark road : I cannot explain to you what my work 
 or place is; but I am old, and have seen many 
 things; each of us has to return and return, not 
 indeed till we are made perfect, but till we have 
 finished that part of our course ; but the blessed- 
 ness of this peace grows and grows, while it be- 
 comes easier to bear what happens in that other 
 place, for we grow strong and simple and sincere, 
 and then the world can hurt us but little. We 
 learn that we must not judge men ; but we know 
 that when we see them cruel and vicious and 
 selfish, they are then but children learning their 
 first lessons; and on each of our visits to this 
 place we see that the evil matters less and less, 
 and the hope becomes brighter and brighter ; till 
 at last we see." And I then seemed to turn to 
 him in thought, for he said with a grave joy: 
 "Yes, I have seen." And presently I was left 
 alone to my happiness. 
 
 146] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 How long it lasted I cannot tell ; but presently 
 I seemed less free, less light of heart ; and soon I 
 knew that I was bound ; and after a space I woke 
 into the world again, and took up my burden of 
 cares. 
 
 But for all that I have a sense of hopefulness 
 /eft which I think will not quite desert me. From 
 what dim cell of the brain my vision rose, I know 
 not, but though it came to me in so precise and 
 clear a form, yet I cannot help feeling that some- 
 thing deep and true has been revealed to me, 
 some glimpse of pure heaven and bright air, 
 that lies outside our little fretted lives. 
 
 [47] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 THE ETERNAL WILL 
 
 I HAVE spoken above, I know well, of things 
 in which I have no skill to speak; I know 
 no philosophy or metaphysics; to look into a 
 philosophical book is to me like looking into a 
 room piled up with bricks, the pure materials of 
 thought ; they have no meaning for me, until the 
 beautiful mind of some literary architect has built 
 them into a house of life; but just as a shallow 
 pool can reflect the dark and infinite spaces of 
 night, pierced with stars, so in my own shallow 
 mind these perennial difficulties, which lie behind 
 all that we do and say, can be for a moment 
 mirrored. 
 
 The only value that such thoughts can have in 
 life is that they should teach us to live in a frank 
 and sincere mood, waiting patiently for the Lord, 
 as the old Psalmist said. My own philosophy 
 is a very simple one, and, if I could only be 
 truer to it, it would bring me the strength which 
 I lack. It is this: that being what we are, 
 such frail, mysterious, inexplicable beings, we 
 should wait humbly and hopefully upon God, 
 not attempting, nor even wishing, to make up 
 [48] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 our minds upon these deep secrets, only de- 
 termined that we will be true to the inner light, 
 and that we will not accept any solution which 
 depends for its success upon neglecting or over- 
 looking any of the phenomena with which we 
 are confronted. We find ourselves placed in 
 the world, in definite relations with certain people, 
 endowed with certain qualities, with faults and 
 fears, with hopes and joys, with likes and dislikes. 
 Evil haunts us like a shadow, and though it 
 menaces our happiness, we fall again and again 
 under its dominion ; in the depths of our spirit a 
 voice speaks, which assures us again and again 
 that truth and purity and love are the best and 
 dearest things that we can desire; and that 
 voice, however imperfectly, I try to obey, because 
 it seems the strongest and clearest of all the 
 voices that call to me. I try to regard all ex- 
 perience, whether sweet or bitter, fair or foul, 
 as sent me by the great and awful power that 
 put me where I am. The strongest and best 
 things in the world seem to me to be peace and 
 tranquillity, and the same hidden power seems 
 to be leading me thither; and to lead me all 
 the faster whenever I try not to fret, not to 
 grieve, not to despair. "Casting all your care 
 upon him, for he careth for you" says the Divine 
 4 [ 49 ] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 Word ; and the more that I follow intuition rather 
 than reason, the nearer I seem to come to the 
 truth. I have lately wasted much fruitless 
 thought over an anxious decision, weighing 
 motives, forecasting possibilities. I knew at the 
 time how useless it all was, and that my course 
 would be made clear at the right moment; 
 and I will tell the story of how it was made 
 clear, as testimony to the perfect guidance of 
 the divine hand. I was taking a journey, and 
 the weary process was going on in my mind; 
 every possible argument for and against the 
 step was being reviewed and tested ; I could not 
 read, I could not even look abroad upon the 
 world. The train drew up at a dull suburban 
 station, where our tickets were collected. The 
 signal was given, and we started. It was at this 
 moment that the conviction came, and I saw how 
 I must act, with a certainty which I could not 
 gainsay or resist. My reason had anticipated 
 the opposite decision, but I had no longer any 
 doubt or hesitation. The only question was 
 how and when to announce the result; but 
 when I returned home the same evening there 
 was the letter waiting for me which gave the 
 very opportunity I desired; and I have since 
 learnt without surprise that the letter was being 
 [50] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 penned at the very moment when the conviction 
 came to me. 
 
 I have told this experience in detail, because 
 it seems to me to be a very perfect example of 
 the suddenness with which conviction comes. 
 But neither do I grudge the anxious reveries 
 which for many days had preceded that convic- 
 tion, because through them I learnt something of 
 the inner weakness of my nature. But the true 
 secret of it all is that we ought to live as far as 
 we can in the day, the hour, the minute; to 
 waste no time in anxious forecasting and miser- 
 able regrets, but just do what lies before us as 
 faithfully as possible. Gradually, too, one learns 
 that the restricting of what is called religion to 
 certain times of prayer and definite solemnities 
 is the most pitiful of all mistakes; life lived 
 with the intuition that I have indicated is all 
 religion. The most trivial incident has to be 
 interpreted; every word and deed and thought 
 becomes full of a deep significance. One has 
 no longer any anxious sense of duty; one de- 
 sires no longer either to impress or influence; 
 one aims only at guarding the quality of all 
 one does or says or rather the very word 
 "aims" is a wrong one; there is no longer any 
 aim or effort, except the effort to feel which way 
 [51] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 the gentle guiding hand would have us to go ; the 
 only sorrow that is possible is when we rather 
 perversely follow our own will and pleasure. 
 
 The reason why I desire this book to say its 
 few words to my brothers and sisters of this life, 
 without any intrusion of personality, is that I am 
 so sure of the truth of what I say, that I would 
 not have any one distracted from the principles 
 I have tried to put into words, by being able to 
 compare it with my own weak practice. I am 
 so far from having attained ; I have, I know, so 
 many weary leagues to traverse yet, that I would 
 not have my faithless and perverse wanderings 
 known. But the secret waits for all who can 
 throw aside convention and insincerity, who can 
 make the sacrifice with a humble heart, and throw 
 themselves utterly and fearlessly into the hands 
 of God. Societies, organisations, ceremonies, 
 forms, authority, dogma they are all outside ; 
 silently and secretly, in the solitude of one's 
 heart, must the lonely path be found; but the 
 slender track once beneath our feet, all the com- 
 plicated relations of the world become clear and 
 simple. We have no need to change our path in 
 life, to seek for any human guide, to desire new 
 conditions, because we have the one Guide close 
 to us, closer than friend or brother or lover, and 
 [52] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 we know that we are set where he would have us 
 to be. Such a belief destroys in a flash all our 
 embarrassment in dealing with others, all our 
 anxieties in dealing with ourselves. In dealing 
 with ourselves we shall only desire to be faithful, 
 fearless and sincere; in dealing with others we 
 shall try to be patient, tender, appreciative, and 
 hopeful. If we have to blame, we shall blame 
 without bitterness, without the outraged sense of 
 personal vanity that brings anger with it. If we 
 can praise, we shall praise with generous prodi- 
 gality ; we shall not think of ourselves as a centre 
 of influence, as radiating example and precept; 
 but we shall know our own failures and difficul- 
 ties, and shall realise as strongly that others are 
 led likewise, and that each is the Father's pecu- 
 liar care, as we realise it about ourselves. There 
 will be no thrusting of ourselves to the front, nor 
 an uneasy lingering upon the outskirts of the 
 crowd, because we shall know that our place and 
 our course are defined. We may crave for happi- 
 ness, but we shall not resent sorrow. The dreari- 
 est and saddest day becomes the inevitable, the 
 true setting for our soul; we must drink the 
 draught, and not fear to taste its bitterest savour ; 
 it is the Father's cup. That a Christian, in such 
 a mood, can concern himself with what is called 
 [53] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 the historical basis of the Gospels, is a thought 
 which can only be met by a smile; for there 
 stands the record of perhaps the only life ever 
 lived upon earth that conformed itself, at every 
 moment, in the darkest experiences that life 
 could bring, entirely and utterly to the Divine 
 Will. One who walks in the light that I have 
 spoken of is as inevitably a Christian as he is a 
 human being, and is as true to the spirit of Christ 
 as he is indifferent to the human accretions that 
 have gathered round the august message. 
 
 The possession of such a secret involves no 
 retirement from the world, no breaking of ties, no 
 ecclesiastical exercises, no endeavour to penetrate 
 obscure ideas. It is as simple as the sunlight 
 and the air. It involves no protest, no phrase, no 
 renunciation. Its protest will be an unconcerned 
 example, its phrase will be a perfect sincerity of 
 speech, its renunciation will be what it does, not 
 what it abstains from doing. It will go or stay 
 as the inner voice bids it. It will not attempt 
 the impossible nor the novel. Very clearly, from 
 hour to hour, the path will be made plain, the 
 weakness fortified, the sin purged away. It will 
 judge no other life, it will seek no goal ; it will 
 sometimes strive and cry, it will sometimes rest; 
 it will move as gently and simply in unison with 
 [54] 
 
Until tUe Evening 
 
 the one supreme will, as the tide moves beneath 
 the moon, piled in the central deep with all its 
 noises, flooding the mud-stained waterway, where 
 the ships ride together, or creeping softly upon 
 the pale sands of some sequestered bay. 
 
 [55] 
 
U ntil the Evening 
 
 UNTIL THE EVENING 
 
 1STOP sometimes on a landing in an old house, 
 where I often stay, to look at a dusky, faded 
 water-colour that hangs upon the wall. I do not 
 think its technical merit is great, but it somehow 
 has the poetical quality. It represents, or seems 
 to represent, a piece of high open ground, down- 
 land or heath, with a few low bushes growing 
 there, sprawling and wind-brushed; a road 
 crosses the fore-ground, and dips over to the plain 
 beyond, a forest tract full of dark woodland, 
 dappled by open spaces. There is a long faint 
 distant line of hills on the horizon. The time ap- 
 pears to be just after sunset, when the sky is still 
 full of a pale liquid light, before objects have lost 
 their colour, but are just beginning to be tinged 
 with dusk. In the road stands the figure of a 
 man, with his back turned, his hand shading 
 his eyes as he gazes out across the plain. He 
 appears to be a wayfarer, and to be weary but 
 not dispirited. There is a look of serene and 
 sober content about him, how communicated I 
 know not. He would seem to have far to go, 
 [56] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 but yet to be certainly drawing nearer to his 
 home, which indeed he seems to discern afar off. 
 The picture bears the simple legend, Until the 
 Evening. 
 
 This design seems always to be charged for 
 me with a beautiful and grave meaning. Just so 
 would I draw near to the end of my pilgrimage, 
 wearied but tranquil, assured of rest and welcome. 
 The freshness and blithe eagerness of the morning 
 are over, the solid hours of sturdy progress are 
 gone, the heat of the day is past, and only the 
 gentle descent among the shadows remains, with 
 cool airs blowing from darkling thickets, laden 
 with woodland scents, and the rich fragrance of 
 rushy dingles. Ere the night falls the wayfarer 
 will push the familiar gate open, and see the lamp- 
 lit windows of home, with the dark chimneys and 
 gables outlined against the green sky. Those 
 that love him are awaiting him, listening for the 
 footfall to draw near. 
 
 Is it not possible to attain this ? And yet how 
 often does it seem to be the fate of a human soul 
 to stumble, like one chased and hunted, with 
 dazed and terrified air, and hurried piteous 
 phrase, down the darkening track. Yet one 
 should rather approach God, bearing in careful 
 hands the priceless and precious gift of life, 
 [57] 
 
Until the Evening 
 
 ready to restore it if it be his will. God grant 
 us so to live, in courage and trust, that, when he 
 calls us we may pass willingly and with a quiet 
 confidence to the gate that opens into tracts 
 unknown ! 
 
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