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Just Enough Programming Logic and Design 2nd Edition
Joyce Farrell Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Joyce Farrell
ISBN(s): 9781111825959, 1111825955
Edition: 2nd
File Details: PDF, 17.77 MB
Year: 2013
Language: english
 )

SECOND EDITION
 JUST ENOUGH PROGRAMMING
LOGIC AND DESIGN

< )

JOYCE FARRELL

;· COURSE TECHNOLOGY
I CENGAGE Learning

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 ,.. COURSE TECHNOLOGY
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 Brief Contents
m

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
CHAPTER 1 An Overview of Computers and Logi c .1
CHAPTER 2 Understanding Structure 31
CHAPTER 3 Making Decisions 65
CHAPTER 4 Looping . . . . • • • • . . 109
CHAPTER 5 Arrays 143
CHAPTER 6 Using Method s 173
CHAPTER 7 Object-Oriented Programming 205
< APPENDIX A Understanding Numbering Systems and >
Computer Codes . . . . . . . . . . 225
APPENDIX B Two Special Structures-case and
do - while . . . . . . . . . . • • . 231
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237

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 Contents
iv

Prefac e . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
CHAPTER 1 An Overview of Computers and Logic .1
Understanding Computer Components and Operations .2
Understanding the Programming Process . .5
Understanding the Problem .6
Planning the Logic . . . . . . . . . . .7
Coding the Program . . . . . . . . . .8
Using Software to Translate the Program into Machine Language .8
Tes ting the Program . . . . . . . .9
Putting the Program into Production . . . . . . . 10
Maintaining the Program . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Using Pseudocode Statements and Flowchart Symbols 11
The Advantages of Repetition . . . . . 13
< Using and Naming Variables and Constants 15
>
Assigning Values to Va!l'iables . . . . . 17
Performing Arithmetic Operations . . . 18
Understanding Data Types and Declaring Variables . 19
Ending a Program by Using Sentinel Values . . . . 21
Understanding the Evolution of Programming Techniques 23
Review Questions 24
Find the Bugs . 26
Exercises . . . 27

CHAPTER 2 Understa nding Structure . . . . . . 31

Understanding Unstructured Spaghetti Code . . . 32
Understanding the Three Basic Structures: Sequence,
Selection, and Loop . . 34
The Sequence Structure 34
The Selection Structure 35
The Loop Structure . 36
Combining Structures . 36
Using the Priming Input 43
Understanding the Reasons for Structure . 49

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 Recognizing Structure and Structuring Unstructured Logic 50
Structuring the Dog-Washing Process 54
Review Questions 58
Find the Bugs . 60
Exercises . . . 60
v
CHAPTER 3 Making Decisions . 65
Evaluating Boolean Expressions to Make Comparisons 66
Using the Relational Comparison Operators . 70
Understanding AND Logic . . . . . . . . . 73
Nesting AND Decisions for Efficiency . . . . 75
Combining Decisions Using the AND Operator 78
Avoiding Common Errors in an AND Selection 80
Understanding OR Logic . . . . . . . . 82
Writing OR Decisions for Efficiency . . . . . 84
Combining Decisions in an OR Selection . . 85
Avoiding Common Errors in an OR Selection 87
Making Selections Within Ranges . . . . . . 91
Avoiding Common Errors When Using Range Checks 93
Understanding Precedence When Combining AND and OR Operators 97
Using the NOT Operator 99
Review Questions .100
Find the Bugs . . 103
Exercises . . . . .103

CHAPTER 4 Looping 109

Understanding the Advantages of Looping . . . . .110
Controlling Loops with Counters and Sentinel Values .110
Using a Definite whi 1e Loop with a Counter . . . 111
Using an Indefinite whi 1e Loop with a Sentinel Value . . 113
Nested Loops . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .117
Mixing Constant and Variable Sentinel Values . . . . . 119
Avoiding Common Loop Mistakes . . . . . . . . . . .123
Mistake: Neglecting to Initialize the Loop Control Variable .123
Mistake: Neglecting to Alter the Loop Control Variable . . 125
Mistake: Using the Wrong Comparison with the Loop Control
Variable . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .127
Mistake: Including Statements Inside the Loop that Belong
Outside the Loop . 127
Using a for Loop . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .129

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 -

,CONTENT:S

Common Loop Applications . . . . . .131

Using a Loop to Accumulate Totals .131
Using a Loop to Validate Data . . 133
Review Questions .136
find the Bugs . . 139
vi Exercises .139

CHAPTER 5 Arrays . . . . . 1 ~

Understanding Arrays . . . . . . . . . . .144

How Arrays Occupy Computer Memory . . . . . .1 44
Manipulating an Array to Replace Nested Decisions .146
Using Constants with Arrays . . . . . 154
Searching an Array Using a whi 1 e Loop .155
Using Parallel Arrays . . . . . .158
Improving Search Efficiency . . . . . 162
Remaining Within Array Bounds . . . .164
Using a for Loop to Process Arrays . .165
Review Questions .166
Ftnd the Bugs . . 168
Exercises . . . .169
< )
CHAPTER 6 Using Methods . . • • . . . . . .
Understanding Modularity . . . . . . . . . . .174
Modularization Provides Abstraction . . . . . . 174
Modularization Reduces or Eliminates Repetition . . 175
Modularization Allows Multiple Programmers to Work
on a Problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176
Modularization Makes It Easier to Reuse Work . . 176
Modularization Provides Implementation Hiding .177
Creating a Method . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .177
Modularizing Program Logic . . . . . . . . . 178
Modularizing a Program for Functional Cohesion and Portability . 183
Understanding Scope . . . . . . . . . . . . . .186
Creating Methods That Require a Single Parameter .189
Creating Methods That Require Multiple Parameters .192
Creating Methods That Return Values .193
Using Prewritten Built-In Methods .198
Review Questions .199
f and the Bugs . . 202
Exercises . . . .202

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 CHAPTER 7 Object-Oriented Programming . . . . . . . 205
An Overview of Some Principles of Object-Oriented Programming . .206
Defining a Class . . . . . . . . . . . .208
Instantiating an Object . . . . . . . . .209
Understanding Public and Private Access .211 vii
Understanding Inheritance . .21 4
Understanding Polymorphism . . . . . .215
Understanding Encapsulation . . . . . .217
Advantages of Obiect-Oriented Programming .219
Review Questions .220
Find the Bugs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222
Exercises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .222

APPENDIX A Understanding Numbering Systems and

Com puter Codes . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225

APPENDIX B Two Special Stru ctures-case and

do - wh i 1 e . . . . . . . . . . . 231

Index . . . . . . . . • • . . . . . 237
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 Preface
ix

Just Enough Programming Logic and Design, Second Edition, is a guide to developing
structured program logic for the beginning ptrogrammer. This book contains only seven
chapters and two appendices- just enough to make the student comfortable with
programming logic before tackling the syntax of a programming language. This book is
intended to provide a complete, sound, yet compact start in logic- just enough for a short
logic course, just enough as an accompaniment to a programming language book. or just
enough as a supplement to a computer literacy course.
This textbook assumes no programming language experience. The writing is nontechnical
and emphasizes good programming practices. The examples are business examples; they do
not assume a mathematical background beyond high school business math. All the examples
illustrate one or two major points; they do not contain so many features that students become
lost following irrelevant and extraneous details. This book does not cover advanced logical
concepts such as file handling, multidimensio,naJ arrays, or overloading methods. This book
provides just enough material for a solid background in logic. no matter what programming
< languages students eventually use to write programs. >

Organization and Coverage

Just Enough Programming Logic and Design, 2e introduces students to programming
concepts and enforces good style and logical thinking. General programming concepts are
introduced in Chapter 1. Chapter 2 discusses the key concepts of structure, including what
stru.c ture is, how to recognize it, and most importantly, the advantages to writing structured
programs. Chapters 3, 4, 5, and 6 cover selections, loops, arrays, and methods. Chapter 7
is a straightforward introduction to the concepts of object-oriented programming. Two
appendices allow students to gain extra experience with using the binary numbering system
and understanding case and do-whi 1e structures.
Just Enough Programming Logic and Design, 2e combines text explanations with flowcharts
and pseudocode examples to provide students with alternative means of expressing
structured logic. Multiple-choice review questions, debugging exercises, and numerous
detailed, full~program exercises at the end of each chapter reinforce understanding and
retention of the material presented.

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understand the big picture in program development through a variety of
key features. In addition to chapter Objectives, Summaries, and Key Terms,
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EXERCISES provide opportunities to
practice concepts. These exercises
increase in difficulty and allow students
to explore logical programming
concepts. Each exercise can
be completed using flowcharts,
pseudocode, or both. In addition,
instructors can assign the exercises as
programming problems to be coded and
executed in a particular •g
language.

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 Instructor Resources

Supplementary Material
Just Enough Programming Logic and Design. 2e can be enhanced by the following materials:
• Video . The author has created and narrated 25 short videos that explain and clarify
key chapter topics. These videos are available for complimentary download at
www.cengagebrain.com. xiii

• £..book Companions. Just Enough Visual Basic and Just Enough Java are e--book
companions to Just Enough Programming Logic and Design. Each book introduces
students to the basics of the respective programming language-just enough to get started
writing programs that help demonstrate the logical concepts of programming. Each
book's chapters parallel those in Just Enough Programming Logic and Design. These
books provide complete, sound, yet compact foundations to using modern programming
languages.
• Debugging Exercises. Because examining programs critically and closely is a crucial
programming skill, each chapter includes a Find the Bugs section in which programming
examples contain syntax errors and logical errors for students to find and correct.
Debugging Exercises are available for students to download at www.cengagebrain.com.
These 6Jes are also available to instructors through the Lnstructor Resources CD and
login.cengage.com.
• Visual Logic•, version 2.0. Visual Logic is a simple but powerful tool for teaching
< programming logic and design without traditional high-level programming language )
syntax. Visual Logic uses flowcharts to explain the essential programming concepts
discussed in this book, including variables, input, assignment, output, conditions. loops.
procedures, graphics, arrays. and files. Visual Logic also interprets and executes
flowcharts, providing students with immediate and accurate feedback. Visual Logic
combines the power of a high-level language with the ease and simplicity of flowcharts.
Visual Logic is available for purchase along with your text. Contact your instructor or
your Cengage Learning sales representative for more information.

Instructor Resources
The following teaching tools are available to the instructor on a single CD-ROM. Many are
also available for download at our Instructor Companion Site. Simply search for this text at
login.cengage.com. An instructor login is required.
• Electronic Instructor's Manual. The Instructor's Manual follows the text chapter by
chapter to assist in planning and organizing an effective, engaging course. The manual
includes Overviews, Chapter Objectives, Teaching Tips, Quick Quizzes, Class Discussion
Topics, Additional Projects, Additional Resources, and Key Terms. A sample syllabus is
also available.
• PowerPolnt Presentations. This text provides PowerPoint slides to accompany each
chapter. Slides may be used to guide classroom presentations. to make available to
students for chapter review, or to print as classroom handouts. Files are provided for every

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 Acknowledgments

figure in the text instructors may use the files to customize PowerPoint slides, illustrate
quizzes, or create handouts.
• Solutions. Suggested solutions to r eview questions and exercises are available.
• ExamView. This textbook is accompanied by Exam View, a powerful testing software
xiv package that allows instructors to create and administer printed, LAN-based, and Internet
exams. Exam View includes hundreds of questions that correspond to the text, enabling
students to generate detailed study guides that include page references for further review.
The computer-based and Internet testing components allow students to take exams at
their computers, and save the instructor ti.me by grading each exam automatically. These
test banks are also available in Blackboard, Web CT, and Angel compatible formats.

Acknowledgments
I would like to thank all of the people who contributed to the production of this book. Dan
Seiter served as Development Editor, making suggestions and corrections that make this book
a superior product T hanks also to Alyssa Pratt, Senior Product Manager; Brandi Shailer,
Acquisitions Editor; and Green Pen QA. Technical Editors.
l thank the reviewers who provided helpful and insightful comments during the development
of this book, including Tom Johnson, California State University Long Beach; and Charlene
Seymour-Lane, Brown Mackie College. As always, thanks to my husband, Geoff, for his
< constant support. FinaJJy, this book is dedicated to Xander Nakos. )

- Joyce Fan-ell

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 An Overview of
Computers and Logic

After completing this chapter, you will be able to:

@) Explain computer components and operations

® Discuss the steps invotved in the programming process
< )
@) Use pseudocode statements and flowchart symbols
@> Use and name variables and constants
@) Explain data types and declare variables
@) End a program by using sentinel values
@) Discuss the evolution of programming techniques

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 An Overview of Computers and Logic

Understanding Computer Components and Operations

Hardware and software are the two major components of any computer system.
• Hardware is the equipment, or the devices, associated with a computer.
2 • Software is computer instructions; software tells the hardware what to do.
Software is pro1rams, which are instruction sets written by programmers. You can buy
prewritten programs (such as Microsoft Word, iTunes, or The Sims) that are stored on a
disk or that you download from the Web. Alternatively, you can write your own programs.
When you write software instructions, you are programmina,.
Software can be classified into two broad types:
• ApplJcation software comprises all the programs you apply to a task- word-processing
programs, spreadsheets, payroll and inventory programs, and even games.
• System software comprises the programs you use to manage your computer, including
operating systems such as Windows, Linux, or UNLX.
This book focuses on the logic used to write application software programs, although many
of the concepts apply to both types of software.
Together, computer hardware and software accomplish three major operations:
• Input- Hardware devices that perform input operations include keyboards and mice.
< Through these devices, data, or facts, enter the computer system. >
• Processin&-Processing data items may involve organizing them, checking them for
accuracy, or performing mathematical operations on them. The hardware component
that performs these types of tasks is the ~ntral processln1 unit or CPU.
• Output- After data items have been processed, they become Information. Information
often is sent to a printer, monitor, or some other output device so people can view,
interpret, and use the results. Sometimes, you store output on hardware, such as a
disk or Oash media that holds information for later retrieval as input for another
program.
You write software instructions in a computer programmin& lan1ua1e, such as Visual
Basic, C#, C++, or Java. Just as some people speak English and others speak Japanese,
programmers write programs in differenl languages. Some programmers work exclusively
in one language, whereas others know severaJ and use the one that seems most appropriate
for the task at hand.
The instructions you write are called program code; when you write a program, you are
codln& the program. Program code is also called source code.
No matter which programming language a computer programmer uses, the language has
rules governing its word usage and punctuation. These rules are the syntax of the language.
lf you ask. •How the geet too store do I?" in English, most people can figure out what you
probably mean, even though you have not used proper English syntax-you have mixed up
the word order, misspelled a word, and used a wrong word. However, computers are not

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 Understanding Computer Components and Operations

nearly as smart as most people; with a compllter, you might as well have asked, "Xpu mxv
ot dodnm cad.I B?" Unless the syntax is perfect, the computer cannot interpret the
programming language instruction at all.
Every computer operates on circuitry that consists of millions of on/off switches. Each
programming language uses a piece of software to translate programming language 3
statements into object code, which is the computer's on/off circuitry language, or machine
language. Machine language is represented as a series of Os and ls, also called binary form.
The language translation software that converts a programmer's statements to binary
form is called a compiler or interpreter, and it issues a message if you have made a syntax
error- that is, if you have misspelled a programming language word or used incorrect
punctuation. Therefore, syntax errors are relatively easy to locate and cor.r ect because
your compiler or interpreter highlights them. and your program will not run until all
such errors are corrected.

Although compilers and lnterp<eters work in slightly different ways. their basic function ls the same-to
translate your programming statements into code the computer can use. The use of a compiler or an
interpreter depends on which programming language is used. However, there are some languages for
which both compilers and interpreters are available.

When a program's instructions are carried out, the program runs or executes. A program
that Is free of syntax errors can be executed, but it might not produce correct results.
for a program to work properly, you must give the instructions to the computer in a
< specific sequence, you must not leave any instructions out, and you must not add >
extraneous instructions. By doing this, you are developing the logic of the computer
program.
Suppose you instruct someone to make a cake as follows:
• Stir
• Add two eggs
Don'tDo It
• Add a gallon of gasoline - 4 - - - - Oorl't bake a cake
lite this!
• Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes
• Add three cups of flour
The dangerous cake-baking instructions are shown with a warning icon. You will see this
icon when a table or figure contains a piogramming practice thal is being used as an ex.ample
of what not to do.
Even though the cake-baking instructions use correct English spelling and grammar, the
instructions are out of sequence, some are missing. and some instructions belong to
procedures other than baking a cake. (Some programmers make a distinction between syntax
errors, which stem from incorrect spelling and punctuation, and semantic errors, which
occur when the grammar is correct but the statement makes no sense in the current context.}
If you follow these instructions, you will not make an edible cake, and you may end up with
a disaster. Such logical errors are much more difficult to locate than syntax errors. The cake
recipe is an extreme example, but suppose the error was more subtle. For ex.ample, the

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 M Overview of Computers and Logic

correct recipe might require three eggs instead of two, or might require a teaspoon of
vanilla. It is easy to determine whether eggs is spelled incorrectly in a recipe, but perhaps
impossible for you to know if there are too few eggs until after the cake is baked and you
taste it. Similarly, it is easy for a compiler or interpreter to locate syntax errors. but often
impossible for it to locate logical errors until the program executes.
4
Just as baking directions can be provided in French, German, or Spanish, the logic of a
program can be expressed in any number of programming languages. This book focuses
almost exclusively on logic development. Because this book is not concerned with a specific
language, the programming examples could have been written in Japanese, C++, or Java.
The logic is the same in any language. For convenience, the book uses English!
Once instructions have been input to the computer and translated into machine language,
a program can execute. You can write a program that takes a number (an input step), doubles
it (processing), and tells you the answer (output) in a programming language such as Java
or C++, but if you wrote it using English-like statements, it would look like this:
Input ori gi na1Number.
Compute calculatedAnswer = originalNumber times 2.
Output calculatedAnswer.
The instruction to Input ori gi nal Number is an example of an input operation. When the
computer interprets this instruction, it knows to look to an input device to obtain a number
and store it at a memory location named ori gi na l Number. Computers often have several
< input devices, including a keyboard, mouse, USB port, and CD drive. When you learn a
specific programming language, you learn how to tell the computer which input device to
>
access for input for the current program. Usually, without special instructions to the contrary,
the default input device is the keyboard. Logically, however, it doesn't matter which hardware
device is used, as long as the computer knows to look for a number. The logic of the input
operation-that the computer must obtain a number for input, and must do so before
multiplying the number by 2-remains the same regardless of the input hardware device.
The same is true in your daily life. If your boss says, ~Get Joe Parker's phone number for me,"
it does not matter how you find the number. For example, you might look it up in a phone
book. on your cell phone, on the internet, or call a friend who knows the number.
The step that occurs when the arithmetic is performed to double original Number is an
example of a processing step. Mathematical operations are not the only kind of processing,
but they are very typical. After you write a program, it can be used on computers of different
brand names, sizes, and speeds. When you make a phone call, your message gets through
whether you use a land line or a cell phone, and it doesn't matter which company made your
cell phone. Similarly, whether you use an IBM, Macintosh, Linux, or UNIX operating system,
and whether you use a laptop computer or an expensive mainframe at your university,
multiplying by 2 is the same process. The hardware is not important; the logical process is.
ln the number-doubling program, the Output calculatedAnswer statement represents an
output operation. Within a particular program, this statement could cause the output to
appear on the monitor (which might be a flat panel screen or a cathode-ray tube), or the
output could go to a printer (which could be laser or ink-jet), or the output could be written

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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 11
Thus rudely awakened to the paramount necessity of embracing a
faith, bowing to a principle, obeying a gentle force which should
sustain and control the soul, I flung myself for a time with ardour
into theological reading, my end not erudition, but to drink at the
source of life. Is it arrogant to say that I passed through a painful
period of disillusionment? all round the pure well I found traces of
strife and bitterness. I cast no doubt on the sincerity and zeal of
those who had preceded me; but not content with drinking, and
finding their eyes enlightened, they had stamped the margin of the
pool into the mire, and the waters rose turbid and strife-stained to
the lip. Some, like cattle on a summer evening, seemed to stand and
brood within the pool itself, careless if they fouled the waters; others
had built themselves booths on the margin, and sold the precious
draughts in vessels of their own, enraged that any should desire the
authentic stream. There was, it seemed, but little room for the
wayfarer; and the very standing ground was encumbered with
impotent folk.
Discerning the Not to strain a metaphor, I found that the
Faith commentators obscured rather than assisted. What
I desired was to realise the character, to divine the
inner thoughts of Jesus, to be fired by the impetuous eloquence of
Paul, to be strengthened by the ardent simplicity of John. These
critics, men of incredible diligence and patience, seemed to me to
make a fence about the law, and to wrap the form I wished to see in
innumerable vestments of curious design. Readers of the Protagoras
of Plato will remember how the great sophist spoke from the centre
of a mass of rugs and coverlets, among which, for his delectation,
he lay, while the humming of his voice filled the arches of the
cloister with a heavy burden of sound. I found myself in the same
position as the disciples of Protagoras; the voice that I longed to
hear, spoke, but it had to penetrate through the wrappings and veils
which these men, in their zeal for service, had in mistaken reverence
flung about the lively oracle.
A wise man said to me not long ago that the fault of teaching
nowadays was that knowledge was all coined into counters; and that
the desire of learners seemed to be not to possess themselves of the
ore, not to strengthen and toughen the mind by the pursuit, but to
possess themselves of as many of these tokens as possible, and to
hand them on unchanged and unchangeable to those who came to
learn of themselves.
This was my difficulty; the shelves teemed with books, the
lecturers cried aloud in every College court, like the jackdaws that
cawed and clanged about the venerable towers; and for a period I
flew with notebook and pen from lecture to lecture, entering
admirable maxims, acute verbal distinctions, ingenious parallels in
my poor pages. At home I turned through book after book, and
imbued myself in the learning of the schools, dreaming that, though
the rind was tough, the precious morsels lay succulent within.
In this conceit of knowledge I was led to leave my College and to
plunge into practical life; what my work was shall presently be
related, but I will own that it was a relief. I had begun to feel that
though I had learnt the use of the tools, I was no nearer finding the
precious metal of which I was in search.
The further development of my faith after this cannot be told in
detail, but it may be briefly sketched, after a life of some intellectual
activity, not without practical employment, which has now extended
over many years.
The Father I began, I think, very far from Christ. The only
vital faith that I had at first was an intense
instinctive belief in the absolute power, the infinite energies, of the
Father; to me he was not only Almighty, as our weak word phrases
it, a Being who could, if he would, exert His power, but
παντοκρατῶρ—all-conquering, all-subduing. I was led, by a process
of mathematical certainty, to see that if the Father was anywhere,
He was everywhere; that if He made us and bade us be, He was
responsible for the smallest and most sordid details of our life and
thought, as well as for the noblest and highest. It cannot indeed be
otherwise; every thought and action springs from some cause, in
many cases referable to events which took place in lives outside of
and anterior to our own. In any case in which a man seems to enjoy
the faculty of choice, his choice is in reality determined by a number
of previous causes; given all the data, his action could be inevitably
predicted. Thus I gradually realised that sin in the moral world, and
disease in the physical, are each of them some manifestation of the
Eternal Will. If He gives to me the joy of life, the energy of action,
did He not give it to the subtle fungus, to the venomous bacteria
which, once established in our bodies, are known by the names of
cancer and fever? Why all life should be this uneasy battle I know
not; but if we can predicate consciousness of any kind to these
strange rudiments, the living slime of the pit, is it irreverent to say
that faith may play a part in their work as well? When the health-
giving medicine pours along our veins, what does it mean but that
everywhere it leaves destruction behind it, and that the organisms of
disease which have, with delighted zest, been triumphing in their
chosen dwelling and rioting in the instinctive joy of life, sadly and
mutely resign the energy that animates them, or sink into sleep. It is
all a balance, a strife, a battle. Why such striving and fighting, such
uneasy victory and deep unrest should be the Father’s will for all His
creatures, I know not; but that it is a condition, a law of His own
mind, I can reverently believe. When we sing the Benedicite, which I
for one do with all my heart, we must be conscious that it is only a
selection, after all, of phenomena that are impressive, delightful, or
useful to ourselves. Nothing that we call, God forgive us, noxious,
finds a place there. St. Francis, indeed, went further, and praised
God for “our sister the Death of the Body,” but in the larger
Benedicite of the universe, which is heard by the ear of God, the
fever and the pestilence, the cobra and the graveyard worm utter
their voices too; and who shall say that the Father hears them not?
 The Joy of the If one believes that happiness is inch by inch
World diminishing, that it is all a losing fight, then it must
be granted that we have no refuge but in a Stoic
hardening of the heart; but when we look at life and see the huge
preponderance of joy over pain—such tracts of healthy energy,
sweet duty, quiet movement—indeed when we see, as we often do,
the touching spectacle of hope and joy again and again triumphant
over weakness and weariness; when we see such unselfishness
abroad, such ardent desire to lighten the loads of others and to bear
their burdens; then it is faithless indeed if we allow ourselves to
believe that the Father has any end in view but the ultimate
happiness of all the innumerable units, which He endows with
independent energies, and which, one by one, after their short taste
of this beautiful and exquisite world, resign their powers again, often
so gladly, into His hand.
Our Insignificance But the fault, if I may so phrase it, of this faith,
is the vastness of the conception to which it opens
the mind. When I contemplate this earth with its continents and
islands, its mountains and plains, all stored with histories of life and
death, the bones of dead monsters, the shattered hulks of time; the
vast briny ocean with all the mysterious life that stirs beneath the
heaving crests; when I realise that even this world, with all its
infinite records of life, is but a speck in the heavens, and that every
one of the suns of space may be surrounded with the same train of
satellites, in which some tumultuous drama of life may be, nay, must
be enacting itself—that even on the fiery orbs themselves some
appalling Titan forms may be putting forth their prodigious energies,
suffering and dying—the mind of man reels before the thought;—
and yet all is in the mind of God. The consciousness of the
microscopic minuteness of my own life and energies, which yet are
all in all to me, becomes crushing and paralysing in the light of such
a thought. It seems impossible to believe, in the presence of such a
spectacle, that the single life can have any definite importance, and
the temptation comes to resign all effort, to swim on the stream,
just planning life to be as easy and as pleasant as possible, before
one sinks into the abyss.
 12
From such a paralysis of thought and life two beliefs have saved
me.
The Master First, it may be confessed, came the belief in the
Spirit of God, the thought of inner holiness, not
born from any contemplation of the world around, which seems
indeed to point to far different ideals. Yet as true and truer than the
bewildering example of nature is the inner voice which speaks, after
the wind and storm, in the silent solitudes of the soul. That this
voice exists and is heard can admit of no tangible demonstration;
each must speak for himself; but experience forbids me to doubt
that there is something which contradicts the seduction of appetite,
something which calls, as it were, a flush to the face of the soul at
the thought of triumphs of sense, a voice that without being derisive
or harsh, yet has a terrible and instantaneous severity; and wields a
mental scourge, the blows of which are no less fearful to receive
because they are accompanied with no physical disaster. To
recognise this voice as the very voice and word of the Father to
sentient souls, is the inevitable result of experience and thought.
Then came the triumphant belief, weak at first, but taking slow
shape, that the attitude of the soul to its Maker can be something
more than a distant reverence, an overpowering awe, a humble
worship; the belief, the certainty that it can be, as it were, a
personal link—that we can indeed hold converse with God, speak
with Him, call upon Him, put to use a human phrase, our hand in
His, only desiring to be led according to His will.
Then came the further step; after some study of the systems of
other teachers of humanity, after a desire to find in the great
redeemers of mankind, in Buddha, Socrates, Mahomet, Confucius,
Shakespeare, the secret of self-conquest, of reconciliation, the
knowledge slowly dawns upon the mind that in Jesus of Galilee
alone we are in the presence of something which enlightens man not
from within but from without. The other great teachers of humanity
seem to have looked upon the world and into their own hearts, and
deduced from thence, by flashes of indescribable genius, some order
out of the chaos, some wise and temperate scheme, but with Jesus
—though I long resisted the conviction—it is different. He comes,
not as a man speaking by observation and thought, but as a visitant
from some secret place, who knows the truth rather than guesses at
it. I need not say that his reporters, the Gospel writers, had but an
imperfect conception of His majesty. His ineffable greatness—it could
not well be otherwise; the mystery rather is that with such simple
views of life, such elementary conceptions of the scheme of things,
they yet gave so much of the stupendous truth, and revealed Jesus
in his words and acts as the Divine Man, who spoke to man not by
spiritual influences but by the very authentic utterance of God. Such
teaching as the parables, such scenes as the raising of Lazarus, or
the midday talk by the wayside well of Sychar, emerge from all art
and history with a dignity that lays no claim to the majesty that they
win; and as the tragedy darkens and thickens to its close, such
scenes as the trial, recorded by St. John, and the sacred death,
bring home to the mind the fact that no mere humanity could bear
itself with such gentle and tranquil dignity, such intense and yet such
unselfish suffering as were manifested in the Son of Man.
The Return And so, as the traveller goes out and wanders
through the cities of men, among stately palaces,
among the glories of art, or climbs among the aching solitudes of
lonely mountains, or feasts his eyes upon green isles floating in
sapphire seas, and returns to find that the old strait dwelling-place,
the simple duties of life, the familiar friends, homely though they be,
are the true anchors of the spirit; so, after a weary pilgrimage, the
soul comes back, with glad relief, with wistful tenderness, to the old
beliefs of childhood, which, in its pride and stubbornness, it cast
aside, and rejected as weak and inadequate and faded; finds after
infinite trouble and weariness that it has but learnt afresh what it
knew; and that though the wanderer has ransacked the world,
digged and drunk strange waters, trafficked for foreign merchandise,
yet the Pearl of Price, the White Stone is hidden after all in his own
garden-ground, and inscribed with his own new name.
 13
I need not enter very closely into the period of my life which
followed the university. After a good deal of hesitation and
uncertainty I decided to enter for the Home Civil Service, and
obtained a post in a subordinate office. The work I found not wholly
uninteresting, but it needs no special record here. I acquired the
knowledge of how to conduct business, a certain practical power of
foreseeing contingencies, a certain acquaintance with legal
procedure, and some knowledge of human nature in its official
aspect.
Intellectually and morally this period of my life was rather
stagnant. I had been through a good deal of excitement, of mental
and moral malady, of general bouleversement. Nature exacted a
certain amount of quiescence, melancholy quiescence for the most
part, because I felt myself singularly without energy to carry out my
hopes and schemes, and at the same time it seemed that time was
ebbing away purposelessly, and that I was not driving, so to speak,
any piles in the fluid and oozy substratum of ideas on which my life
seemed built. To revel in metaphors, I was like a snake which has
with a great strain bolted a quadruped, and needs a long space of
uneasy and difficult digestion. But at the time I did not see this; I
only thought I was losing time: I felt with Milton—

“How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.”

But beset as I was by the sublime impatience of youth, I had not

serenity enough to follow out the thoughts which Milton works out in
the rest of the sonnet.
Literary Work At the same time, so far as literary work went, to
which I felt greatly drawn, I was not so impatient. I
wrote a great deal for my private amusement, and to practise facility
of expression, but with little idea of hurried publication. A story
which I sent to a well-known editor was courteously returned to me,
with a letter in which he stated that he had read my work carefully,
and that he felt it a duty to tell me that it was “sauce without meat.”
This kind and wholesome advice made a great difference to me; I
determined that I would attempt to live a little before I indulged in
baseless generalisation, or lectured other people on the art of life. I
soon gained great facility in writing, and developed a theory, which I
have ever since had no reason to doubt, that performance is simply
a matter of the intensity of desire. If one only wants enough to
complete a definite piece of work, be it poem, essay, story, or some
far more definite and prosaic task, I have found that it gets itself
done in spite of the insistent pressure of other businesses and the
deadening monotony of heavy routine, simply because one goes
back to it with delight, schemes to clear time for it, waits for it round
corners, and loses no time in spurring and whipping the mind to
work, which is necessary in the case of less attractive tasks. The
moment that there comes a leisurely gap, the mind closes on the
beloved work like a limpet; when this happens day after day and
week after week, the accumulations become prodigious.
I thus felt gradually more and more, that when the magnum opus
did present itself to be done, I should probably be able to carry it
through; and meanwhile I had sufficient self-respect, although I
suffered twinges of thwarted ambition, not to force my crude
theories, my scrambling prose, or my faltering verse upon the world.
London Meanwhile I lived a lonely sort of life, with two or
three close intimates. I never really cared for
London, but it is at the same time idle to deny its fascination. In the
first place it is full from day to day of prodigious, astounding,
unexpected beauties—sometimes beauty on a noble scale, in the
grand style, such as when the sunset shakes its hair among ragged
clouds, and the endless leagues of house-roofs and the fronts of
town palaces dwindle into a far-off steely horizon-line under the
huge and wild expanse of sky. Sometimes it is the smaller, but no
less alluring beauty of subtle atmospherical effects; and so
conventional is the human appreciation of beauty that the constant
presence, in these London pictures, of straight framing lines,
contributed by house-front and street-end, is an aid to the
imagination. Again, there is the beauty of contrasts; the vignettes
afforded by the sudden blossoming of rustic flowers and shrubs in
unexpected places; the rustle of green leaves at the end of a
monotonous street. And then, apart from natural beauty, there is the
vast, absorbing, incredible pageant of humanity, full of pathos, of
wistfulness, and of sweetness. But of this I can say but little; for it
always moved me, and moves me yet, with a sort of horror. I think it
was always to me a spectacular interest; I never felt one with the
human beings whom I watched, or even in the same boat, so to
speak, with them; the contemplation of the fact that I am one of so
many millions has been to me a humiliating rather than an inspiring
thought; it dashes the pleasures of individuality; it arraigns the soul
before a dark and inflexible bar. Passing daily through London, there
is little possibility in the case of an imaginative man for hopeful
expansion of the heart, little ground for anything but an acquiescent
acceptance. Under these conditions it is too rudely brought home to
me to be wholesome, how ineffective, undistinguished, typical,
minute, uninteresting any one human being is after all: and though
the sight of humanity in every form is attractive, bewildering,
painfully interesting, thrilling, and astounding—though one finds
unexpected beauty and goodness everywhere—yet I recognise that
city life had a deadening effect on my consciousness, and hindered
rather than helped the development of thought and life.
The Artist Still, in other ways this period was most valuable
—it made me practical instead of fanciful; alert
instead of dreamy; it made me feel what I had never known before,
the necessity for grasping the exact point of a matter, and not losing
oneself among side issues. It helped me out of the entirely
amateurish condition of mind into which I had been drifting—and,
moreover, it taught me one thing which I had never realised, a
lesson for which I am profoundly grateful, namely that literature and
art play a very small part in the lives of the majority of people; that
most men have no sort of an idea that they are serious matters, but
look upon them as more or less graceful amusements; that in such
regions they have no power of criticism, and no judgment; but that
these are not nearly such serious defects as the defect of vision
which the artist and the man of letters suffer from and encourage—
the defect, I mean, of treating artistic ideals as matters of pre-
eminent national, even of moral importance. They must be content
to range themselves frankly with other craftsmen; they may sustain
themselves by thinking that they may help, a very little, to
ameliorate conditions, to elevate the tone of morality and thought,
to provide sources of recreation, to strengthen the sense of beauty;
but they must remember that they cannot hope to belong to the
primal and elemental things of life. Not till the primal needs are
satisfied does the work of the poet and artist begin—“After the
banquet, the minstrel.”
The poet and the artist too often live, like the Lady of Shalott,
weaving a magic web of fair and rich colour, but dealing not with life
itself, and not even with life viewed ipsis oculis, but in the magic
mirror. The Lady of Shalott is doubly secluded from the world; she
does not mingle with it, she does not even see it; so the writer
sometimes does not even see the life which he describes, but draws
his knowledge secondhand, through books and bookish secluded
talk. I do not think that I under-rate the artistic vocation; but it is
only one of many, and, though different in kind, certainly not
superior to the vocations of those who do the practical work of the
world.
From this dangerous heresy I was saved just at the moment when
it was waiting to seize upon me, and at a time when a man’s
convictions are apt to settle themselves for life, by contact with the
prosaic, straightforward and commonplace world.
At one time I saw a certain amount of society; my father’s old
friends were very kind to me, and I was thus introduced to what is a
far more interesting circle of society than the circle which would rank
itself highest, and which spends an amount of serious toil in the
search of amusement, with results which to an outsider appear to be
unsatisfactory. The circle to which I gained admittance was the
official set—men who had definite and interesting work in the world
—barristers, government officials, politicians and the like, men
versed in affairs, and with a hard and definite knowledge of what
was really going on. Here I learnt how different is the actual
movement of politics from the reflection of it which appears in the
papers, which often definitely conceals the truth from the public.
Diversions My amusements at this period were of the
mildest character; I spent Sundays in the summer
months at Golden End; Sundays in the winter as a rule at my
lodgings; and devoted the afternoons on which I was free, to long
aimless rambles in London, or even farther afield. I have an absurd
pleasure in observing the details of domestic architecture; and there
is a variety of entertainment to be derived, for a person with this low
and feeble taste, from the exploration of London, which would
probably be inconceivable to persons of a more conscientious artistic
standard.
A Rude Shock At this period I had few intimates; and sociable
as I had been at school and college, I was now
thrown far more on my own resources; I sometimes think it was a
wise and kindly preparation for what was coming; and I certainly
learnt the pleasures to be derived from reading and lonely
contemplation and solitary reflection, pleasures which have stood me
in good stead in later days. I used indeed to think that the enforced
spending of so many hours of the day with other human beings gave
a peculiar zest to these solitary hours. Whether this was wholesome
or natural I know not, but I certainly enjoyed it, and lived for several
years a life of interior speculation which was neither sluggish nor
morbid. I learnt my business thoroughly, and in all probability I
should have settled down quietly and comfortably to the life of a
bachelor official, rotating from chambers to office and from office to
club, had it not been that just at the moment when I was beginning
to crystallise into sluggish, comfortable habits, I was flung by a rude
shock into a very different kind of atmosphere.
 14
The Doctor I must now relate, however briefly, the event
which once for all determined the conditions of my
present life. For the last six months of my professional work I had
been feeling indefinitely though not decidedly unwell. I found myself
disinclined to exertion, bodily or mental, easily elated, easily
depressed, at times strangely somnolent, at others irritably wakeful;
at last some troublesome symptoms warned me that I had better
put myself in the hands of a doctor. I went to a local practitioner
whose account disquieted me; he advised me to apply to an eminent
specialist, which I accordingly did.
The Verdict I am not likely to forget the incidents of that day.
I went up to London, and made my way to the
specialist’s house. After a dreary period of waiting, in a dark room
looking out on a blank wall, the table abundantly furnished with
periodicals whose creased and battered aspect betokened the
nervous handling to which they had been subjected, I was at last
summoned to the presence of the great man himself. He presented
an appearance of imperturbable good-nature; his rosy cheeks, his
little snub nose, his neatly groomed appearance, his gold-rimmed
spectacles, wore an air of commonplace prosperity that was at once
reassuring. He asked me a number of questions, made a thorough
examination, writing down certain details in a huge volume, and
finally threw himself back in his chair with a deliberate air that
somewhat disconcerted me. At last my sentence came. I was
undoubtedly suffering from the premonitory symptoms of a serious,
indeed dangerous complaint, and I must at once submit myself to
the condition of an invalid life. He drew out a table diet, and told me
to live a healthy, quiet life under the most restful conditions
attainable. He asked me about my circumstances, and I told him
with as much calmness as I could muster. He replied that I was very
fortunate, that I must at once give up professional work and be
content to vegetate. “Mind,” he said, “I don’t want you to be bored—
that will be as bad for you as to be overworked. But you must avoid
all kinds of worry and fatigue—all extremes. I should not advise you
to travel at present, if you like a country life—in fact I should say,
live the life that attracts you, apart from any professional exertions;
don’t do anything you don’t like. Now, Mr. ——,” he continued, “I
have told you the worst—the very worst. I can’t say whether your
constitution will triumph over this complaint: to be candid, I do not
think it will; but there is no question of any immediate risk whatever.
Indeed, if you were dependent on your own exertions for a
livelihood, I could promise you some years of work—though that
would render it almost impossible for you ever to recover. As it is,
you may consider that you have a chance of entire recovery, and if
you can follow my directions, and no unforeseen complications
intervene, I think you may look forward to a fairly long life; but mind
that any work you do must be of the nature of amusement. Once
and for all, strain of any sort is out of the question, and if you
indulge in any excessive or exciting exertions, you will inevitably
shorten your life. There, I have told you a disagreeable truth—make
the best of it—remember that I see many people every week who
have to bear far more distressing communications. You had better
come to see me every three months, unless you have any marked
symptoms, such as”—(there followed medical details with which I
need not trouble the reader)—“in that case come to me at once; but
I tell you plainly that I do not anticipate them. You seem to have
what I call the patient temperament—to have a vocation, if I may
say so,” (here he smiled benevolently) “for the invalid life.” He rose
as he spoke, shook hands kindly, and opened the door.
 15
New Perceptions I will confess that at first this communication
was a great shock to me; I was for a time
bewildered and plunged into a deep dejection. To say farewell to the
bustle and activity of life—to be laid aside on a shelf, like a cracked
vase, turning as far as possible my ornamental front to the world,
spoilt for homely service. To be relegated to the failures; to be
regarded and spoken of as an invalid—to live the shadowed life, a
creature of rules and hours, fretting over drugs and beef tea—a
degrading, a humiliating rôle. I admit that the first weeks of my
enforced retirement were bitter indeed. The perpetual fret of small
restrictions had at first the effect of making me feel physically and
mentally incapable. Only very gradually did the sad cloud lift. The
first thing that came to my help was a totally unexpected feeling.
When I had got used to the altered conditions of life, when I found
that the regulated existence had become to a large extent
mechanical, when I had learnt to decide instinctively what I could
attempt and what I must leave alone, I found my perceptions
curiously heightened and intensified by the shadowy background
which enveloped me. Sounds and sights thrilled me in an
unaccustomed way—the very thought, hardly defined, but existing
like a quiet subconsciousness, that my tenure of life was certainly
frail, and might be brief, seemed to bring out into sharp relief the
simple and unnoticed sensations of ordinary life. The pure gush of
morning air through the opened casement, the delicious coolness of
water on the languid body, the liquid song of birds, the sprouting of
green buds upon the hedge, the sharp and aromatic scent of rosy
larch tassels, the monotonous babble of the stream beneath its high
water plants, the pearly laminæ of the morning cloudland, the
glowing wrack of sunset with the liquid bays of intenser green—all
these stirred my spirit with an added value of beauty, an enjoyment
at once passionate and tranquil, as though they held some
whispered secret for the soul.
The same quickening effect passed, I noticed, over intellectual
perceptions. Pictures in which there was some latent quality, some
hidden brooding, some mystery lying beneath and beyond superficial
effect, gave up their secrets to my eye. Music came home to me
with an intensity of pathos and passion which I had before never
even suspected, and even here the same subtle power of
appreciation seemed to have been granted me. It seemed that I was
no longer taken in by technical art or mechanical perfection. The
hard rippling cascades which had formerly attracted me, where a
musician was merely working out, if I may use the word, some
subject with a mathematical precision, seemed to me hollow and
vain; all that was pompous and violent followed suit, and what I now
seemed to be able to discern was all that endeavoured, however
faultily, to express some ardour of the spirit, some indefinable
delicacy of feeling.
Something of the same power seemed to be mine in dealing with
literature. All hard brilliance, all exaggerated display, all literary
agility and diplomacy that might have once deceived me, appeared
to ring cracked and thin; mere style, style that concealed rather than
expressed thought, fell as it were in glassy tingling showers on my
initiated spirit; while, on the other hand, all that was truthfully felt,
sincerely conceived or intensely desired, drew me as with a magical
compulsion. It was then that I first perceived what the sympathy,
the perception born of suffering might be, when that suffering was
not so intrusive, so severe, as to throw the sick spirit back upon
itself—then that I learnt what detachment, what spectatorial power
might be conferred by a catastrophe not violent, but sure, by a
presage of distant doom. I felt like a man who has long stumbled
among intricate lanes, his view obscured by the deep-cut earth-walls
of his prison, and by the sordid lower slopes with their paltry details,
when the road leads out upon the open moor, and when at last he
climbs freely and exultingly upon the broad grassy shoulders of the
hill. The true perspective—the map of life opened out before me; I
learnt that all art is only valuable when it is the sedulous flowering of
the sweet and gracious spirit, and that beyond all power of human
expression lies a province where the deepest thoughts, the highest
mysteries of the spirit sleep—only guessed at, wrestled with,
hankered after by the most skilled master of all the arts of mortal
subtlety.
Perhaps the very thing that made these fleeting impressions so
perilously sweet, was the sense of their evanescence.

But oh, the very reason why

I love them, is because they die.

The Shadow In this exalted mood, with this sense of heightened

perception all about me, I began for awhile to
luxuriate. I imagined that I had learnt a permanent lesson, gained a
higher level of philosophy, escaped from the grip of material things.
Alas! it was but transitory. I had not triumphed. What I did gain,
what did stay with me, was a more deliberate intention of enjoying
simple things, a greater expectation of beauty in homely life. This
remained, but in a diminished degree. I suppose that the mood was
one of intense nervous tension, for by degrees it was shadowed and
blotted, until I fell into a profound depression. At best what could I
hope for?—a shadowed life, an inglorious gloom? The dull waste
years stretched before me—days, weeks, months of wearisome little
duties; dreary tending of the lamp of life; and what a life! life
without service, joy, brightness, or usefulness. I was to be stranded
like a hulk on an oozy shore, only thankful for every month that the
sodden timbers still held together. I saw that something larger and
deeper was required; I saw that religion and philosophy must unite
to form some definite theory of life, to build a foundation on which I
could securely rest.
 16
The service of others, in some form or another, must sustain me.
Philosophy pointed out that to narrow my circle every year, to turn
the microscope of thought closer and closer upon my frail self, would
be to sink month by month deeper into egotism and self-pity.
Religion gave a more generous impulse still.
Beginnings What is our duty with respect to philanthropy? It
is obviously absurd to think that every one is
bound to tie themselves hand and foot to some thoroughly
uncongenial task. Fitness and vocation must come in. Clergy,
doctors, teachers are perhaps the most obvious professional
philanthropists; for either of the two latter professions I was
incapacitated. Some hovering thought of attempting to take orders,
and to become a kind of amateur, unprofessional curate, visited me;
but my religious views made that difficult, and the position of a man
who preaches what he does not wholly believe is inconsistent with
self-respect. Christianity as taught by the sects seemed to me to
have drifted hopelessly away from the detached simplicity inculcated
by Christ; to have become a mere part of the social system, fearfully
invaded and overlaid by centuries of unintelligent tradition. To work,
for instance, even with Mr. Woodward, at his orders, on his system,
would have been an impossibility both for him and for myself. I had,
besides, a strong feeling that work, to be of use, must be done, not
in a spirit of complacent self-satisfaction, but at least with some
energy of enjoyment, some conviction. It seemed moreover clear
that, for a time at all events, my place and position in the world was
settled: I must live a quiet home life, and endeavour, at all events, to
restore some measure of effective health. How could I serve my
neighbours best? They were mostly quiet country people—a few
squires and clergy, a few farmers, and many farm labourers. Should
I accept a country life as my sphere, or was I bound to try and find
some other outlet for whatever effectiveness I possessed? I came
deliberately to the conclusion that I was not only not bound to go
elsewhere, but that it was the most sensible, wisest, and Christian
solution to stay where I was and make some experiments.
My Schemes The next practical difficulty was how I could
help. English people have a strong sense of
independence. They would neither understand nor value a fussy,
dragooning philanthropist, who bustled about among them, finding
fault with their domestic arrangements, lecturing, dictating. I
determined that I would try to give them the help they wanted; not
the help I thought they ought to want. That I would go among them
with no idea of improving, but of doing, if possible, neighbourly and
unobtrusive kindnesses, and that under no circumstances would I
diminish their sense of independence by weak generosity.
About this time, my mother at luncheon happened to mention that
the widow of a small farmer, who was living in a cottage not fifty
yards from our gate, was in trouble about her eldest boy, who was
disobedient, idle, and unsatisfactory. He had been employed by
more than one neighbour in garden work, but had lost two places by
laziness and impertinence. Here was a point d’appui. In the
afternoon I strolled across; nervous and shy, I confess, to a
ridiculous degree. I knew the woman by sight, and little more. I felt
thoroughly unfitted for my rôle, and feared that patronage would be
resented. However, I went and found Mrs. Dewhurst at home. I was
received with real geniality and something of delicate sympathy—the
news of my illness had got about. I determined I would ask no
leading questions, but bit by bit her anxieties were revealed: the boy
was a trouble to her. “What did he want?” She didn’t know; but he
was discontented and naughty, had got into bad company. I asked if
it would be any good my seeing the boy, and found that it would
evidently be a relief. I asked her to send the boy to me that evening,
and went away with a real and friendly handshake, and an invitation
to come again. In the evening Master Dewhurst turned up—a shy,
uninteresting, rather insolent boy, strong and well-built, and with a
world of energy in his black eyes. I asked him what he wanted to do,
and after a little talk it all came out: he was sick of the place; he did
not want garden work. “What would he do? What did he like?” I
found that he wanted to see something of the world. Would he go to
sea? The boy brightened up at once, and then said he didn’t want to
leave his mother. Our interview closed, and this necessitated my
paying a further call on the mother, who was most sensible, and
evidently felt that what the boy wanted was a thorough change.
To make a long story short, it cost me a few letters and a very
little money, defined as a loan; the boy went off to a training ship,
and after a few weeks found that he had the very life he wanted;
indeed, he is now a promising young sailor, who never fails to write
to me at intervals, and who comes to see me whenever he comes
home. The mother is a firm friend. Now that I am at my ease with
her, I am astonished at the shrewdness and sense of her talk.
It would be tedious to recount, as I could, fifty similar adventures;
my enterprises include a village band, a cricket club, a co-operative
store; but the personal work, such as it is, has broadened every
year: I am an informal adviser to thirty or forty families, and the
correspondence entailed, to say nothing of my visits, gives me much
pleasant occupation. The circle now insensibly widens; I do not
pretend that there are not times of weariness, and even
disagreeable experiences connected with it. I am a poor hand in a
sick-room, I confess it with shame; my mother, who is not
particularly interested in her neighbours, is ten times as effective.
The Reward But what I feel most strongly about the whole, is
the intense interest which has grown up about it.
The trust which these simple folk repose in me is the factor which
rescues me from the indolent impulse to leave matters alone; even if
I desired to do so, I could not for very shame disappoint them.
Moreover, I cannot pretend that it takes up very much time. The
institutions run themselves for the most part. I don’t overdo my
visits; indeed, I seldom go to call on my friends unless there is
something specific to be done. But I am always at home for them
between seven and eight. My downstairs smoking-room, once an
office, has a door which opens on the drive, so that it is not
necessary for these Nicodemite visitors to come through the house.
Sometimes for days together I have no one; sometimes I have three
or four callers in the evening. I don’t talk religion as a rule, unless I
am asked; but we discuss politics and local matters with avidity. I
have persistently refused to take any office, and I fear that our
neighbours think me a very lazy kind of dilettante, who happens to
be interested in the small-talk of rustics. I will not be a Guardian, as
I have little turn for business; and when it was suggested to me that
I might be a J. P., I threw cold water on the scheme. Any official
position would alter my relation to my friends, and I should often be
put in a difficulty; but by being absolutely unattached, I find that
confidential dealings are made easy.
I fear that this will sound a very shabby, unromantic, and
gelatinous form of philanthropy, and I am quite unable to defend it
on utilitarian principles. I can only say that it is deeply absorbing;
that it pays, so to speak, a large interest on a small investment of
trouble, and that it has given me a sense of perspective in human
things which I never had before. The difficulty in writing about it is
to abstain from platitudes; I can only say that it has revealed to me
how much more emotion and experience go to make up a platitude
than I ever suspected before in my ambitious days.
 17
Ennui is, after all, the one foe that we all fear; and in arranging
our life, the most serious preoccupation is how to escape it. The
obvious reply is, of course, “plenty of cheerful society.” But is not
general society to a man with a taste for seclusion the most
irritating, wearing, ennuyeux method of filling the time? It is not the
actual presence of people that is distressing, though that in some
moods is unbearable, but it is the consciousness of duties towards
them, whether as host or guest, that sits, like the Old Man of the
Sea, upon one’s shoulders. A considerable degree of seclusion can
be attained by a solitary-minded man at a large hotel. The only time
of the day when you are compelled to be gregarious is the table
d’hôte dinner; and then, even if you desire to talk, it is often made
impossible by the presence of foreigners among whom one is
sandwiched. But take a visit at a large English country-house; a
mixed party with possibly little in common; the protracted meals, the
vacuous sessions, the interminable promenades. Men are better off
than women in this respect, as at most periods of the year they are
swept off in the early forenoon to some vigorous employment, and
are not expected to return till tea-time. But take such a period in
August, a month in which many busy men are compelled to pay
visits if they pay them at all. Think of the desultory cricket matches,
the futile gabble of garden parties.
Of course the desire of solitude, or rather, the nervous aversion to
company, may become so intense as to fall under the head of
monomania; doctors give it an ugly name, I know not exactly what it
is, like the agoraphobia, which is one of the subsections of a certain
form of madness. Agoraphobia is the nervous horror of crowds,
which causes persons afflicted by it to swoon away at the prospect
of having to pass through a square or street crowded with people.
 But the dislike of visitors is a distinct, but quite as specific form of
nervous mania. One lady of whom I have heard was in the habit of
darting to the window and involving herself in the window-curtain
the moment she heard a ring at the bell; another, more secretive
still, crept under the sofa. Not so very long ago I went over a great
house in the North; my host took me to a suite of upper rooms with
a charming view. “These,” he said, “were inhabited by my old aunt
Susan till her death some months ago; she was somewhat eccentric
in her habits”—here he thrust his foot under a roomy settee which
stood in the window, and to my intense surprise a bell rang loudly
underneath—“Ah,” he said, rather shamefacedly, “they haven’t taken
it off.” I begged for an explanation, and he said that the old lady had
formed an inveterate habit of creeping under the settee the moment
she heard a knock at the door; to cure her of it, they hung a bell on
a spring beneath it, so that she gave warning of her whereabouts.
Solitude Society is good for most of us; but solitude is
equally good, as a tonic medicine, granted that
sociability is accepted as a factor in our life. A certain deliberate
solitude, like the fast days in the Roman Church, is useful, even if
only by way of contrast, and that we may return with fresh zest to
ordinary intercourse.
People who are used to sociable life find the smallest gap, the
smallest touch of solitude oppressive and ennuyeux; and it may be
taken for granted that the avoidance of ennui, in whatever form that
whimsical complaint makes itself felt, is one of the most instinctive
prepossessions of the human race; but it does not follow that
solitude should not be resolutely practised; and any sociable person
who has strength of mind to devote, say, one day of the week to
absolute and unbroken loneliness would find not only that such
times would come to have a positive value of their own, but that
they would enhance infinitely the pleasures of social life.
It is a curious thing how fast the instinct for solitude grows. A
friend of mine, a clergyman, a man of an inveterately sociable
disposition, was compelled by the exigencies of his position to take
charge of a lonely sea-coast parish, the incumbent of which had
fallen desperately ill. The parish was not very populous, and
extremely scattered; the nearest houses, inhabited by educated
people were respectively four and five miles away—my friend was
poor, an indifferent walker, and had no vehicle at his command.
He went off, he told me, with extreme and acute depression. He
found a small rectory-house with three old silent servants. He
established himself there with his books, and began in a very heavy-
hearted way to discharge the duties of the position; he spent his
mornings in quiet reading or strolling—the place lay at the top of
high cliffs and included many wild and magnificent prospects. The
afternoon he spent in trudging over the parish, making himself
acquainted with the farmers and other inhabitants of the region. In
the evening he read and wrote again. He had not been there a week
before he became conscious that the life had a charm. He had
written in the first few days of his depression to several old friends
imploring them to have mercy on his loneliness. Circumstances
delayed their arrival, and at last when he had been there some six
weeks, a letter announcing the arrival of an old friend and his wife
for a week’s visit gave him, he confessed, far more annoyance than
pleasure. He entertained them, however, but felt distinctly relieved
when they departed. At the end of the six months I saw him, and he
told me that solitude was a dangerous Circe, seductive, delicious,
but one that should be resolutely and deliberately shunned, an
opiate of which one could not estimate the fascination. And I am not
speaking of a torpid or indolent man, but a man of force, intellect,
and cultivation, of a restless mind and vivid interests.
[The passages that follow were either extracted by the author
himself from his own diaries, or are taken from a notebook
containing fragments of an autobiographical character. When the
date is ascertainable it is given at the head of the piece.—J. T.]
 18
Now I will draw, carefully, faithfully, and lovingly, the portraits of
some of my friends; they are not ever likely to set eyes on the
delineation: and if by some chance they do, they will forgive me, I
think.
I have chosen three or four of the most typical of my not very
numerous neighbours, though there are many similar portraits
scattered up and down my diaries.
It happened this morning that a small piece of parish business
turned up which necessitated my communicating with Sir James, our
chief landowner. Staunton is his name, and his rank is baronet. He
comes from a typically English stock. As early as the fourteenth
century the Stauntons seem to have held land in the parish; they
were yeomen, no doubt, owning a few hundred acres of freehold. In
the sixteenth century one of them drifted to London, made a
fortune, and, dying childless, left his money to the head of the
house, who bought more land, built a larger house, became esquire,
and eventually knight; his brass is in the church. They were
unimaginative folk, and whenever the country was divided, they
generally contrived to find themselves upon the prosaic and
successful side.
 The Bishop Early in the eighteenth century there were two
brothers: the younger, a clergyman, by some
happy accident became connected with the Court, made a fortunate
marriage, and held a deanery first, and then a bishopric. Here he
amassed a considerable fortune. His portrait, which hangs at the
Park, represents a man with a face of the shape and colour of a ripe
plum, with hardly more distinction of feature, shrouded in a full wig.
Behind him, under a velvet curtain, stands his cathedral, in a stormy
sky. The bishop’s monument is one of the chief disfigurements, or
the chief ornaments of our church, according as your taste is severe
or catholic. It represents the deceased prelate in a reclining attitude,
with a somewhat rueful expression, as of a man fallen from a
considerable height. Over him bends a solicitous angel in the
attitude of one inquiring what is amiss. One of the prelate’s delicate
hands is outstretched from a gigantic lawn sleeve, like a haggis,
which requires an iron support to sustain it; the other elbow is
propped upon some marble volumes of controversial divinity. In an
alcove behind is a tumid mitre, quite putting into the shade a
meagre celestial crown with marble rays, which is pushed
unceremoniously into the top of the recess.
The Baronets The bishop succeeded his elder brother in the
estate, and added largely to the property. The
bishop’s only son sat for a neighbouring borough, and was created a
baronet for his services, which were of the most straightforward
kind. At this point, by one of the strange freaks of which even
county families are sometimes guilty, a curious gleam of romance
flashed across the dull record. The baronet’s eldest son developed
dim literary tastes, drifted to London, became a hanger-on of the
Johnsonian circle—his name occurs in footnotes to literary memoirs
of the period; married a lady of questionable reputation, and
published two volumes of “Letters to a Young Lady of Quality,” which
combine, to a quite singular degree, magnificence of diction with
tenuity of thought. This Jack Staunton was a spendthrift, and would
have made strange havoc of the estate, but his father fortunately
outlived him; and by the offer of a small pension to Mrs. Jack, who
was left hopelessly destitute, contrived to get the little grandson and
heir into his own hands. The little boy developed into the kind of
person that no one would desire as a descendant, but that all would
envy as an ancestor. He was a miser pure and simple. In his day the
tenants were ground down, rents were raised, plantations were
made, land was acquired in all directions; but the house became
ruinous, and the miserable owner, in a suit of coarse cloth like a
second-rate farmer, sneaked about his lands with a shy and secret
smile, avoiding speech with tenants and neighbours alike, and eating
small and penurious meals in the dusty dining-room in company with
an aged and drunken bailiff, the discovery of whose constant
attempts to defraud his master of a few shillings were the delight
and triumph of the baronet’s life. He died a bachelor; at his death a
cousin, a grandson of the first baronet, succeeded, and found that
whatever else he had done, the miser had left immense
accumulations of money behind him. This gentleman was in the
army, and fought at Waterloo, after which he imitated the example
of his class, and became an unflinching Tory politician. The fourth
baronet was a singularly inconspicuous person whom I can just
remember, whose principal diversion was his kennel. I have often
seen him when, as a child, I used to lunch there with my mother,
stand throughout the meal in absolute silence, sipping a glass of
sherry on the hearthrug, and slowly munching a large biscuit, and,
before we withdrew, producing from his pocket the envelopes which
had contained the correspondence of the morning, and filling them
with bones, pieces of fat, fag-ends of joints, to bestow upon the
dogs in the course of the afternoon. This habit I considered, as a
child, to be distinctly agreeable, and I should have been deeply
disappointed if Sir John had ever failed to do it.
Sir James The present Sir James is now a man of forty. He
was at Eton and Trinity, and for a short time in the
Guards. He married the daughter of a neighbouring baronet, and at
the age of thirty, when his father died, settled down to the congenial
occupation of a country gentleman. He is, in spite of the fact that he
had a large landed estate, a very wealthy man. I imagine he has at
least £20,000 a year. He has a London house, to which Lady
Staunton goes for the season, but Sir James, who makes a point of
accompanying her, soon finds that business necessitates his at once
returning to the country; and I am not sure that the summer
months, which he spends absolutely alone, are not the most
agreeable part of the year for him. He has three stolid and healthy
children—two boys and a girl. He takes no interest whatever in
politics, religion, literature, or art. He takes in the Standard and the
Field. He hunts a little, and shoots a little, but does not care about
either. He spends his morning and afternoon in pottering about the
estate. In the evening he writes a few letters, dines well, reads the
paper and goes to bed. He does not care about dining out; indeed
the prospect of a dinner-party or a dance clouds the pleasure of the
day. He goes to church once on Sunday; he is an active magistrate;
he has, at long intervals, two or three friends of like tastes to stay
with him, who accompany him, much to his dislike, in his
perambulations, and stand about whistling, or staring at stacks and
cattle, while he talks to the bailiff. But he is a kindly, cheery,
generous man, with a good head for business, and an idea of his
position. He is absolutely honourable and straightforward, and faces
an unpleasant duty, when he has made up his mind to it, with entire
tranquillity. No mental speculation has ever come in his way; at
school he was a sound, healthy boy, good at games, who did his
work punctually, and was of blameless character. He made no
particular friends; sat through school after school, under various
sorts of masters, never inattentive, and never interested. He had a
preference for dull and sober teachers, men with whom, as he said,
“you knew where you were;” a stimulating teacher bewildered him,
—“always talking about poetry and rot.” At Cambridge it was the
same. He rowed in his College boat; he passed the prescribed
examinations; he led a clean healthy decorous life; and no idea,
small or great, no sense of beauty, no wonder at the scheme of
things, ever entered his head. If by chance he ever found himself in
the company of an enthusiastic undergraduate, whose mind and
heart were full of burning, incomplete, fantastic thoughts, James
listened politely to what he had to say, hazarded no statements, and
said, in quiet after-comment, “Gad, how that chap does jaw!” No
one ever thought him stupid; he knew what was going on; he was
sociable, kind, not the least egotistical, and far too much of a
gentleman to exhibit the least complacency in his position or wealth
—only he knew exactly what he liked, and had none of the pathetic
admiration for talent that is sometimes found in the unintellectual.
When he went into the Guards it was just the same. He was popular
and respected, friendly with his men, perfectly punctual, capable and
respectable. He had no taste for wine or gambling, or disreputable
courses. He admired nobody and nothing, and no one ever obtained
the slightest influence over him. At home he was perfectly happy,
kind to his sisters, ready to do anything he was asked, and to join in
anything that was going on. When he succeeded to the estate, he
went quietly to work to find a wife, and married a pretty, contented
girl, with the same notions as himself. He never said an unkind thing
to her, or to any of his family, and expressed no extravagant
affection for any one. He is trustee for all his relations, and always
finds time to look after their affairs. He is always ready to subscribe
to any good object, and had contrived never to squabble with an
angular ritualistic clergyman, who thinks him a devoted son of the
Church. He has declined several invitations to stand for Parliament,
and has no desire to be elevated to the Peerage. He will probably
live to a green old age, and leave an immense fortune. I do not
fancy that he is much given to meditate about his latter end; but if
he ever lets his mind range over the life beyond the grave, he
probably anticipates vaguely that, under somewhat airy conditions,
he will continue to enjoy the consideration of his fellow-beings, and
deserve their respect.
 19
For nearly ten years after we came to Golden End, the parish was
administered by an elderly clergyman, who had already been over
twenty years in the place. He was little known outside the district at
all; I doubt if, between the occasion of his appointment to the living
and his death, his name ever appeared in the papers. The Bishop of
the diocese knew nothing of him; if the name was mentioned in
clerical society, it was dismissed again with some such comment as
“Ah, poor Woodward! an able man, I believe, but utterly
unpractical;” and yet I have always held this man to be on the whole
one of the most remarkable people I have ever known.
Mr. Woodward He was a tall thin man, with a slight stoop. He
could not be called handsome, but his face had a
strange dignity and power; he had a pallid complexion, at times
indeed like parchment from its bloodlessness, and dark hair which
remained dark up to the very end. His eyebrows were habitually
drawn up, giving to his face a look of patient endurance; his eyelids
drooped over his eyes, which gave his expression a certain
appearance of cynicism, but when he opened them full, and turned
them upon you, they were dark, passionate, and with a peculiar
brightness. His lips were full and large, with beautiful curves, but
slightly compressed as a rule, which gave a sense of severity. He
was clean shaven, and always very carefully dressed, but in
somewhat secular style, with high collars, a frock-coat and
waistcoat, a full white cambric tie, and—I shudder to relate it in
these days—he was seldom to be seen in black trousers, but wore a
shade of dark grey. If you had substituted a black tie for a white one
you would have had an ordinary English layman dressed as though
for town—for he always wore a tall hat. He often rode about the
parish, when he wore a dark grey riding-suit with gaiters. I do not
think he ever gave his clothes a thought, but he had the instincts of
a fine gentleman, and loved neatness and cleanliness. He had never
married, but his house was administered by an elderly sister—rather
a grim, majestic personage, with a sharp ironical tongue, and no
great indulgence for weakness. Miss Woodward considered herself
an invalid, and only appeared in fine weather, driving in a smart little
open carriage. They were people of considerable wealth, and the
rectory, which was an important house standing in a large glebe,
had two gardeners and good stables, and was furnished within, in a
dignified way, with old solid furniture. Mr. Woodward had a large
library, and at the little dinner-parties that he gave, where the food
was of the simplest, the plate was ancient and abundant—old silver
candlesticks and salvers in profusion—and a row of family pictures
beamed on you from the walls. Mr. Woodward used to say, if any
one admired any particular piece of plate, “Yes, I believe it is good;
it was all collected by an old uncle of mine, who left it to me with his
blessing for my lifetime. Of course I don’t quite approve of using it—
I believe I ought not even to have two coats—but I can’t sell it, and
meantime it looks very nice and does no harm.” The living was a
wealthy one, but it was soon discovered that Mr. Woodward spent all
that he received on that head in the parish. He did not pauperise
idle parishioners, but he was always ready with a timely gift to tide
an honest man over a difficulty. He liked to start the boys in life, and
would give a girl a little marriage portion. He paid for a parish nurse,
but at the same time he insisted on almsgiving as a duty. “I don’t do
these things to save you the trouble of giving,” he would say, “but to
give you a lead; and if I find that the offertories go down, then my
subscriptions will go down too;” but he would sometimes say that he
feared he was making things difficult for his successor. “I can’t help
that; if he is a good man the people will understand.”
The Church Mr. Woodward was a great politician and used to
say that it was a perpetual temptation to him to sit
over the papers in the morning instead of doing his work. But the
result was that he always had something to talk about, and his visits
were enjoyed by the least spiritual of his parishioners. He was of
course eclectic in his politics, and combined a good deal of
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