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delight in Carlyle doubtless nourished the temper, but did not



Carlyle so delight me because of what was already in my mind? I

remember, as a lad, looking at complicated machinery with a



shrinking uneasiness which, of course, I did not understand; I

remember the sort of disturbed contemptuousness with which, in my



time of "examinations," I dismissed "science papers." It is

intelligible enough to me, now, that unformed fear: the ground of



my antipathy has grown clear enough. I hate and fear "science"

because of my conviction that, for long to come if not for ever, it



will be the remorseless enemy of mankind. I see it destroying all

simplicity and gentleness of life, all the beauty of the world; I



see it restoring barbarism under a mask of civilization; I see it

darkening men's minds and hardening their hearts; I see it bringing



a time of vast conflicts, which will pale into insignificance "the

thousand wars of old," and, as likely as not, will whelm all the



laborious advances of mankind in blood-drenched chaos.

Yet to rail against it is as idle as to quarrel with any other force



of nature. For myself, I can hold apart, and see as little as

possible of the thing I deem accursed. But I think of some who are



dear to me, whose life will be lived in the hard and fierce new age.

The roaring "Jubilee" of last summer was for me an occasion of



sadness; it meant that so much was over and gone--so much of good

and noble, the like of which the world will not see again, and that



a new time of which only the perils are clearly visible, is rushing

upon us. Oh, the generous hopes and aspirations of forty years ago!



Science, then, was seen as the deliverer; only a few could prophesy

its tyranny, could foresee that it would revive old evils and



trample on the promises of its beginning. This is the course of

things; we must accept it. But it is some comfort to me that I--



poor little mortal--have had no part in bringing the tyrant to his

throne.



XIX

The Christmas bells drew me forth this morning. With but half-



formed purpose, I walked through soft, hazy sunshine towards the

city, and came into the Cathedral Close, and, after lingering



awhile, heard the first notes of the organ, and so entered. I

believe it is more than thirty years since I was in an English



church on Christmas Day. The old time and the old faces lived again

for me; I saw myself on the far side of the abyss of years--that



self which is not myself at all, though I mark points of kindred

between the beings of then and now. He who in that other world sat



to hear the Christmas gospel, either heeded it not at all--rapt in

his own visions--or listened only as one in whose blood was heresy.



He loved the notes of the organ, but, even in his childish mind,

distinguished clearly between the music and its local motive. More



than that, he could separate the melody of word and of thought from

their dogmatic significance, enjoying the one whilst wholly



rejecting the other. "On earth peace, goodwill to men"--already

that line was among the treasures of his intellect, but only, no



doubt, because of its rhythm, its sonority. Life, to him, was a

half-conscious striving for the harmonic in thought and speech--and



through what a tumult of unmelodious circumstance was he beginning

to fight his way!



To-day, I listen with no heretical promptings. The music, whether

of organ or of word, is more to me than ever; the literal meaning



causes me no restiveness. I felt only glad that I had yielded to

the summons of the Christmas bells. I sat among a congregation of



shadows, not in the great cathedral, but in a little parish church

far from here. When I came forth, it astonished me to see the






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