Books: The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford

M >> Mark Rutherford >> The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

On my return I heard that Mardon was ill, and that probably he would
die. During my absence a contested election for the county had taken
place, and our town was one of the polling-places. The lower classes
were violently Tory. During the excitement of the contest the mob had
set upon Mardon as he was going to his work, and had reviled him as a
Republican and an Atheist. By way of proving their theism they had
cursed him with many oaths, and had so sorely beaten him that the shock
was almost fatal. I went to see him instantly, and found him in much
pain, believing that he would not get better, but perfectly peaceful.

I knew that he had no faith in immortality, and I was curious beyond
measure to see how he would encounter death without such a faith; for
the problem of death, and of life after death, was still absorbing me
even to the point of monomania. I had been struggling as best I could
to protect myself against it, but with little success. I had long
since seen the absurdity and impossibility of the ordinary theories of
hell and heaven. I could not give up my hope in a continuance of life
beyond the grave, but the moment I came to ask myself how, I was
involved in contradictions. Immortality is not really immortality of
the person unless the memory abides and there be a connection of the
self of the next world with the self here, and it was incredible to me
that there should be any memories or any such connection after the
dissolution of the body; moreover, the soul, whatever it may be, is so
intimately one with the body, and is affected so seriously by the
weaknesses, passions, and prejudices of the body, that without it my
soul would not be myself, and the fable of the resurrection of the
body, of this same brain and heart, was more than I could ever swallow
in my most orthodox days.

But the greatest difficulty was the inability to believe that the
Almighty intended to preserve all the mass of human beings, all the
countless millions of barbaric, half-bestial forms which, since the
appearance of man, had wandered upon the earth, savage or civilised.
Is it like Nature's way to be so careful about individuals, and is it
to be supposed that, having produced, millions of years ago, a creature
scarcely nobler than the animals he tore with his fingers, she should
take pains to maintain him in existence for evermore? The law of the
universe everywhere is rather the perpetual rise from the lower to the
higher; an immortality of aspiration after more perfect types; a
suppression and happy forgetfulness of its comparative failures.

There was nevertheless an obstacle to the acceptance of this negation
in a faintness of heart which I could not overcome. Why this ceaseless
struggle, if in a few short years I was to be asleep for ever? The
position of mortal man seemed to me infinitely tragic. He is born into
the world, beholds its grandeur and beauty, is filled with unquenchable
longings, and knows that in a few inevitable revolutions of the earth
he will cease. More painful still; he loves somebody, man or woman,
with a surpassing devotion; he is so lost in his love that he cannot
endure a moment without it; and when he sees it pass away in death, he
is told that it is extinguished--that that heart and mind absolutely
are NOT.

It was always a weakness with me that certain thoughts preyed on me. I
was always singularly feeble in laying hold of an idea, and in the
ability to compel myself to dwell upon a thing for any lengthened
period in continuous exhaustive reflection. But, nevertheless, ideas
would frequently lay hold of me with such relentless tenacity that I
was passive in their grasp. So it was about this time with death and
immortality, and I watched eagerly Mardon's behaviour when the end had
to be faced. As I have said, he was altogether calm. I did not like
to question him while he was so unwell, because I knew that a
discussion would arise which I could not control, and it might disturb
him, but I would have given anything to understand what was passing in
his mind.

During his sickness I was much impressed by Mary's manner of nursing
him. She was always entirely wrapped up in her father, so much so,
that I had often doubted if she could survive him; but she never
revealed any trace of agitation. Under the pressure of the calamity
which had befallen her, she showed rather increased steadiness, and
even a cheerfulness which surprised me. Nothing went wrong in the
house. Everything was perfectly ordered, perfectly quiet, and she rose
to a height of which I had never suspected her capable, while her
father's stronger nature was allowed to predominate. She was
absolutely dependent on him. If he did not get well she would be
penniless, and I could not help thinking that with the like chance
before me, to say nothing of my love for him and anxiety lest he should
die, I should be distracted, and lose my head; more especially if I had
to sit by his bed, and spend sleepless nights such as fell to her lot.
But she belonged to that class of natures which, although delicate and
fragile, rejoice in difficulty. Her grief for her father was
exquisite, but it was controlled by a sense of her responsibility. The
greater the peril, the more complete was her self-command.

To the surprise of everybody Mardon got better. His temperate habits
befriended him in a manner which amazed his more indulgent neighbours,
who were accustomed to hot suppers, and whisky-and-water after them.
Meanwhile I fell into greater difficulties than ever in my ministry. I
wonder now that I was not stopped earlier. I was entirely unorthodox,
through mere powerlessness to believe, and the catalogue of the
articles of faith to which I might be said really to subscribe was very
brief. I could no longer preach any of the dogmas which had always
been preached in the chapel, and I strove to avoid a direct conflict by
taking Scripture characters, amplifying them from the hints in the
Bible, and neglecting what was supernatural. That I was allowed to go
on for so long was mainly due to the isolation of the town and the
ignorance of my hearers. Mardon and his daughter came frequently to
hear me, and this, I believe, finally roused suspicion more than any
doctrine expounded from the pulpit. One Saturday morning there
appeared the following letter in the Sentinel:

"Sin,--Last Sunday evening I happened to stray into a chapel not a
hundred miles from Water Lane. Sir, it was a lovely evening, and

'The glorious stars on high,
Set like jewels in the sky,'

were circling their courses, and, with the moon, irresistibly reminded
me of that blood which was shed for the remission of sins. Sir, with
my mind attuned in that direction I entered the chapel. I hoped to
hear something of that Rock of Ages in which, as the poet sings, we
shall wish to hide ourselves in years to come. But, sir, a young man,
evidently a young man, occupied the pulpit, and great was my grief to
find that the tainted flood of human philosophy had rolled through the
town and was withering the truth as it is in Christ Jesus. Years ago
that pulpit sent forth no uncertain sound, and the glorious gospel was
proclaimed there--not a GERMAN GOSPEL, sir--of our depravity and our
salvation through Christ Jesus. Sir, I should like to know what the
dear departed who endowed that chapel, and are asleep in the Lord in
that burying-ground, would say if they were to rise from their graves
and sit in those pews again and hear what I heard--a sermon which might
have been a week-day lecture. Sir, as I was passing through the town,
I could not feel that I had done my duty without announcing to you the
fact as above stated, and had not raised a humble warning from -

Sir, Yours truly,

"A CHRISTIAN TRAVELLER."

Notwithstanding the transparent artifice of the last paragraph, there
was no doubt that the author of this precious production was Mr. Snale,
and I at once determined to tax him with it. On the Monday morning I
called on him, and found him in his shop.

"Mr. Snale," I said, "I have a word or two to say to you."

"Certainly, sir. What a lovely day it is! I hope you are very well,
sir. Will you come upstairs?"

But I declined to go upstairs, as it was probable I might meet Mrs.
Snale there. So I said that we had better go into the counting-house,
a little place boxed off at the end of the shop, but with no door to
it. As soon as we got in I began.

"Mr. Snale, I have been much troubled by a letter which has appeared in
last week's Sentinel. Although disguised, it evidently refers to me,
and to be perfectly candid with you, I cannot help thinking you wrote
it."

"Dear me, sir, may I ask WHY you think so?"

"The internal evidence, Mr. Snale, is overwhelming; but if you did not
write it, perhaps you will be good enough to say so."

Now Mr. Snale was a coward, but with a peculiarity which I have marked
in animals of the rat tribe. He would double and evade as long as
possible, but if he found there was no escape, he would turn and tear
and fight to the last extremity.

"Mr. Rutherford, that is rather--ground of an, of an--what shall I
say?--of an assumptive nature on which to make such an accusation, and
I am not obliged to deny every charge which you may be pleased to make
against me."

"Pardon me, Mr. Snale, do you then consider what I have said is an
accusation and charge? Do you think that it was wrong to write such a
letter?"

"Well, sir, I cannot exactly say that it was; but I must say, sir, that
I do think it peculiar of you, peculiar of you, sir, to come here and
attack one of your friends, who, I am sure, has always showed you so
much kindness--to attack him, sir, with no proof."

Now Mr. Snale had not openly denied his authorship. But the use of the
word "friend" was essentially a lie--just one of those lies which, by
avoiding the form of a lie, have such a charm for a mind like his. I
was roused to indignation.

"Mr. Snale, I will give you the proof which you want, and then you
shall judge for yourself. The letter contains two lines of a hymn
which you have misquoted. You made precisely that blunder in talking
to the Sunday-school children on the Sunday before the letter appeared.
You will remember that in accordance with my custom to visit the
Sunday-school occasionally, I was there on that Sunday afternoon."

"Well, sir, I've not denied I did write it."

"Denied you did write it!" I exclaimed, with gathering passion; "what
do you mean by the subterfuge about your passing through the town and
by your calling me your friend a minute ago? What would you have
thought if anybody had written anonymously to the Sentinel, and had
accused you of selling short measure? You would have said it was a
libel, and you would also have said that a charge of that kind ought to
be made publicly and not anonymously. You seem to think, nevertheless,
that it is no sin to ruin me anonymously."

"Mr. Rutherford, I AM sure I am your friend. I wish you well, sir,
both here"--and Mr. Snale tried to be very solemn--"and in the world to
come. With regard to the letter, I don't see it as you do, sir. But,
sir, if you are going to talk in this tone, I would advise you to be
careful. We have heard, sir"--and here Mr. Snale began to simper and
grin with an indescribably loathsome grimace--"that some of your
acquaintances in your native town are of opinion that you have not
behaved quite so well as you should have done to a certain young lady
of your acquaintance; and what is more, we have marked with pain here,
sir, your familiarity with an atheist and his daughter, and we have
noticed their coming to chapel, and we have also noticed a change in
your doctrine since these parties attended there."

At the word "daughter" Mr. Snale grinned again, apparently to somebody
behind me, and I found that one of his shopwomen had entered the
counting-house, unobserved by me, while this conversation was going on,
and that she was smirking in reply to Mr. Snale's signals. In a moment
the blood rushed to my brain. I was as little able to control myself
as if I had been shot suddenly down a precipice.

"Mr. Snale, you are a contemptible scoundrel and a liar."

The effort on him was comical. He cried:

"What, sir!--what do you mean, sir?--a minister of the gospel--if you
were not, I would--a liar"--and he swung round hastily on the stool on
which he was sitting, to get off and grasp a yard-measure which stood
against the fireplace. But the stool slipped, and he came down
ignominiously. I waited till he got up, but as he rose a carriage
stopped at the door, and he recognised one of his best customers.
Brushing the dust off his trousers, and smoothing his hair, he rushed
out without his hat, and in a moment was standing obsequiously on the
pavement, bowing to his patron. I passed him in going out, but the
oily film of subserviency on his face was not broken for an instant.

When I got home I bitterly regretted what had happened. I never regret
anything more than the loss of self-mastery. I had been betrayed, and
yet I could not for the life of me see how the betrayal could have been
prevented. It was upon me so suddenly, that before a moment had been
given me for reflection, the words were out of my mouth. I was
distinctly conscious that the _I_ had not said those words. They had
been spoken by some other power working in me which was beyond my
reach. Nor could I foresee how to prevent such a fall for the future.
The only advice, even now, which I can give to those who comprehend the
bitter pangs of such self-degradation as passion brings, is to watch
the first risings of the storm, and to say "Beware; be watchful," at
the least indication of a tempest. Yet, after every precaution, we are
at the mercy of the elements, and in an instant the sudden doubling of
a cape may expose us, under a serene sky, to a blast which, taking us
with all sails spread, may overset us and wreck us irretrievably.

My connection with the chapel was now obviously at an end. I had no
mind to be dragged before a church meeting, and I determined to resign.
After a little delay I wrote a letter to the deacons, explaining that I
had felt a growing divergence from the theology taught heretofore in
Water Lane, and I wished consequently to give up my connection with
them. I received an answer stating that my resignation had been
accepted; I preached a farewell sermon; and I found myself one Monday
morning with a quarter's salary in my pocket, a few bills to pay, and a
blank outlook.

What was to be done? My first thought was towards Unitarianism, but
when I came to cast up the sum-total of what I was assured, it seemed
so ridiculously small that I was afraid. The occupation of a merely
miscellaneous lecturer had always seemed to me very poor. I could not
get up Sunday after Sunday and retail to people little scraps suggested
by what I might have been studying during the week; and with regard to
the great subjects--for the exposition of which the Christian minister
specially exists--how much did I know about them? The position of a
minister who has a gospel to proclaim; who can go out and tell men what
they are to do to be saved, was intelligible; but not so the position
of a man who had no such gospel.

What reason for continuance as a preacher could I claim? Why should
people hear me rather than read books? I was alarmed to find, on
making my reckoning, that the older I got the less I appeared to
believe. Nakeder and nakeder had I become with the passage of every
year, and I trembled to anticipate the complete emptiness to which
before long I should be reduced.

What the dogma of immortality was to me I have already described, and
with regard to God I was no better. God was obviously not a person in
the clouds, and what more was really firm under my feet than this--that
the universe is governed by immutable laws? These laws were not what
is commonly understood as God. Nor could I discern any ultimate
tendency in them. Everything was full of contradiction. On the one
hand was infinite misery; on the other there were exquisite adaptations
producing the highest pleasure; on the one hand the mystery of life-
long disease, and on the other the equal mystery of the unspeakable
glory of the sunrise on a summer's morning over a quiet summer sea.

I happened to hear once an atheist discoursing on the follies of
theism. If he had made the world, he would have made it much better.
He would not have racked innocent souls with years of torture, that
tyrants might live in splendour. He would not have permitted the
earthquake to swallow up thousands of harmless mortals, and so forth.
But, putting aside all dependence upon the theory of a coming
rectification of such wrongs as these, the atheist's argument was
shallow enough.

It would have been easy to show that a world such as he imagines is
unthinkable directly we are serious with our conception of it. On
whatever lines the world may be framed, there must be distinction,
difference, a higher and a lower; and the lower, relatively to the
higher, must always be an evil. The scale upon which the higher and
lower both are makes no difference. The supremest bliss would not be
bliss if it were not definable bliss--that is to say, in the sense that
it has limits, marking it out from something else not so supreme.
Perfectly uninterrupted, infinite light, without shadow, is a physical
absurdity. I see a thing because it is lighted, but also because of
the differences of light, or, in other words, because of shade, and
without shade the universe would be objectless, and in fact invisible.
The atheist was dreaming of shadowless light, a contradiction in terms.
Mankind may be improved, and the improvement may be infinite, and yet
good and evil must exist. So with death and life. Life without death
is not life, and death without life is equally impossible.

But though all this came to me, and was not only a great comfort to me,
but prevented any shallow prating like that to which I listened from
this lecturer, it could not be said that it was a gospel from which to
derive apostolic authority. There remained morals. I could become an
instructor of morality. I could warn tradesmen not to cheat, children
to honour their parents, and people generally not to lie. The mission
was noble, but I could not feel much enthusiasm for it, and more than
this, it was a fact that reformations in morals have never been
achieved by mere directions to be good, but have always been the result
of an enthusiasm for some City of God, or some supereminent person.
Besides, the people whom it was most necessary to reach would not be
the people who would, unsolicited, visit a Unitarian meeting-house. As
for a message of negations, emancipating a number of persons from the
dogma of the Trinity or future punishment, and spending my strength in
merely demonstrating the nonsense of orthodoxy, my soul sickened at the
very thought of it. Wherein would men be helped, and wherein should I
be helped?

There were only two persons in the town who had ever been of any
service to me. One was Miss Arbour, and the other was Mardon. But I
shrank from Miss Arbour, because I knew that my troubles had never been
hers. She belonged to a past generation, and as to Mardon, I never saw
him without being aware of the difficulty of accepting any advice from
him. He was perfectly clear, perfectly secular, and was so definitely
shaped and settled, that his line of conduct might always be predicted
beforehand with certainty. I knew very well what he thought about
preaching, and what he would tell me to do, or rather, what he would
tell me not to do.

Nevertheless, after all, I was a victim to that weakness which impels
us to seek the assistance of others when we know that what they offer
will be of no avail. Accordingly, I called on him. Both he and Mary
were at home, and I was received with more than usual cordiality. He
knew already that I had resigned, for the news was all over the town.
I said I was in great perplexity.

"The perplexities of most persons arise," said Mardon, "as yours
probably arise, from not understanding exactly what you want to do.
For one person who stumbles and falls with a perfectly distinct object
to be attained, I have known a score whose disasters are to be
attributed to their not having made themselves certain what their aim
is. You do not know what you believe; consequently you do not know how
to act."

"What would you do if you were in my case?"

"Leave the whole business and prefer the meanest handicraft. You have
no right to be preaching anything doubtful. You are aware what my
creed is. I profess no belief in God, and no belief in what hangs upon
it. Try and name now, any earnest conviction you possess, and see
whether you have a single one which I have not got."

"I DO believe in God."

"There is nothing in that statement. What do you believe about Him?--
that is the point. You will find that you believe nothing, in truth,
which I do not also believe of the laws which govern the universe and
man."

"I believe in an intellect of which these laws are the expression."

"Now what kind of an intellect can that be? You can assign to it no
character in accordance with its acts. It is an intellect, if it be an
intellect at all, which will swallow up a city, and will create the
music of Mozart for me when I am weary; an intellect which brings to
birth His Majesty King George IV., and the love of an affectionate
mother for her child; an intellect which, in the person of a tender
girl, shows an exquisite conscience, and in the person of one or two
religious creatures whom I have known, shows a conscience almost
inverted. I have always striven to prove to my theological friends
that their mere affirmation of God is of no consequence. They may be
affirming anything or nothing. The question, the all-important
question is, WHAT can be affirmed about Him?"

"Your side of the argument naturally admits of a more precise statement
than mine. I cannot encompass God with a well-marked definition, but
for all that, I believe in Him. I know all that may be urged against
the belief, but I cannot help thinking that the man who looks upon the
stars, or the articulation of a leaf, is irresistibly impelled, unless
he has been corrupted by philosophy, to say, There is intellect there.
It is the instinct of the child and of the man."

"I don't think so; but grant it, and again I ask, WHAT intellect is
it?"

"Again I say, I do not know."

"Then why dispute? Why make such a fuss about it?"

"It really seems to me of immense importance whether you see this
intellect or not, although you say it is of no importance. It appears
to be of less importance than it really is, because I do not think that
even you ever empty the universe of intellect. I believe that mind
never worships anything but mind, and that you worship it when you
admire the level bars of cloud over the setting sun. You think you
eject mind, but you do not. I can only half imagine a belief which
looks upon the world as a mindless blank, and if I could imagine it, it
would be depressing in the last degree to me. I know that I have mind,
and to live in a universe in which my mind is answered by no other
would be unbearable. Better any sort of intelligence than none at all.
But, as I have just said, your case admits of plainer statement than
mine. You and I have talked this matter over before, and I have never
gained a logical victory over you. Often I have felt thoroughly
prostrated by you, and yet, when I have left you, the old superstition
has arisen unsubdued. I do not know how it is, but I always feel that
upon this, as upon many other subjects, I never can really speak
myself. An unshapen thought presents itself to me, I look at it, and I
do all in my power to give it body and expression, but I cannot. I am
certain that there is something truer and deeper to be said about the
existence of God than anything I have said, and what is more, I am
certain of the presence of this something in me, but I cannot lift it
to the light."

"Ah, you are now getting into the region of sentiment, and I am unable
to accompany you. When my friends go into the clouds, I never try to
follow them."

All this time Mary had been sitting in the arm-chair against the
fireplace in her usual attitude, resting her head on her hand and with
her feet crossed one over the other on the fender. She had been
listening silently and motionless. She now closed her eyes and said -

"Father, father, it is not true."

"What is not true?"

"I do not mean that what you have said about theology is not true, but
you make Mr. Rutherford believe you are what you are not. Mr.
Rutherford, father sometimes tells us he has no sentiment, but you must
take no notice of him when he talks in that way. I always think of our
visit to the seaside two years ago. The railway-station was in a
disagreeable part of the town, and when we came out we walked along a
dismal row of very plain-looking houses. There were cards in the
window with 'Lodgings' written on them, and father wanted to go in to
ask the terms. I said that I did not wish to stay in such a dull
street, but father could not afford to pay for a sea view, and so we
went in to inquire. We then found that what we thought were the fronts
of the houses were the backs, and that the fronts faced the bay. They
had pretty gardens on the other side, and a glorious sunny prospect
over the ocean."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10