the story of my heart-第8章

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as　I　did　lying　on　the　turf　listening　to　the　wind　among　the　grass；　it　would
have　seemed　natural　to　have　found　butterflies　fluttering　among　he　statues。
The　same　deep　desire　was　with　me。　I　shall　always　go　to　speak　to　them；　they
are　a　place　of　pilgrimage；　wherever　there　is　a　beautiful　statue　there　is　a
place　of　pilgrimage。

I　always　stepped　aside；　too；　to　look　awhile　at　the　head　of
Julius　Caesar。　The　domes　of　the　swelling　temples　of　his　broad
head　are　full　of　mind；　evident　to　the　eye　as　a　globe　is　full　of
substance　to　the　sense　of　feeling　in　the　hands　that　hold　it。
The　thin　worn　cheek　is　entirely　human；　endless　difficulties
surmounted　by　endless　labour　are　marked　in　it；　as　the　sandblast；
by　dint　of　particles　ceaselessly　driven；　carves　the　hardest
material。　If　circumstances　favoured　him　he　made　those
circumstances　his　own　by　marvellous　labour；　so　as　justly　to
receive　the　credit　of　chance。　Therefore　the　thin　cheek　is　entirely
humanthe　sum　of　human　life　made　visible　in　one
facelabour；　and　endurance；　and　mind；　and　all　in　vain。　A
shadowof　deep　sadness　has　gathered　on　it　in　the　years　that
have　passed；　because　endurance　was　without　avail。　It　is　sadder
to　look　at　than　the　grass…grown　tumulus　I　used　to　sit　by；
because　it　is　a　personality；　and　also　on　account　of　the　extreme
folly　of　our　human　race　ever　destroying　our　greatest。

Far　better　had　they　endeavoured；　however　hopelessly；　to　keep　him
living　till　this　day。　Did　but　the　race　this　hour　possess　one…
hundredth　part　of　his　breadth　of　view；　how　happy　for　them！　Of
whom　else　can　it　be　said　that　he　had　no　enemies　to　forgive
because　he　recognised　no　enemy？　Nineteen　hundred　years　ago　he
put　in　actual　practice；　with　more　arbitrary　power　than　any
despot；　those　very　principles　of　humanity　which　are　now　put
forward　as　the　highest　culture。　But　he　made　them　to　be　actual　things　under
his　sway。

The　one　man　filled　with　mind；　the　one　man　without　avarice；
anger；　pettiness；　littleness；　the　one　man　generous　and　truly
great　of　all　history。　It　is　enough　to　make　one　despair　to　think
of　the　mere　brutes　butting　to　death　the　great…minded　Caesar。　He
comes　nearest　to　the　ideal　of　a　design…power　arranging　the
affairs　of　the　world　for　good　in　practical　things。　Before　his
facethe　divine　brow　of　mind　above；　the　human　suffering…drawn
cheek　beneathmy　own　thought　became　set　and　strengthened。　That
I　could　but　look　at　things　in　the　broad　way　he　did；　that　I
could　not　possess　one　particle　of　such　width　of　intellect　to
guide　my　own　course；　to　cope　with　and　drag　forth　from　the　iron…
resisting　forces　of　the　universe　some　one　thing　of　my　prayer　for
the　soul　and　for　the　flesh。

CHAPTER　VI

THERE　is　a　place　in　front　of　the　Royal　Exchange　where　the　wide
pavement　reaches　out　like　a　promontory。　It　is　in　the　shape　of　a
triangle　with　a　rounded　apex。　A　stream　of　traffic　runs　on　either　side；　and
other　streets　send　their　currents　down　into　the
open　space　before　it。　Like　the　spokes　of　a　wheel　converging
streams　of　human　life　flow　into　this　agitated　pool。　Horses　and　carriages；
carts；　vans；　omnibuses；　cabs；　every　kind　of　conveyance　cross　each　other's
course　in　every　possible　direction。　Twisting　in　and　out　by　the　wheels　and
under　the　horses'　heads；　working　a　devious　way；　men　and　women　of
all　conditions　wind　a　path　over。　They　fill　the　interstices
between　the　carriages　and　blacken　the　surface；　till　the
vans　almost　float　on　human　beings。　　Now　the　streams　slacken；　and　now　they
rush　amain；　but　never　cease；　dark　waves　are　always　rolling　down　the　incline
opposite；　waves　swell　out　from　the　side　rivers；　all　London　converges　into
this　focus。　There　is　an　indistinguishable　noiseit　is　not　clatter；　hum；　or
roar；　it　is　not　resolvable；　made　up　of　a　thousand　thousand　footsteps；　from　a
thousand　hoofs；　a　thousand　wheelsof　haste；　and　shuffle；　and　quick
movements；　and　ponderous　loads；　no　attention　can　resolve　it　into　a　fixed
sound。

Blue　carts　and　yellow　omnibuses；　varnished　carriages　and　brown
vans；　green　omnibuses　and　red　cabs；　pale　loads　of　yellow　straw；
rusty…red　iron　cluking　on　pointless　carts；　high　white　wool…
packs；　grey　horses；　bay　horses；　black　teams；　sunlight　sparkling
on　brass　harness；　gleaming　from　carriage　panels；　jingle；　jingle；
jingle！　An　intermixed　and　intertangled；　ceaselessly　changing　jingle；　too；of
colour；　flecks　of　colour　champed；　as　it　were；　like　bits　in　the　horses'
teeth；　frothed　and　strewn　about；　and　a　surface　always　of　dark…dressed　people
winding　like　the　curves　on　fast…flowing　water。　This　is　the　vortex　and
whirlpool；　the　centre　of　human　life　today　on　the　earth。　　Now　the　tide　rises
and　now　it　sinks；　but　the　flow　of　these　rivers　always　continues。　Here　it
seethes　and　whirls；　not　for　an　hour　only；　but　for　all　present　time；　hour　by
hour；　day　by　day；　year　by　year。

Here　it　rushes　and　pushes；　the　atoms　triturate　and　grind；　and；
eagerly　thrusting　by；　pursue　their　separate　ends。　Here　it
appears　in　its　unconcealed　personality；　indifferent　to　all　else
but　itself；　absorbed　and　rapt　in　eager　self；　devoid　and　stripped
of　conventional　gloss　and　politeness；　yielding　only　to　get　its　own　way；
driving；　pushing；　carried　on　in　a　stress　of　feverish　force　like　a　bullet；
dynamic　force　apart　from　reason　or　will；　like　the　force　that　lifts　the　tides
and　sends　the　clouds　onwards。　The　friction　of　a　thousand　interests　evolves　a
condition　of　electricity　in　which　men　are　moved　to　and　fro　without
considering　their　steps。　　Yet　the　agitated　pool　of　life　is　stonily
indifferent；　the　thought　is　absent　or　preoccupied；　for　it　is　evident　that
the　mass　are　unconscious　of　the　scene　in
which　they　act。

But　it　is　more　sternly　real　than　the　very　stones；　for　all　these
men　and　women　that　pass　through　are　driven　on　by　the　push　of
accumulated　circumstances；　they　cannot　stay；　they　must　go；
their　necks　are　in　the　slave's　ring；　they　are　beaten　like
seaweed　against　the　solid　walls　of　fact。　In　ancient　times；
Xerxes；　the　king　of　kings；　looking　down　upon　his　myriads；　wept　to　think　that
in　a　hundred　years　not　one　of　them　would　be　left。　　Where　will　be　these
millions　of　to…day　in　a　hundred　years？　But；　further　than　that；　let　us　ask；
Where　then　will　be　the　sum　and　outcome　of　their　labour？　　If　they　wither　away
like　summer　grass；　will　not　at　least　a　result　be　left　which　those　of　a
hundred　years　hence　may　be　the　better　for？　No；　not　one　jot！　There　will　not
be　any　sum　or　outcome　or　result　of　this　ceaseless　labour　and　movement；　it
vanishes　in　the　moment　that　it　is　done；　and　in　a　hundred　years　nothing　will
be　there；　for　nothing　is　there　now。　There　will　be　no　more　sum　or　result　than
accumulates　from　the　motion　of　a　revolving　cowl　on　a　housetop。　　Nor　do　they
receive　any　more　sunshine　during　their　lives；　for　they　are　unconscious　of
the　sun。

I　used　to　come　and　stand　near　the　apex　of　the　promontory　of　pavement　which
juts　out　towards　the　pool　of　life；　I　still　go　there　to　ponder。　　Burning　in
the　sky；　the　sun　shone　on　me　as　when　I　rested　in　the　narrow　valley　carved　in
prehistoric　time。
Burning　in　the　sky；　I　can　never　forget　the　sun。　The　heat　of　summer　is　dry
there　as　if　the　light　carried　an　impalpable　dust；　dry；　breathless　heat　that
will　not　let　the　skin　respire；　but
swathes　up　the　dry　fire　in　the　blood。　But　beyond　the　heat　and　light；　I　felt
the　presence　of　the　sun　as　I　felt　it　in　the　solitary　valley；　the　presence　of
the　resistless　forces　of　the
universe；　the　sun　burned　in　the　sky　as　I　stood　and　pondered。　　Is　there　any
theory；　philosophy；　or　creed；　is　there　any　system　or
culture；　any　formulated　method　able　to　meet　and　satisfy　each　separate　item
of　this　agitated　pool　of　human　life？　By　which　they　may　be　guided；　by　which
hope；　by　which　look　forward？　Not　a　mere　illusion　of　the　craven
heartsomething　real；　as　real　as　the　solid　walls　of　fact　against　which；
like　drifted　sea…weed；　they　are　dashed；　something　to　give　each　separate
personality　sunshine　and　a　flower　in　its　own　existence　now；　something　to
shape　this　million…handed　labour　to　an　end　and　outcome　that　will　leave　more
sunshine　and　more　flowers　to　those　who　must　succeed？　Something　real　now；　and
not　in　the　spirit…land；　in　this　hour　now；　as　I　stand　and　the　sun　burns。　Can
any　creed；　philosophy；　system；　or　culture　endure　the　test　and　remain
unmolten　in　this　fierce　focus　ofhuman　life？

Consider；　is　there　anything　slowly　painted　on　the　once　mystic　and　now
commonplace　papyri　of　ancient；　ancient　Egypt；　held　on　the　mummy's　withered
breast？　In　that　elaborate　ritual；　in　the　procession　of　the　symbols；　in　the
winged　circle；　in　the　laborious　sarcophagus？　Nothing；　absolutely　nothing！
Before　the
fierce　heat　of　the　human　furnace；　the　papyri　smoulder　away　as　paper
smoulders　under　a　lens　in　the　sun。　Remember　Nineveh　and
the　cult　of　the　fir…cone；　the　turbaned　and　bearded　bulls　of
stone；　the　lion　hunt；　the　painted　chambers　loaded　with　tile
books；　the　lore　of　the　arrow…headed　writing。　What　is　in
Assyria？　There　are　sand；　and　failing　rivers；　and　in　Assyria's
writings　an　utter　nothing。　The　aged　caves　of　India；　who　shall
tell　when　they　were　sculptured？　Far　back　when　the　sun　was
burning；　burning　in　the　sky　as　now　in　untold　precedent　time。
Is　there　any　meaning　in　those　ancient　caves？　The　indistinguish…able　noise
not　to　be　resolved；　born　of　the　human　struggle；　mocks　in　answer。

In　the　strange　characters　of　the　Zend；　in　the　Sanscrit；　in　the
effortless　creed　of　Confucius；　in　the　Aztec　coloured…string
writings　and　rayed　stones；　in　the　uncertain　marks　left　of　the
sunken　Polynesian　continent；　hieroglyphs　as　useless　as　those　of
Memphis；　nothing。　Nothing！　They　have　been　tried；　and　were　found　an　illusion。
Think　then；　to…day；　now　looking　from　this　apex
of　the　pavement　promontory　outwards　from　our　own　land　to　the　utmost　bounds
of　the　farthest　sail；　is　there　any　faith　or　culture　at　this　hour　which　can
stand　in　this　fierce　heat？　From　the　various　forms　of　Semitic；　Aryan；　or
Turanian　creed　now　existing；　from　the　printing…press　to　the　palm…leaf　volume
on　to　those　who　call　on　the　jewel　in　the　lotus；　can　aught　be　gathered　which
can　face　this；　the　Reality？　The　indistinguishable　noise；　non…resolvable；
roars　a　loud　contempt。

Turn；　then；　to　the　calm　reasoning　of　Aristotle；　is　there
anything　in　that？　Can　the　half…divine　thought　of　Plato；　rising
in　storeys　of　sequential　ideas；　following　each　other　to　the
conclusion；　endure　here？　No！　All　the　philosophers　in　Diogenes
Laertius　fade　away：　the　theories　of　medimval　days；　the　organon
of　experiment；　down　to　this　hourthey　are　useless　alike。　The
science　of　this　hour；　drawn　from　the　printing…press　in　an　endless　web　of
paper；　is　powerless　here；　the　indistinguishable　noise　echoed　from　the
smoke…shadowed　walls　despises　the　whole。　A　thousand　footsteps；　a　thousand
hoofs；　a　thousand　wheels　roll　over　and　utterly　contemn　them　in　complete
annihilation。　Mere　illusions　of　heart　or　mind；　they　are　tested　and　thrust
aside　by　the　irresistible　push　of　a　million　converging　feet。

Burning　in　the　sky；　the　sun　shines　as　it　shone　on　me　in　the
solitary　valley；　as　it　burned　on　when　the　earliest　cave　of　India
was　carved。　Above　the　indistinguishable　roar　of　the　many　feet　I
feel　the　presence　of　the　sun；　of　the　immense　forces　of　the
universe；　and　beyond　these　the　sense　of　the　eternal　now；　of　the
immortal。　Full　well　aware　that　all　has　fail