“Jack Wells and I are very close friends. His sister’s name is Alice, and she has grown up in the country beyond, where his folks live. It seems all reach or return to maturity. Youth blossoms and flowers, but does not decay. I can call up her vision at any time. But I want her near.”
A simple and guileless little book, preposterous only in the assumption that the human race has waited for centuries to receive its revelations.
We have been told that the Great War stands responsible for our mental disturbance, for the repeated assaults upon taste and credulity before which the walls of our minds are giving way. Mr. Howells, observing rather sympathetically the ghostly stir and thrill which pervades literature, asked if it were due to the overwhelming numbers of the dead, if it came to us straight from sunken ships, and from the battle-fields of Europe.
What answer can we make save that natural laws work independently of circumstance? A single dead man and a million of dead men stand in the same relation to the living. If ever there was a time when it was needful to hold on to our sanity with all our might, that time is now. Our thoughts turn, and will long turn, to the men who laid down their lives for our safety. How could it be otherwise? There is, and there has always been, a sense of comradeship with the departed. It is a noble and a still comradeship, untarnished by illusions, unvulgarized by extravagant details. Newman has portrayed it in “A Voice from Afar”; and Mr. Rowland Thirlmere has made it the theme of some very simple and touching verses called “Jimmy Doane.” The elderly Englishman who has lost his friend, a young American aviator, “generous, clever, and confident,” and who sits alone, with his heart cold and sore, feels suddenly the welcome nearness of the dead. No table heaves its heavy legs to announce that silent presence. No alphabet is needed for his message. But the living man says simply to his friend, “My house is always open to you,” and hopes that they may sit quietly together when the dreams of both are realized, and the hour of deliverance comes.
The attitude of spirit authors to the war varies from the serene detachment of Raymond, who had been a soldier, to the passionate partisanship of the “Living Dead Man,” who had been a civilian; but who, like the anonymous “Son,” cannot refrain from playing a lively part in the struggle. “Many a time have I clutched with my too-tenuous hands a German soldier who was about to disgrace himself.” Harry and Helen express some calm regret that the lack of unselfish love should make war possible, and report that “Hughey”—their brother-in-law’s brother—“has gone to throw all he possesses of light into the dark struggle.” Apparently his beams failed signally to illuminate the gloom, which is not surprising when we learn that “a selfish or ill-natured thought” (say from a Bulgarian or a Turk) “lowers the rate of vibration throughout the entire universe.” They also join the “White Cross” nurses, and are gratified that their knowledge of French enables them to receive and encourage the rapidly arriving French soldiers. Helen, being the better scholar of the two, is able to give first aid, while Harry brushes up his verbs. In the absence of French caretakers, who seem to have all gone elsewhere, the two young Americans are in much demand.
Remote from such crass absurdities (which have their confiding readers) is the quiet, if somewhat perfunctory, counsel given by “The Invisible Guide” to Mr. C. Lewis Hind, and by him transmitted to the public. There is nothing offensive or distasteful in this little volume which has some charming chapters, and which purports to be an answer to the often asked question, “How may I enter into communion with the departed?” If the admonitions of the dead soldier, who is the “Guide,” lack pith and marrow, they do not lack it more perceptibly than do the admonitions of living counsellors, and he is always commendably brief. What depresses us is the quality of his pacifism expressed at a time which warranted the natural and noble anger awakened by injustice.
It is the peculiarity of all pacifists that wrongdoing disturbs them less than does the hostility it provokes. The “Guide” has not a sigh to waste over Belgium and Serbia. Air-raids and submarines fail to disturb his serenity. But he cannot endure a picture called Mitrailleuse, which represents four French soldiers firing a machine gun. When his friend, the author, so far forgets himself as to be angry at the insolence of some Germans, the “Guide,” pained by such intolerance, refuses any communication; and when, in more cheerful mood, the author ventures to be a bit enthusiastic over the gallant feats of a young aviator, the “Guide” murmurs faintly and reproachfully, “It is the mothers that suffer.”
One is forced to doubt if guidance such as this would ever have led to victory.
Raymond, though he has been thrust before the public without pity and without reserve, has shown no disposition to enter the arena of authorship. He has been content to prattle to his own family about the conditions that surround him, about the brick house he lives in, the laboratories he visits, where “all sorts of things” are manufactured out of “essences and ether and gases,”—rather like German war products, and the lectures that he attends. The subjects of these lectures are spirituality, concentration, and—alas!—“the projection of uplifting and helpful thoughts to those on the earth plane.” Such scraps of wisdom as are vouchsafed him he passes dutifully on to his parents. He tells his mother that, on the spiritual plane, “Rank doesn’t count as a virtue. High rank comes by being virtuous.”
“Kind hearts are more than coronets.”