Father Payne

Christopher Benson Arthur

Description

In this engaging volume of theological and philosophical essays and anecdotes, British writer A. C. Benson relates the views of his longtime mentor, an Anglican lay clergyman that he refers to as Father Payne. Although it's not exactly clear where Payne's opinions leave off and Benson's begin, there is definitely a great deal of thought-provoking insight to be gleaned from this collection.

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Philosophy of religion

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776591350
• Langue: English

Extrait

FATHER PAYNE
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ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON
 
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Father Payne First published in 1917 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-135-0 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-136-7 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface I - Father Payne II - Aveley III - The Society IV - The Summons V - The System VI - Father Payne VII - The Men VIII - The Method IX - Father Payne X - Characteristics XI - Conversation XII - Of Going to Church XIII - Of Newspapers XIV - Of Hate XV - Of Writing XVI - Of Marriage XVII - Of Loving God XVIII - Of Friendship XIX - Of Phyllis XX - Of Certainty XXI - Of Beauty XXII - Of War XXIII - Of Cads and Pharisees XXIV - Of Continuance XXV - Of Philanthropy XXVI - Of Fear XXVII - Of Aristocracy XXVIII - Of Crystals XXIX - Early Life XXX - Of Bloodsuckers XXXI - Of Instincts XXXII - Of Humility XXXIII - Of Meekness XXXIV - Of Criticism XXXV - Of the Sense of Beauty XXXVI - Of Biography XXXVII - Of Possessions XXXVIII - Of Loneliness XXXIX - Of the Writer's Life XL - Of Waste XLI - Of Education XLII - Of Religion XLIII - Of Critics XLIV - Of Worship XLV - Of a Change of Religion XLVI - Of Affection XLVII - Of Respect of Persons XLVIII - Of Ambiguity XLIX - Of Belief L - Of Honour LI - Of Work LII - Of Companionship LIII - Of Money LIV - Of Peaceableness LV - Of Life-Force LVI - Of Conscience LVII - Of Rank LVIII - Of Biography LIX - Of Exclusiveness LX - Of Taking Life LXI - Of Bookishness LXII - Of Consistency LXIII - Of Wrens and Lilies LXIV - Of Pose LXV - Of Revenants LXVI - Of Discipline LXVII - Of Increase LXVIII - Of Prayer LXIX - The Shadow LXX - Of Weakness LXXI - The Bank of the River LXXII - The Crossing LXXIII - After-Thoughts LXXIV - Departure
Preface
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Often as I have thought of my old friend "Father Payne," as weaffectionately called him, I had somehow never intended to write about him,or if I did, it was "like as a dream when one awaketh," a vision thatmelted away at the touch of common life. Yet I always felt that his was oneof those rich personalities well worth depicting, if the attitude andgesture with which he faced the world could be caught and fixed. Thedifficulty was that he was a man of ideas rather than of performance,suggestive rather than active: and the whole history of his experiment withlife was evasive, and even to ordinary views fantastic.
Besides, my own life has been a busy one, full of hard ordinary work: itwas not until the war gave me, like many craftsmen, a most reluctant andunwelcome space of leisure, that I ever had the opportunity of consideringthe possibility of writing this book. I am too old to be a combatant, andtoo much of a specialist in literature to transmute my activities. I latelyfound myself with my professional occupations suddenly suspended, andmoreover, like many men who have followed a wholly peaceful profession,plunged in a dark bewilderment as to the onset of the forces governing thesocial life of Europe. In the sad inactivity which followed, I set to workto look through my old papers, for the sake of distraction and employment,and found much material almost ready for use, careful notes ofconversations, personal reminiscences, jottings of characteristic touches,which seemed as if they could be easily shaped. Moreover, the past suddenlyrevived, and became eloquent and vivid. I found in the beautiful memoriesof those glowing days that I spent with Father Payne—it was only threeyears—some consolation and encouragement in my distress.
This little volume is the result. I am well aware that the busy years whichhave intervened have taken the edge off some of my recollections, while thelapse of time has possibly touched others with a sunset glow. That canhardly be avoided, and I am not sure that I wish to avoid it.
I am not here concerned with either criticising or endorsing Father Payne'sviews. I see both inconsistencies and fallacies in them. I even detectprejudices and misinterpretations of which I was not conscious at the time.I have no wish to idealise my subject unduly, but it is clear to me, and Ihope I have made it clear to others, that Father Payne was a man who had avery definite theory of life and faith, and who at all events livedsincerely and even passionately in the light of his beliefs. Moreover, whenhe came to put them to the supreme test, the test of death, they did notdesert or betray him: he passed on his way rejoicing.
He used, I remember, to warn us against attempting too close an analysis ofcharacter. He used to say that the consciousness of a man, the intuitiveinstinct which impelled him, his attack upon experience, was a thingalmost independent both of his circumstances and of his reason. He used totake his parable from the weaving of a tapestry, and say that a box full ofthread and a loom made up a very small part of the process. It was theinventive instinct of the craftsman, the faculty of designing, that wasall-important.
He himself was a man of large designs, but he lacked perhaps the practicalgift of embodiment. I looked upon him as a man of high poetical powers,with a great range of hopes and visions, but without the technicalaccomplishment which lends these their final coherence. He was fully awareof this himself, but he neither regretted it nor disguised it. The truthwas that his interest in existence was so intense, that he lacked the powerof self-limitation needed for an artistic success. What, however, he gaveto all who came in touch with him, was a strong sense of the richness andgreatness of life and all its issues. He taught us to approach it with nopreconceived theories, no fears, no preferences. He had a great mistrust ofconventional interpretation and traditional explanations. At the same timehe abhorred controversy and wrangling. He had no wish to expunge the idealsof others, so long as they were sincerely formed rather than meeklyreceived. Though I have come myself to somewhat different conclusions, heat least taught me to draw my own inferences from my own experiences,without either deferring to or despising the conclusions of others.
The charm of his personality lay in his independence, his sympathy, hiseager freshness of view, his purity of motive, his perfect simplicity; andit is all this which I have attempted to depict, rather than to trace histheories, or to present a philosophy which was always concrete rather thanabstract, and passionate rather than deliberate. To use a homely proverb,Father Payne was a man who filled his chair!
Of one thing I feel sure, and that is that wherever Father Payne is, andwhatever he may be doing—for I have as absolute a conviction of thecontinued existence of his fine spirit as I have of the present existenceof my own—he will value my attempt to depict him as he was. I remember histelling me a story of Dr. Johnson, how in the course of his last illness,when he could not open his letters, he asked Boswell to read them for him.Boswell opened a letter from some person in the North of England, of acomplimentary kind, and thinking it would fatigue Dr. Johnson to have itread aloud, merely observed that it was highly in his praise. Dr. Johnsonat once desired it to be read to him, and said with great earnestness," The applause of a single human being is of great consequence. "Father Payne added that it was one of Johnson's finest sayings, and had notouch of vanity or self-satisfaction in it, but the vital stuff ofhumanity. That I believe to be profoundly true: and that is the spirit inwhich I have set all this down.
September 30, 1915.
I - Father Payne
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It was a good many years ago, soon after I left Oxford, when I wastwenty-three years old, that all this happened. I had taken a degree inClassics, and I had not given much thought to my future profession. Therewas no very obvious opening for me, no family business, no influence in anyparticular direction. My father had been in the Army, but was long dead. Mymother and only sister lived quietly in the country. I had no prosaic andpractical uncles to push me into any particular line; while on coming ofage I had inherited a little capital which brought me in some two hundred ayear, so that I could afford to wait and look round. My only real taste wasfor literature. I wanted to write, but I had no very pressing aspirationsor inspirations. I may confess that I was indolent, fond of company, butnot afraid of comparative solitude, and I was moreover an entiredilettante. I read a good many books, and tried feverishly to write in thestyle of the authors who most attracted me, I settled down at home, more orless, in a country village where I knew everyone; I travelled a little; andI paid occasional visits to London, where several of my undergraduate andschool friends lived, with a vague idea of getting to know literary people;but they were not very easy to meet, and, when I did meet them, they didnot betray any very marked interest in my designs and visions.
I was dining one night at a restaurant with a College friend of mine, JackVincent, whose tastes were much the same as my own, only more strenuous;his father and mother lived in London, and when I went there I generallystayed with them. They were well-to-do, good-natured people; but, beyondoccasionally reminding Jack that he ought to be thinking about aprofession, they left him very much to his own devices, and he had begun towrite a novel, and a play, and two or three other masterpieces.
That particular night his f