the story of my heart-第4部分

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determined　that　I　would　endeavour　to　write　what　I　had　so　long
thought　of；　and　the　same　evening　put　down　one　sentence。　There
the　sentence　remained　two　years。　　I　tried　to　carry　it　on；　I　hesitated
because　I　could　not　express　it：　nor　can　I　now；　though　in　desperation　I　am
throwing　these　rude　stones　of　thought　together；　rude　as　those　of　the　ancient
wall。

CHAPTER　III

THERE　were　grass…grown　tumuli　on　the　hills　to　which　of　old　I　used　to　walk；
sit　down　at　the　foot　of　one　of　them；　and　think。　Some　warrior　had　been
interred　there　in　the　antehistoric　times。　The　sun　of　the　summer　morning
shone　on　the　dome　of　sward；　and　the　air　came　softly　up　from　the　wheat　below；
the　tips　of　the　grasses　swayed　as　it　passed　sighing　faintly；　it　ceased；　and
the　bees　hummed　by　to　the　thyme　and　heathbells。　I　became　absorbed　in　the
glory　of　the　day；　the　sunshine；　the　sweet　air；　the　yellowing　corn　turning
from　its　sappy　green　to　summer's　noon　of　gold；　the　lark's　song　like　a
waterfall　in　the　sky。　I　felt　at　that　moment　that　I　was　like　the　spirit　of
the　man　whose　body　was　interred　in　the　tumulus；　I　could　understand　and　feel
his　existence　the　same　as　my　own。　He　was　as　real　to　me　two　thousand　years
after　interment　as　those　I　had　seen　in　the　body。　The　abstract　personality　of
the　dead　seemed　as　existent　as　thought。　As　my
thought　could　slip　back　the　twenty　centuries　in　a　moment　to　the　forest…days
when　he　hurled　the　spear；　or　shot　with　the　bow；　hunting　the　deer；　and　could
return　again　as　swiftly　to　this　moment；　so　his　spirit　could　endure　from　then
till　now；　and　the　time　was　nothing。

Two　thousand　years　being　a　second　to　the　soul　could　not　cause
its　extinction。　Itwas　no　longer　to　the　soul　than　my　thought　occupied　to　me。
Recognising　my　own　inner　consciousness；　the　psyche；　so　clearly；　death　did
not　seem　to　me　to　affect　the　personality。In　dissolution　there　was　no
bridgeless　chasm；　no　unfathomable　gulf　of　separation；　the　spirit　did　not
immediately　become　inaccesible；　leaping　at　a　bound　to　an　immeasurable
distance。　Look　at　another　person　while　living；
the　soul　is　not　visible；　only　the　body　which　it　animates。　　Therefore；　merely
because　after　death　the　soul　is　not　visible　is　no　demonstration　that　it　does
not　still　live。
The　condition　of　being　unseen　is　the　same　condition　which　occurs
while　the　body　is　living；　so　that　intrinsically　there　is　nothing
exceptionable；　or　supernatural；　in　the　life　of　the　soul　after　death。　Resting
by　the　tumulus；　the　spirit　of　the　man　who　had　been　interred　there　was　to　me
really　alive；　and　very　close。　This　was　quite　natural；　as　natural　and　simple
as　the　grass　waving　in　the　wind；　the　bees　humming；　and　the　larks'　songs。
Only　by　the　strongest　effort　of　the　mind　could　I　understand　the　idea　of
extinction；　that　was　supernatural；　requiring　a　miracle；　the　immortality　of
the　soul　natural；　like　earth。　Listening　to　the　sighing　of　the　grass　I　felt
immortality　as　I　felt　the　beauty　of　the　summer　morning；　and　I　thought　beyond
immortality；　of　other　conditions；　more　beautiful　than　existence；　higher　than
immortality。

That　there　is　no　knowing；　in　the　sense　of　written　reasons；
whether　the　soul　lives　on　or　not；　I　am　fully　aware。　I　do　not
hope　or　fear。　At　least　while　I　am　living　I　have　enjoyed　the
idea　of　immortality；　and　the　idea　of　my　own　soul。　If　then；
after　death；　I　am　resolved　without　exception　into　earth；　air；
and　water；　and　the　spirit　goes　out　like　a　flame；　still　I　shall
have　had　the　glory　of　that　thought。

It　happened　once　that　a　man　was　drowned　while　bathing；　and　his
body　was　placed　in　an　outhouse　near　the　garden。　I　passed　the
outhouse　continually；　sometimes　on　purpose　to　think　about　it；
and　it　always　seemed　to　me　that　the　man　was　still　living。
Separation　is　not　to　be　comprehended；　the　spirit　of　the　man　did　not　appear
to　have　gone　to　an　in　conceivable　distance。　As　my　thought　flashes　itself
back　through　the　centuries　to　the　luxury　of　Canopus；　and　can　see　the　gilded
couches　of　a　city　extinct；　so　it　slips　through　the　future；　and　immeasurable
time　in　front　is　no　bounandary　to　it。　Certainly　the　man　was　not　dead　to　me。

Sweetly　the　summer　air　came　up　to　the　tumulus；　the　grass　sighed　softly；　the
butterflies　went　by；　sometimes　alighting　on　the　green　dome。　Two　thousand
years！　Summer　after　summer　the　blue　butterflies　had　visited　the　mound；　the
thyme　had　flowered；　the　wind　sighed　in　the　grass。　　The　azure　morning　had
spread　its　arms　over　the　low　tomb；　and　full　glowing　noon　burned　on　it；　the
purple　of　sunset　rosied　the　sward。　　Stars；　ruddy　in　the　vapour　of　the
southern　horizon；　beamed　at　midnight　through　the　mystic　summer　night；　which
is　dusky　and　yet　full　of　light。　White　mists　swept　up　and　hid　it；　dews　rested
on　the　turf；　tender　harebells　drooped；　the　wings　of　the　finches　fanned　the
airfinches　whose　colours　faded　from　the　wings　how　many　centuries　ago！
Brown　autumn　dwelt　in　the　woods　beneath；　the　rime　of　winter　whitened　the
beech　clump　on　the　ridge；　again　the　buds　came　on　the　wind…blown　hawthorn
bushes；　and　in　the　evening　the　broad　constellation　of　Orion　covered　the
east。　Two　thousand　times！　Two　thousand　times　the　woods　grew　green；　and
ring…doves　built　their　nests。　　Day　and　night　for　two　thousand　yearslight
and　shadow　sweeping　over　the　moundtwo　thousand　years　of　labour　by　day　and
slumber　by　night。　Mystery　gleaming　in　the　stars；　pouring　down　in　the
sunshine；　speaking　in　the　night；　the　wonder　of　the　sun　and　of　far　space；　for
twenty　centuries　round　about　this　low　and　green…grown　dome。　　Yet　all　that
mystery　and　wonder　is　as　nothing　to　the　Thought　that　lies　therein；　to　the
spirit　that　I　feel　so　close。

Realising　that　spirit；　recognising　my　own　inner　consciousness；
the　psyche；　so　clearly；　I　cannot　understand　time。　It　is
eternity　now。　I　am　in　the　midst　of　it。　It　is　about　me　in　the
sunshine；　I　am　in　it；　as　the　butterfly　floats　in　the　light…laden
air。　Nothing　has　to　come；　it　is　now。　Now　is　eternity；　now　is
the　immortal　life。　Here　this　moment；　by　this　tumulus；　on　earth；
now；　I　exist　in　it。　The　years；　the　centuries；　the　cycles　are
absolutely　nothing；　it　is　only　a　moment　since　this　tumulus　was　raised；　in　a
thousand　years　it　will　still　be　only　a　moment。　To　the　soul　there　is　no　past
and　no　future；　all　is　and　will　be
ever；　in　now。　For　artificial　purposes　time　is　mutually　agreed
on；　but　is　really　no　such　thing。　The　shadow　goes　on　upon　the　dial；　the　index
moves　round　upon　the　clock；　and　what　is　the　difference？　　None　whatever。　If
the　clock　had　never　been　set　going；　what　would　have　been　the　difference？
There　may　be　time　for　the　clock；　the　clock　may　make　time　for　itself；　there
is　none　for　me。

I　dip　my　hand　in　the　brook　and　feel　the　stream；　in　an　instant
the　particles　of　water　which　first　touched　me　have　floated
yards　down　the　current；　my　hand　remains　there。　I　take　my　hand
away；　and　the　flowthe　timeof　the　brook　does　not　exist　to　me。
The　great　clock　of　the　firmament；　the　sun　and　the　stars；　the
crescent　moon；　the　earth　circling　two　thousand　times；　is　no
more　to　me　than　the　flow　of　the　brook　when　my　hand　is　withdrawn；　my　soul　has
never　been；　and　never　can　be；　dipped　in
time。　Time　has　never　existed；　and　never　will；　it　is　a　purely
artificial　arrangement。　　It　is　eternity　now；　it　always　was　eternity；　and
always　will　be。　　By　no　possible　means　could　I　get　into　time　if　I　tried。　I　am
in　eternity　now　and　must　there　remain。　　Haste　not；　be　at　rest；　this　Now　is
eternity。　　Because　the　idea　of　time　has　left　my　mindif　ever　it　had　any
hold　on　itto　me　the　man　interred　in　the　tumulus　is　living　now　as　I　live。
We　are　both　in　eternity。

There　is　no　separation…no　past；　eternity；　the　Now；　is
continuous。　When　all　the　stars　have　revolved　they　only　produce
Now　again。　The　continuity　of　Now　is　for　ever。　So　that　it
appears　to　me　purely　natural；　and　not　super　natural；　that　the
soul　whose　temporary　frame　was　interred　in　this　mound　should　be
existing　as　I　sit　on　the　sward。　How　infinitely　deeper　is　thought　than　the
million　miles　of　the　firmament！　The　wonder　is　here；　not　there；　now；　not　to
be；　now　always。　Things　that　have　been　miscalled　supernatural　appear　to　me
simple；more　natural　than　nature；　than　earth；　than　sea；or　sun。　It　is　beyond
telling　more　natural　that　I　should　have　a　soul　than　not；　that　there　should
be
immortality；　I　think　there　is　much　more　than　immortality。　It
is　matter　which　is　the　supernatural；　and　difficult　of　under…standing。　Why
this　clod　of　earth　I　hold　in　my　hand？　Why　this　water　which　drops　sparkling
from　my　fingers　dipped　in　the　brook？
Why　are　they　at　all？　When？　How？　What　for？　　Matter　is　beyond　understanding；
mysterious；　impenetrable；　I　touch　it　easily；　comprehend　it；　no。　Soul；
mindthe　thought；　the　ideais　easily　understood；　it　understands　itself　and
is　conscious。

The　supernatural　miscalled；　the　natural　in　truth；　is　the　real。
To　me　everything　is　supernatural。　How　strange　that　condition　of　mind　which
cannot　accept　anything　but　the　earth；　the　sea；　the　tangible　universe！
Without　the　misnamed　supernatural　these　to　me　seem　incomplete；　unfinished。
Without　soul　all　these　are　dead。　Except　when　I　walk　by　the　sea；　and　my　soul
is　by　it；　the　sea　is　dead。　Those　seas　by　which　no　man　has　stood　which　no
soul　has　beenwhether　on　earth　or　the　planets；　are　dead。　No　matter　how
majestic　the　planet　rolls　in　space；　unless　a　soul　be　there　it　is　dead。　As　I
move　about　in　the　sunshine　I　feel　in　the　midst　of　the　supernatural：　in　the
midst　of　immortal　things。　It　is　impossibble　to　wrest　the　mind　down　to　the
same　laws　that　rule　pieces　of　timber；　water；　or　earth。　They　do　not　control
the　soul；　however　rigidly　they　may　bind　matter。　　So　full　am　I　always　of　a
sense　of　the　immortality　now　at　this　moment　round　about　me；　that　it　would
not　surprise　me　in　the　least　if　a　circumstance　outside　physical　experience
occurred。　　It　would　seem　to　me　quite　natural。　Give　the　soul　the　power　it
conceives；　and　there　would　be　nothing　wonderful　in　it。

I　can　see　nothing　astonishing　in　what　are　called　miracles。
Only　those　who　are　mesmerised　by　matter　can　find　a　difficulty　in
such　events。　I　am　aware　that　the　evidence　for　miracles　is
logically　and　historically　untrustworthy；　I　am　not　defending
recorded　miracles。　My　point　is　that　in　principle　I　see　no
reason　at　all　why　they　should　not　take　place　this　day。　I　do　not
even　say　that　t