21 September: Boreham on H G Wells

Dividing the Spoil
The twenty-first of September is the birthday of Mr. H. G. Wells. The circumstance may be permitted to remind us that, in his "Marriage," Mr. H. G. Wells tellingly describes a gripping moment in the life of his hero. Trafford, a clever scientist, has succeeded beyond all his dreams. He has made an enormous fortune, married a beautiful wife, and built for himself a palatial home. Then one day, in a sudden spasm of introspection and heart-searching self-examination, he asks himself: "But what am I doing with it all? What am I doing with it?" It is a pertinent inquiry. Success in life depends very largely upon proficiency in two fine arts—the art of acquiring, and the art of administering our acquisitions. In the early stages of a man's career, he takes it for granted that the great thing is to acquire. Later on, a still more baffling problem presents itself. He has acquired; to what practical use shall he put his gains? He has earned his leisure; how shall he spend it? The wealth is amassed; what shall he do with the money?

One of those ancient sages to whom we so often turn amidst our modern perplexities, tells how he once came upon a Syrian backwoodsman who had just felled a tall cedar. It lies prostrate before him. And, now that it is down, what shall he do with the timber? In his "Woman in White," Wilkie Collins tells how Sir Percival Glyde spent the whole of his time in making walking-sticks. He filled the house with them. He never used one of them; never conferred upon his products a second glance; when they were finished his interest in them was exhausted. There was no relationship at all between the labour that he lavished upon them and the satisfaction that the fruit of that labour afforded him.

The Dovetailing Of Life's Hungers
There is no sense in everlastingly chopping down trees unless we know what we propose to do with the timber; there is no sense in obtaining academic distinctions unless we have some purpose to serve by our education; there is no sense in heaping up wealth unless we have some project for its ultimate use. The axeman whom the prophet encountered in the woods had a programme—of a kind. He decided to divide the fallen tree into three parts. With the first he will roast his meat; a man must eat. He thus pays tribute to the Necessities of life. Then, thinking of the chilly evenings, he sets the second part aside for firewood. He will sit beside his blazing campfire, rub his hands, and feel that life is good. He thus makes his concession to the Luxuries of life. And then, from the remnant of his log, he will carve for himself a god and will fall down and worship it. He thus does homage to the Sanctities of life. These three apportionments of his booty are most fascinating.

He is evidently conscious of three great hungers—the hunger of the body for food, the hunger of the senses for comfort, and the hunger of the soul for adoration. In dividing his log with a view to the satisfaction of these cravings, he makes that log a concrete expression of his inner life. The earmarking of part of the timber to the physical requirements of his being, part of it to sensuous enjoyment, and part of it to a recognition of the spiritual needs of his nature, reveals the exact place which each of these elements occupies in his heart. For the wonder of our humanity is so intricate and so pervasive that it infects inanimate objects with its own virtues and vices; its own merits and defects. A log of wood is, in itself, neither moral nor immoral; it is non-moral. Yet, so soon as it becomes somebody's property, it stands transfused by all the ethical forces that mark the personality and the character of its owner. It is very curious and intensely significant that there has crept into own legal phraseology the word "personality" as applied to property. It reflects the underlying and vital truth that, in actual fact, our possessions become a mere extension of ourselves.

Putting Things In Their Proper Places
Once we possess a thing we incorporate it into our personal organism. Three men may each possess a sheet of paper. The first, a lover, will transmute it into a vehicle for the expression of his passion. The second, a poet, will inscribe upon it a song that will be sung for centuries. The third, a statesman, will turn it into an ultimatum that will plunge the world into war. Our money becomes good money or bad money in exact proportion to our own goodness or badness. If the personality of its owner be good, the money will be good money and will be so spent, invested, and administered as to uplift mankind. If the personality of its owner be corrupt, the money will be bad money and will blight humanity in its flow. George Eliot's Silas Marner twice possessed the same money. As a miser he hoarded it and his life narrowed and hardened under its baleful influence. On regaining it after its loss, he revelled in spending it in securing the happiness of those about him, and the gold, once his curse, glorified his whole career.

In the old backwoodsman's allocation of his timber, there is only one factor to be deplored. We admire the deliberate way in which this man divided his treasure among the necessities, the luxuries, and the sanctities of life. It is specially pleasing that he found room in his heart for the sanctities. It is not everybody that does. But he put the sanctities last. He regarded the cooking of his food as of primary importance. He accorded second place to the crackling fire that would cheer his long and lonely evenings. And the residue of his log—the lump left over after the demands of life's necessities and life's luxuries had been met—he made into an idol. In all the circumstances, we may feel some gratification that religion came into the picture at all. But it finished a bad last. He gave his god his leavings. When, like hungry dogs fighting for a bone, his Stomach, his Senses and his Soul struggled for his treasure, his Soul had to be content with the scraps that the others left. The dignity of the faith should preserve it from so humiliating and melancholy a fate.

F W Boreham

Image: H G Wells