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it is unconscious to itself it emerges into an indirect and
vicarious consciousness in our other and conscious self； which
exists but in virtue of our unconscious self。 So we have also a
vicarious consciousness in others。 The unconscious life of those
that have gone before us has in great part moulded us into such men
and women as we are； and our own unconscious lives will in like
manner have a vicarious consciousness in others； though we be dead
enough to it in ourselves。
If it is again urged that it matters not to us how much we may be
alive in others； if we are to know nothing about it； I reply that
the common instinct of all who are worth considering gives the lie
to such cynicism。 I see here present some who have achieved； and
others who no doubt will achieve； success in literature。 Will one
of them hesitate to admit that it is a lively pleasure to her to
feel that on the other side of the world some one may be smiling
happily over her work； and that she is thus living in that person
though she knows nothing about it？ Here it seems to me that true
faith comes in。 Faith does not consist； as the Sunday School pupil
said； 〃in the power of believing that which we know to be untrue。〃
It consists in holding fast that which the healthiest and most
kindly instincts of the best and most sensible men and women are
intuitively possessed of； without caring to require much evidence
further than the fact that such people are so convinced； and for my
own part I find the best men and women I know unanimous in feeling
that life in others； even though we know nothing about it； is
nevertheless a thing to be desired and gratefully accepted if we can
get it either before death or after。 I observe also that a large
number of men and women do actually attain to such life； and in some
cases continue so to live； if not for ever； yet to what is
practically much the same thing。 Our life then in this world is； to
natural religion as much as to revealed； a period of probation。 The
use we make of it is to settle how far we are to enter into another；
and whether that other is to be a heaven of just affection or a hell
of righteous condemnation。
Who； then； are the most likely so to run that they may obtain this
veritable prize of our high calling？ Setting aside such lucky
numbers drawn as it were in the lottery of immortality； which I have
referred to casually above； and setting aside also the chances and
changes from which even immortality is not exempt； who on the whole
are most likely to live anew in the affectionate thoughts of those
who never so much as saw them in the flesh； and know not even their
names？ There is a nisus； a straining in the dull dumb economy of
things； in virtue of which some； whether they will it and know it or
no； are more likely to live after death than others； and who are
these？ Those who aimed at it as by some great thing that they would
do to make them famous？ Those who have lived most in themselves and
for themselves； or those who have been most ensouled consciously；
but perhaps better unconsciously； directly but more often
indirectly； by the most living souls past and present that have
flitted near them？ Can we think of a man or woman who grips us
firmly； at the thought of whom we kindle when we are alone in our
honest daw's plumes； with none to admire or shrug his shoulders； can
we think of one such； the secret of whose power does not lie in the
charm of his or her personalitythat is to say； in the wideness of
his or her sympathy with； and therefore life in and communion with
other people？ In the wreckage that comes ashore from the sea of
time there is much tinsel stuff that we must preserve and study if
we would know our own times and people； granted that many a dead
charlatan lives long and enters largely and necessarily into our own
lives； we use them and throw them away when we have done with them。
I do not speak of these； I do not speak of the Virgils and Alexander
Popes； and who can say how many more whose names I dare not mention
for fear of offending。 They are as stuffed birds or beasts in a
Museum； serviceable no doubt from a scientific standpoint； but with
no vivid or vivifying hold upon us。 They seem to be alive； but are
not。 I am speaking of those who do actually live in us； and move us
to higher achievements though they be long dead； whose life thrusts
out our own and overrides it。 I speak of those who draw us ever
more towards them from youth to age； and to think of whom is to feel
at once that we are in the hands of those we love； and whom we would
most wish to resemble。 What is the secret of the hold that these
people have upon us？ Is it not that while； conventionally speaking；
alive； they most merged their lives in； and were in fullest
communion with those among whom they lived？ They found their lives
in losing them。 We never love the memory of any one unless we feel
that he or she was himself or herself a lover。
I have seen it urged； again； in querulous accents； that the so…
called immortality even of the most immortal is not for ever。 I see
a passage to this effect in a book that is making a stir as I write。
I will quote it。 The writer says：…
〃So； it seems to me； is the immortality we so glibly predicate of
departed artists。 If they survive at all； it is but a shadowy life
they live； moving on through the gradations of slow decay to distant
but inevitable death。 They can no longer； as heretofore； speak
directly to the hearts of their fellow…men； evoking their tears or
laughter； and all the pleasures； be they sad or merry； of which
imagination holds the secret。 Driven from the marketplace they
become first the companions of the student； then the victims of the
specialist。 He who would still hold familiar intercourse with them
must train himself to penetrate the veil which in ever…thickening
folds conceals them from the ordinary gaze； he must catch the tone
of a vanished society； he must move in a circle of alien
associations； he must think in a language not his own。〃 ｛5｝
This is crying for the moon； or rather pretending to cry for it； for
the writer is obviously insincere。 I see the Saturday Review says
the passage I have just quoted 〃reaches almost to poetry；〃 and
indeed I find many blank verses in it； some of them very aggressive。
No prose is free from an occasional blank verse； and a good writer
will not go hunting over his work to rout them out； but nine or ten
in little more than as many lines is indeed reaching too near to
poetry for good prose。 This； however； is a trifle； and might pass
if the tone of the writer was not so obviously that of cheap
pessimism。 I know not which is cheapest； pessimism or optimism。
One forces lights； the other darks； both are equally untrue to good
art； and equally sure of their effect with the groundlings。 The one
extenuates； the other sets down in malice。 The first is the more
amiable lie； but both are lies； and are known to be so by those who
utter them。 Talk about catching the tone of a vanished society to
understand Rembrandt or Giovanni Bellini！ It's nonsensethe folds
do not thicken in front of these men； we un