Daily Thoughts: selected from the writings of Charles Kingsley by his wife

God’s Mercy or Man’s?  July 31

“He fought till he could fight no more, and then died like a hero, with all his wounds in front; and may God have mercy on his soul.”

“That last was a Popish prayer, Master Frank,” said old Mr. Carey.

“Most worshipful sir, you surely would not wish God not to have mercy on his soul?”

“No—Eh?  Of course not, for that’s all settled by now, for he is dead, poor fellow!”

“And you can’t help being a little fond of him still?”

“Eh?  Why, I should be a brute if I were not.  Fond of him? why, I would sooner have given my forefinger than that he should have gone to the dogs.”

“Then, my dear sir, if you feel for him still, in spite of all his faults, how do you know that God may not feel for him in spite of all his faults?  For my part,” said Frank, in his fanciful way, “without believing in that Popish purgatory, I cannot help holding with Plato that such heroical souls, who have wanted but little of true greatness here, are hereafter, by strait discipline, brought to a better mind.”

    Westward Ho! chap. v.  1854.

The Chrysalis State

You ask, “What is the Good?”  I suppose God Himself is the Good; and it is this, in addition to a thousand things, which makes me feel the absolute certainty of a resurrection, and a hope that this, our present life, instead of being an ultimate one, which is to decide our fate for ever, is merely some sort of chrysalis state in which man’s faculties are so narrow and cramped, his chances (I speak of the millions, not of units) of knowing the Good so few, that he may have chances hereafter, perhaps continually fresh ones, to all eternity.

    Letters and Memories.  1852.

SAINTS’ DAYS, FASTS, & FESTIVALS

JULY 25

St. James, Apostle and Martyr

And they will know his worth
Years hence . . .
And crown him martyr; and his name will ring
Through all the shores of earth, and all the stars
Whose eyes are sparkling through their tears to see
His triumph, Preacher and Martyr. . .
. . . . .
. . . It is over; and the woe that’s dead,
Rises next hour a glorious angel.

    Santa Maura.

August

“I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,
I cannot tell what you say;
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
And a word in you this day.

“I cannot tell what ye say, rosy rocks,
I cannot tell what ye say;
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
And a word in you this day.

“I cannot tell what ye say, brown streams,
I cannot tell what ye say;
But I know, in you too, a spirit doth live,
And a word in you this day.”

“Oh! rose is the colour of love and youth,
And green is the colour of faith and truth,
And brown of the fruitful clay.
The earth is fruitful and faithful and young,
And her bridal morn shall rise erelong,
And you shall know what the rocks and streams
And the laughing green woods say.”

    Dartside, August 1849.

Sight and Insight.  August 1

Do the work that’s nearest,
Though it’s dull at whiles,
Helping, when you meet them,
Lame dogs over stiles;
See in every hedgerow
Marks of angels’ feet,
Epics in each pebble
Underneath our feet.

    The Invitation.  1857.

Genius and Character.  August 2

I have no respect for genius (I do not even acknowledge its existence) where there is no strength and steadiness of character.  If any one pretends to be more than a man he must begin by proving himself a man at all.

    Two Years Ago, chap. xv.

Nature’s Student.  August 3

The perfect naturalist must be of a reverent turn of mind—giving Nature credit for an inexhaustible fertility and variety, which will keep him his life long, always reverent, yet never superstitious; wondering at the commonest, but not surprised by the most strange; free from the idols of sense and sensuous loveliness; able to see grandeur in the minutest objects, beauty in the most ungainly: estimating each thing not carnally, as the vulgar do, by its size, . . . but spiritually, by the amount of Divine thought revealed to him therein. . . .

    Glaucus.  1855.

The Masses.  August 4

Though permitted evils should not avenge themselves by any political retribution, yet avenge themselves, if unredressed, they surely will.  They affect masses too large, interests too serious, not to make themselves bitterly felt some day. . . .  We may choose to look on the masses in the gross as objects for statistics—and of course, where possible, for profits.  There is One above who knows every thirst, and ache, and sorrow, and temptation of each slattern, and gin-drinker, and street-boy.  The day will come when He will require an account of these neglects of ours—not in the gross.

    Miscellanies.  1851.