POET AND PROPHET.,


BY
ERNEST CROSBY.




ARTHUR C. FIFIELD,
44, Fleet Street, London, E.C.
57    "E' N ~T~T.








EDWARD CARPENTER:,POET AND PROPHET




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EDWARD
CARPENTER:
POET AND
PROPHET
DY
ERNEST CROSBY
Author of " Plain Talk in Psalm and Parable,"
" Tolstoy and His Message," "Tolstoy as a
Schoolmaster," etc.
SECOND EDITION


LONDON:
ARTHUR C. FIFIELD
THE SIMPLE LIFE PRESS
44, FLEET STREET, E.C. i9go,




Next follows the explanation of the Infinite as the Self; Self is below, above, behind, before, right and left-Self is all this.
He who sees, perceives, and understands this, loves the Self, delights in the Self, revels in the Self, rejoices in the Self-he becomes
an autocrat; he is lord and master in all the worlds..-..
But those who think differently from this, live in perishable worlds,
and have other beings for their rulers.-Kkandogya- Utanishad, VI1,
25.
He who beholds all beings in the Self, and the Self in all beings,
he never turns away from it.
When to a man who understands, the Self has become all things,
what sorrow, what trouble can there be to him who once beheld that
unity?- Vagasaneyi-Samhita- Utanishad, 6-7.




EDWARD CARPENTER: POET
AND PROPHET
Prophets usually have the defects of their good qualities. They are often narrow, intolerant and over strenuous, and they rarely possess a saving sense of humor.
Edward Carpenter is, however, a conspicuous exception;
he is without question a prophet, but in his writings at
any rate he has escaped these failings of his order.
There is a sweet reasonableness in his wildest assertions,
and a twinkle of merriment in his eye when his thought
is at its deepest, that are intensely refreshing to one who
loves prophets and yet wearies at times of their stress
and strain. One hallmark of the prophet he emphatically has: he is without honor in his own country; for
the high measure of fame which he enjoys among a few
choice souls, who would generally be classed as cranks,
could hardly be called honor in the acceptation of the
bookmongers of the day. True, one of his volumes is
in the fifth edition, but it is quite safe to assert that
neither Lord Salisbury~nor Mr. Chamberlain nor the
Archbishop of Canterbury is familiar with its contents;
and it is amusing to read in the list of essays in another
book the names of the obscure and defunct journals in
*Written in x9ox.(I




2


Edward Carpenter


which they first appeared, during a period in which the
standard reviews were printing the usual rubbish, little
conscious of what they were turning their backs upon.
Carpenter is a lecturer, too, as well as an author and
poet, but dukes do not take the chair when he appears
on the platform, nor does " society " throng him. He
is rather to be found talking in dimly lighted rooms to
a score or two of workingmen.
Yet the world had every reason to give Carpenter a
good  reception.  Born in  easy  circumstances at
Brighton, in 1844, and educated at Cambridge, he
became a fellow of his college, and for some time
curate under Frederick Denison Maurice. But he soon
threw  up his fellowship and relinquished orders,
devoting himself to the duties of a University Extension
lecturer on science, music, etc. Leaves of Grass made a
profound impression upon him, and in 1877, and again
in 1884, he made pilgrimages to the home of Walt
Whitman, at Camden, New Jersey, finding the poet still
greater than his works. Disgusted with the civilisation
which hedged him in from the mass of his fellowmen,
and falling in love with the classes that do the hard
work of the world, Carpenter in 1881 threw up his
lecturing work, and, sharing a laborer's cottage near
Sheffield, worked with him in the fields.  In that
vicinity he remained, passing a part of the time with his
mechanic friends in the neighboring city,, and building




Poet and Prophet


3


up a considerable business in the marketing of gardenproduce and the manufacture of sandals, of which I
shall have more to say hereafter. Meanwhile he wrote
poetry and prose and lectured on matters social and
economic. In short, Carpenter loves his neighbor in
deed as well as in word, and has of necessity ceased to
be respectable.  His so-called college " fellowship "
was reputable, and from that post his writings might
have reached polite society (as Ruskin's did), but the
fellow of Yorkshire farm and factory hands! how could
the world be expected to listen to such a man?
Carpenter's first and greatest work, Towards Democracy, appeared in 1883, and a third edition of it, containing many additions, came out in 1892. It is a collection of poems in the rhymeless, rhythmless form of
Whitman, and in it he has given the strongest and most
emotional expression to his inner vision. In 1887 he
printed several papers in book form under the title,
England's Ideal, and two years later followed Civilization, Its Cause and Cure, another volume of essays. His
Love's Coming of Age, with a supplementary pamphlet,
presents his views on the relation of the sexes, while
Angels' Wings gives his conception of art and music.
These books, taken together, with a book of travels in
India, and various articles in magazines, form the present corpus of his work-a unique achievement, unconventional, original, thoughtful, brilliant, and not to be




4


Edward Carpenter


ignored. They possess the vital spark and may be content to come into notice slowly, like the sprout from the
tiny pineseed in a field of overgrown weeds.
Carpenter is forever to be associated with Whitman.
The two men differ from each other and yet it is not
easy to point out the difference. They have practically
the same "welt-anschauiing" or world-conception, as
the Germans so expressively say. We for the most part
lack comprehensive conceptions of the world as well as
a term for them, but Whitman and Carpenter are both
farsighted beyond their fellows and they preserve a similar and consistent point of view. They see life as a
great and transcendent unity, welling up in innumerable
forms but always in effect the same, entitled to the same
reverence and love, and their hearts go forth to this life.
Whitman found himself gazing at the world from this
new outlook with the unreasoning astonishment of a
child, and he blurted what he saw with a force and
originality which can never be surpassed. Carpenter
saw the same sight but he knew what he saw; he has
the great advantage-and the great disadvantage-of self
consciousness.  He sees what Whitman sees, but he
also sees something of the reason of it. He naturally
classifies and deduces and forms the outlines of a system,
while Whitman, when he undertakes in prose to give the
upshot of his poetry, fails signally to appreciate its import. Leaves of Grass is the impassioned cry of a bright




Poet and Propihet5


5


child as he first sees the beauties of his father's new
house and garden.   Carpenter's books embody the
poetry and philosophy of a mature man who knows a
little about horticulture and masonry and can comprehend the adaptation of houses and gardens to their uses.
The difference is perhaps one rather of education than
of genius, but we may be thankful for it, for the world
scarcely requires another Whitman yet, while there was
need for a calmer and more comprehensive view of the
landmarks of the new world. Of course, in surmising
that Carpenter sees just what Whitman saw, I do not
mean at all to doubt the former's originality. I have yet,
however, to find a line in Leaves of Grass to which I
should not expect the author of Towards Democracy to
give his fullest assent. The sympathy of the younger
for the older poet is complete, and in two articles which
he has written describing his visits to Walt's home at
Camden, he has, as it seems to me, shown more insight
into the character of the old man, and the hard-fought
struggles which it summed up, than any other writer
whom I can recall. *
To do justice to an author we must attempt to catch
something of his spirit, and it is in his poems, contained
in Towards Democracy, that Carpenter's spirit and
character show themselves most clearly. The name of
the book is the worst thing about it. To feel its signifi* Progressive Review, London, 1897.




6


Edward Carpenter


cance we must go back to the France of the eighteenth
century, when democracy was still a dream and when the
name had not been debased by association with discouraging experiments and narrow parties. We must conclude from Carpenter's use of the term " democracy "
that its original polish has not worn off as completely
in England as it has in America.*      He certainly had not
in mind its etymological derivation, as implying the rule
of the people in any sense by majority votes, representative institutions or the initiative and referendum. I can
only ascribe his infelicitous choice of a title to the common weakness shown by distinguished writers in naming
their literary offspring. t
The long series of poems in Towards Democracy is
with few exceptions written in the Whitmanesque meter,
or lack of meter. I do not regard this fact as a sign of
imitation but rather of the natural adaptation of this style
to the new and fresh conception of the universe which is
common to both poets. The trim balance of a Christmas tree with its colored candles and gilt balls and stars
* We hold the words of our language in trust for posterity. What breaches of
trust lie at our door I We might trace the story of a nation's decadence in its successive dictionaries. The words " tyrant" and " despot" were once honorable.
t The names of most of Shakespeare's comedies might be drawn from a hat and
applied indiscriminately without in any way injuring their effectiveness. The titles
of Kipling's best stories seem to bear slight relationship to their contents. His book,
Mine Own People, begins with the story of an ape I I fear this was an unconscious
adoption of the lower animals as brothers.




Poet and Prophet


7


is beautiful in its way, but the very want of symmetry
helps to make the oak and the pine kings of the forest.
And it is out of doors and into the forest that the new
love of nature drives men-away from the orderly courts
of princes into the tumult of the market place. Even
blank verse with all its grandeur is too suggestive of
landscape gardening and the studied roughness of" rock
gardens." When Carpenter tries it he does not succeed, and he tells us that he feels obliged to write his
poetry in the open air, for indoors it will insist on rhyming and rhythming. He wishes it to be instinct with
the life of nature, to represent the "serene, untampered
facts of earth and sky" (Towards Democracy, p. 16.)
As he says in a later poem (After Long Ages, Towards
Democracy, p. 247):
Great ragged clouds wild over the sky careering, pass
changing, shifting through my poems!
Blow, 0 breezes, mingle, 0 winds, with these words
-whose purpose is the same as yours!
Clouds and winds will not submit to architectural art,
nor will the deep cry for brotherhood and unity which
Whitman and Carpenter both utter. It is idle to call
their poetry formless; it creates its own form and refuses
to crawl into the chrysalis of earlier verse. On the first
page of his poems Carpenter strikes, as in an overture,
the various motifs of his work. "Deep as the universe is my life," he cries, and then




8


Edward Carpenter


Freedom! the deep breath! the word heard centuries
and centuries beforehand: the soul singing low and
passionate to itself: Joy! joy!
Freedom and joy in the life universal: that is the message of Carpenter; and who will say that there is a better one for the world of today? The poet has felt the
world's need and experienced it, and he has found the
remedy springing up at the bottom of his heart, and now
he comes to share his discovery with his fellow-men.
The gates are thrown wide open all through the universe. I go to and fro-through the heights and depths
I go and I return: All is well. (Towards Democracy, p. 5.)
This universality of life makes the lowest equal to the
highest.
If I am not level with the lowest, I am nothing. (Towards Democracy, p. 6.)
To descend, first:
To feel downwards and downwards through this wretched maze of shame for the solid ground-to come close to
the Earth itself and those who live in direct contact with
it.
To identify, to saturate yourself with these,..
This... is the first thing. (Towards Democracy,
p. 28.)
Are you laughed at, are you scorned?
My, child, there is One that not only thinks of you,




Poet and Prophet


9


but who cannot at all get on without you. (Towards
Democracy, p. 34.)
In Carpenter's case this sympathy for the lowly does
not come as a deduction from the oneness of life;
rather was it through this sympathy that he found the
great all-inclusive life; it was the clue to the secret. In
the midst of the artificial existence of his class he had
been oppressed by the shams and conventions which
hemmed him in. In the drawing room, in the street, at
the railway station, he could not escape them.
Was this then the sum of life?
A grinning, gibbering organization of negations-a
polite trap, and circle of endlessly complaisant faces
bowing you back from reality.
Well, as it happened just then-and as we stopped at
a small way station-my eyes from their swoon-sleep
opening, encountered the grimy and oil-besmeared figure
of a stoker.
Close at my elbow on the footplate of his engine he
was standing, devouring bread and cheese.
And the fire-light fell on him brightly as for a moment
his eyes rested on mine.
That was all, but it was enough.
The youthful face, yet so experienced and calm, was
enough;
The quiet look, the straight untroubled unseeking
eyes, resting upon me-giving me without any ado thp
thing I needed...




10              Edward Carpenter
For in a moment I felt the sting and torrent of Reaiity.
The swift nights out in the rain I felt, and the great
black sky overhead, and the flashing of red and green
lights in the forward distance.
The anxious straining for a glimpse sideways into the
darkness-cap tied tightly on-the dash of cold and wet
above, the heat belowAll this I felt, as if it had been myself...
0 eyes, 0 face, how in that moment without any ado
you gave me all!
How in a moment the whole vampire brood of flat
paralytic faces fled away, and you gave me back the
great breasts of Nature, when I was rejected of others
and like to die of starvation. (Towards Democracy,
pp. 140-3.)
It was when confronted with men such as the stoker
that Carpenter's soul found its bearings: in "society"
so called he felt himself hopelessly adrift. In his Sunday Morning After Church he gives a description of the
aimless well dressed mob on the esplanade at a watering
place, and as he sits watching them he closes his eyes
for an instant, and visions of the naked and outcast rise
before him:
The mother snatches some half-pence from her boy
matchseller and makes for the nearest gin-shop; squalid
streets and courts are in the background and filthy wcrk
shops;...




Poet and Prsphet


II


I open my eyes again. The gay crowd still glides
past, exchanging greetings, the flounces and lace are
still on the chair beside me. I catch the fluffy smell.
I rise and pass down towards the sea. It lies there,
unnoticed as before, slate-green and solemn, stretching
miles and miles away; but the wind has risen and is
rising, and in the distance here and there it is fretful
with sharp white teeth. (Towards Democracy, 115-18.)
A world which ignored the misery upon which its
prosperity was founded, and which denied the essential
unity of the poor and criminal with itself, was a hollow
imposture and Carpenter would have none of it.
The reader may have remarked in these extracts that
Carpenter has Whitman's power of calling up a scene
vividly in a few words. Here are other examples:
I hear the sound of the whetting of scythes.
The beautiful grass stands tall in the meadows, mixed
with sorrel and buttercups; the steamships move on
across the sea, leaving trails of distant smoke. I see
the tall white cliffs of Albion. (Towards Democracy,
p. 52.)
The drunken father reeling home in the rain across
country-he has more than a mile to go-singing, cursing, tumbling hands and knees in the mire-the son following unbeknown at a little distance (he has been watching a long time for his father outside the beershop); the
late moon rising on the strange scene, the hiccuped
oaths of the old man through the silence of the night.
(Towards Democracy, p. 71.)




12


Edward Carpenter


The baffling infant face, with closed eyes and flexible
upper lip, and storms and sunshine sweeping across its
tiny orb, and filmy clouds of expression. (Towards
Democracy, p. 302.)
The aged grandmother sits in the ruddy glow of the
chimney-corner-her little grandson leans against her
kneeThe other children (for some have come in from the
neighboring cottage, and Christmas is now approaching)
sing hymn after hymn in tireless trebles, and the old
grand-dad tones the bass in now and then with still melodious voice:
While silent, with tired and suffering face (thinking of
the week's work and of her runaway drunken husband)
the mother strips her youngest naked in the firelight.
(Towards Democracy, p. 302.)
This same power of description is shown conspicuously
in Carpenter's picture of the steerage of a transatlantic
liner and its occupants (Towards Democracy, p. 203 et
sequ.) and in his lifelike survey of the different parts of
England, modeled on Whitman's bird'seye view of the
American States. (Towards Democracy, pp. 52-58.)
The key to Carpenter's philosophy lies in the history
of his experience. Rebelling as we have seen against
the false restraints of the unreal society in which he
lived, he found his outlet into the universal life of those
who were humblest and nearest to nature. In the consciousness of the life universal thus acquired he assumes




Poet and Pro~hhet


13


another standpoint and sees all things new. His sympathy, his love, react upon him in the form of a revelation, and it is a transfigured love, supreme over death
and fate, which he is now inspired to sing:
Because thou rulest, 0 glorious, and before thee all
else fails,
And at thy dread new command-at thy word Democracy-the children of the earth and the sea and the sky
find their voices, and the despised things come forth and
rejoice
Because in thy arms, 0 strong one, I laugh death to
scorn-nay I go forth to meet him with gladness,...
Because out of disallowed and unaccepted things-and
always out of these-full-armed and terrific,
Like a smiting and consuming flame, 0 Love, 0 Democracy,
Even out of the faces and bodies of the huge and
tameless multitudes of the EarthA great ocean of fire with myriad tongues licking the
vault of heaven,
Thou arisestTherefore, 0 Love, 0 Flame, wherein I burning die
and am consumed-carried aloft to the stars a disembodied voice0 dread Creator and Destroyer,
Do I praise Thee. (Towards Democracy, pp. 17o-I.)
Passing by, passing by all exteriors,
Swimming, floating on the Ocean that has innumerable bays



14


Edward Carpenter


I too at length nestle down in thy breast, 0 humanity;
Tired, I abandon myself to thee, to be washed from
the dust of life in thy waves. (Towards Democracy,
p. 332.)
In one of his most beautiful poems he develops this
idea:
All night by the shore,.
I am a bit of the shore: the waves feed upon me, they
come pasturing over me;...
I am a little arm of the sea; the same tumbling,
swooning dream goes on-I feel the waves all around
me, I spread myself through them....
I am detached, I disentangle myself from the shore:
I have become free-I float out and mingle with the
rest....
Suddenly I am the great living Ocean itself-the awful
Spirit of Immensity creeps over my face.
I am in love with it. All night and ages and ages
long and for ever I pour my soul out to it in love.
I spread myself out broader and broader forever, that
I may touch it and be with it everywhere.
I know but I do not care any longer which my own
particular body is-all conditions and fortunes are mine.
By the ever beautiful coast-line of human life, by all
shores, in all climates and countries, by every secluded
nook and inlet,
Under the eye of my beloved Spirit I glide:
O joy! forever, ever joy!  (Towards Democracy,
p. 158.)
And this "expanded identity"   (Towards Democ



Poet and Prophet


15


racy, p. 158) which is Carpenter's root thought is felt
now and does not wait for death.
O death, I shall conquer thee yet...
Long, long years ago did I not abandon this frail tenement, all but in name?-was not my last furniture packed
up and ready to be transported?
The virgin grass received me, and the beech trees so
tenderly green in Spring, and the bodies of my lovers
that I loved;...
I passed freely and floated on the ocean of which I
had only been part of the shore. (Towards Democracy, pp. 329-330.)
It is no wonder that a man who has passed through
such feelings should be blest with universal sympathies,
especially towards the humble and simple. Carpenter is
devoted to the children of the poor; again and again in
his poetry we meet the "little ragged boy" (Towards
Democracy, p. 145), "the pale smudged face,...
the curls fringing his dirty cap." (Towards Democracy, p. I50.) For him the inanimate world, too, is
alive and to be loved as a living thing. The very air,
"the dainty sweet air," is to him "the outbreath of
innumerable creatures.'" There is, however, apparently,
one exception to his rule of universal love. Carpenter
has little affection for the Pharisee-the respectable,
pious, well-to-do individual who thinks that the lower
classes are made to serve as his pedestal.




I6


Edward 'arpenter


I come forth from the darkness to smite TheeWho art thou, insolent of all the earth,
With thy faint sneer for him who wins thee bread
And him who clothes thee, and for him who toils
Daylong and nightlong dark in the earth for thee?
Coward without a name! (Towards Democracy, p.
130.)
The evil in the Pharisee is almost the only evil which
he recognizes. Our passions are good in themselves,
but we must not let them rule us.
For (over and over again) there is nothing that is evil
except because a man has not mastery over it; and there
is no good thing that is not evil if it have mastery over
a man....
Things cannot be divided into good and evil, but all
are good so soon as they are brought into subjection.
(Towards Democracy, p. 362.)
When thy body-as needs must happen at times-is
carried away on the wind of passion, say not thou "I
desire this or that:"
For the "I " neither desires nor fears anything, but
is free and in everlasting glory, dwelling in heaven and
pouring out joy like the sun on all sides.
Let not that precious thing by any confusion be drawn
down and entangled in the world of opposites, and of
death and suffering. (Towards Democracy, p. 346.)
The body is to be honored as well as the soul: it is
even the " latest and best gift long concealed from men. "




Poet and Prophet


17


Let the strong desires come and go; refuse them not,
disown them not; but think not that in them lurks finally
the thing you want.
Presently they will fade away and into the intolerable
light will dissolve like gossamers before the sun.  (Towards Democracy, p. 172.)
The old moral rules which required a man to suppress
his instincts resulted in the production of " slaves of
chastity, slaves of unchastity." Carpenter's aim is beyond all that:
Passing the boundaries of evil, being delivered, being
filled with joy,...
Content, overjoyed, knowing that I have yet far to go;
but that all is open and free and that Thou wilt provideGladly, 0 gladly, I surrender myself to Thee.  Towards Democracy, 253.)
The advantage which Carpenter enjoys in the rhythmic
form which he has chosen for his work lies chiefly in its
wide range. He can, when the subject matter demands
it, write in the baldest prose, and choose, if he please,
the language of the streets, but again he can give us the
purest music. Towards Democracy has the merits of
both prose and poetry and the two run into each other
imperceptibly and without a break. The new poetry of
democracy needs an instrument of wider register and
Whitman and Carpenter have found it. The form is




Edward Carpenter


poetical whenever the sentiment demands it. Who fails
to hear music in these lines for instance?
High in my chamber I hear the deep bells chimeMidnight.
The great city sleeps with arms outstretched, supine
under the stars-deep-breathing, hushedInto the kennels of sleep are gone the loud-baying
cares of day, and hunted man rests for a moment.
To the waking fever of remorse;
To the long cadaverous vigil of physical pain;
And to the long vigil of the heart-broken wife praying
vainly for respite from thought;
The hour swings onward.
High in heaven over the supine city-over the wilderness of roofs beneath the starsThe hour swings surely onward. (Towards Democracy, pp. 119- 120.)
Carpenter is indeed more often a poet in the conventional acceptance of the term-is more nearly related to
Shelley and Poe, in form at least-than is Walt Whitman.
Carpenter finds a microcosm in himself and constructs
a history of the world from his own experience. Scientists have declared that the record of life on this planet
for hundreds of thousands of years may be read in the
development of a single foetus; Carpenter as clearly and
as scientifically deciphers it in the biography of his consciousness. Just as he was bound hand and foot by the




Poet and Prophet


79


customs and prejudices of his class, just as he burst forth
into comparative freedom, so the history of all life is a
history of imprisonment by the ossified forms of the
past and of the breaking forth of the new life to the light
and air, and of the casting aside of the outworn husk.
Lo! the Conscience, the tender green shoot in each
one, growing, arising, Ygdrasil casting its leaves, elements and nations over the universe!
Lo! the moral laws so long swathing the soul, loosing, parting at last for the liberation of that which they
prepared. (Towards Democracy, p. 105.)
I choke.
(The natural sheath protecting the young bud-fitting close, stranglingly close, till the young thing gains
a little more power, and then falling dry, useless, to the
ground.)
Strangled, 0 God? Nay-the circle of gibbering
faces draws closer, the droning noises become louder,
the weight gets heavier, unbearable-One instant struggle! and lo!
It is over!-daylight! the sweet rain is falling and I
hear the songs of birds. (Towards Democracy, p. 27.)
And he sees the same change effected in others:
I saw a vision of Earth's multitudes going up and
down over the Earth-and I saw the great Earth itself
wheeling and careering onward through space.
And behold! here and there to one among the multitude a change came;




20


Edwiard Carpenter


And to whomsoever it came continued onward as before-yet as from the larva springs the perfect image,
So (as it appeared to me) from the mortal form a new
being-long, long, long in preparation-glided silently
up unobserved into the breathless pure height of the sky.
(Towards Democracy, pp. 332-3.)
In his fine poem After Long Ages, perhaps his most
significant work (Towards Democracy, pp. 2 18-258), he
develops this idea in its wider bearings:
This is the order of man and of history;
Descending he runs to and fro over the world, and
dwells (for a time) among things that have no sense;
Forgetful of his true self he becomes a selfseeker
among the shadows.
But out of these spring only war and conflict and
tangling of roots and branches;
And things which have no sense succeed things which
have no sense-for nothing can have any sense but by
reason of that of which it is the shadow-and one phantasmal order follows another-and one pleasure or indulgence another-and one duty or denial anotherTill, bewildered and disgusted, finding no rest, no
peace, but everywhere only disappointment,
He returns (and History returns) seeking for that
which is.
Toilsome and long is the journey; shell after shell,
envelope after envelope, he discards,
Over the mountains, over the frowning barriers, undaunted, unwrapping all that detains him.




Poet and Prophet


21


Enduring poverty, brother of the outcast and of animals, enduring ridicule and scorn,
Through vast morasses, by starlight and dawn,
through dangers and labors and nakedness, through
chastity and giving away all that he has, through long
night watches on the mountains and washings in the
sunlit streams and sweet food untainted by blood,
through praises and thanks and joy ascending before
himAll, all conventions left aside, all limitations passed,
all shackles dropped-the husks and sheaths of ages
falling offAt length the Wanderer returns to heaven. (Towards Democracy, pp. 234-5.)
The poem After Long Ages is indeed the poetical
expression of Carpenter's philosophy of history, which
he has set forth more systematically in an essay on Civilization: Its Cause and Cure, the initial paper in his
book of that name. His prose naturally appeals to a
much larger audience than his poetry. Those who are
unacquainted with his writings and have no special predilection for "prose-poems" should first read this volume of essays, which for originality and brilliancy it
would be hard to match in recent literature. We are
accustomed to look upon our modern civilization, with
its machinery, its overgrown cities, its noise and bustle,
as a kind of finality, and upon the life of the future as
an indefinite advance in the same direction, but Car



22


Edward Carpenter


penter undertakes to prove from history that the present
is only a temporary stage of development, like all
former civilizations, involving much evil as well as good
-in fact, a " kind of disease which the various races of
men have to pass through, as children pass through
measles or whooping cough."  (Civilization: Its Cause
and Cure, p. i.) That disease, mental as well as physical, is particularly prevalent among civilized peoples is
certainly true. The earlier stages of evolution, savagery
and barbarism, were at least comparatively healthy.
The primary cause of the change from barbarism to
civilization seems to be the gradual recognition of private
property as distinguished from communal ownership.
The old power of the clan gives way to a society of
classes founded upon differences of wealth. Slavery,
serfdom and the wagesystem follow, rent and interest
spring up, and with these and to protect them come the
state and the policeman. A glance at the great civilizations
of the world shows that they generally flourish for about
one thousand years. Among the unhealthy symptoms
which mark this period with us is the "sense of sin,''
which, however useful it may be in securing progress, is
in itself surely a morbid indication. The legends of a
Golden Age go to prove that the race remembers a time
when its mind was more at peace with itself. From this
point Carpenter investigates the true meaning of
"health,"  a term  which really denotes a positive




Poet and Prophet


23


"(wholeness" and unity, rather than the mere negative
absence of disease which is the ideal of the medical profession. His idea of health is that of a man at one with
himself, the soul reigning at the center over the body
and holding all passions and desires in proper subjection. Disease is an insubordinate center establishing
itself in opposition to the true center of life. When the
rebellious center gains the upper hand we have death,
but such a death is far from being the euthanasia which
should usher man into the unseen future.
Death is simply the loosening and termination of the
action of this power over certain regions of the organism, a process by which, when these superficial parts
become hardened and osseous, as in old age, or irreparably damaged, as in cases of accident, the inward
being sloughs them off and passes into other spheres.
In the case of man there may be noble and there may
be ignoble death, as there may be noble and ignoble
life. The inward self, unable to maintain authority over
the forces committed to its charge, declining from its
high prerogative, swarmed over by parasites, and fallen
partially into the clutch of obscene foes, may at last with
shame and torment be driven forth from the temple in
which it ought to have been supreme. Or, having fulfilled a holy and wholesome time, having radiated divine
life and love through all the channels of body and mind,
and as a perfect workman uses his tools, so having with
perfect mastery and nonchalence used all the materials
committed to it, it may quietly and peacefully lay these




24


Edward Carpenter


down, and unchanged (absolutely unchanged to all but
material eyes) pass on to other spheres appointed.
(Ib. 17.)
Why should man at the very moment of his highest
development in civilization lose the healthy unity which
prevails in lower forms of life? The cause, Carpenter tells
us, is self-knowledge. " Man has to become conscious of
his destiny-to lay hold of and realize his freedom and
blessedness-to transfer his consciousness from the outer
and mortal part of him to the inner and undying." (Ib.
22.)  The human soul "has in fact to face the frightful
struggle of self-consciousness, or the disentanglement of
the true self from the fleeting and perishable self." (Ib.
24 ) This self-knowledge "is a temporary perversion,
indicating the disunion of the present-day man-the disunion of the outer self from the inner-the horrible dual
self-consciousness-which is the means of a more perfect and conscious union than could ever have been
realized without it."  (Ib. 25.) The r6le of private
property in bringing about this state of affairs is clear
enough--it tends to separate him "from nature, from
his true self, from his fellows."  (Ib. 27.) It surrounds
him with an artificial environment, it induces him to live
in his possessions rather than in himself, and it gives
him a selfish position among his neighbors. It stimulates the consciousness of a false self, for " the true self
ot man consists in his organic relation with the whole




Poet and Prophet


25


body of his fellows... The mass-Man must rule in each
unit-man, else the unit-man will drop off and die."
(Ib. 28.) Before "the delusion that man can exist for
himself alone " (Ib. 30), the tribal and community life
disappears and modern governments take their place.
Through monarchy, oligarchy and finally anarchic democracy, society loses its sense of unity, the central
inspiration departs from social life, and the body politic
falls a prey to parasites which devour it.
But this is no true Democracy. Here in this " each
for himself" is no rule of the Demos in every man, nor
anything resembling it.... The true Democracy has
yet to come. Here in this present stage is only the final
denial of all outward and class government, in preparation for the restoration of the inner and true authority.
Here in this stage the task of civilization comes to an
end; the purport and object of all these centuries is fulfilled; the bitter experience that mankind has to pass
through is completed; and out of this Death, and all
the torture and unrest which accompanies it, comes at
last the Resurrection. Man has sounded the depths of
alienation from his own divine spirit, he has drunk the
dregs of the cup of suffering, he has literally descended
into Hell; henceforth lie turns, both in the individual
and in society, and mounts deliberately and consciously
back again towards the unity which he has lost. And
the false Democracy parts aside for the disclosure of the
true Democracy which has been formed beneath itwhich is not an external government at all, but an inward




26


Edward Carpenter


rule-the rule of the mass-Man in each unit-man. * For
no outward government can be anything but a makeshift-a temporary hard chrysalis-sheath to hold the
grub together while the new life is forming inside.  (Ib.
33-4-)
And so in his prose as in his poetry Carpenter returns
to the powerful simile, which is not all a simile, of the
husk, the sheath, the chrysalis-the narrow ossified representative of ancient life, protecting and yet tending to
suffocate the new life formed within, and at last thrown
off by it, the same process to be ever repeated as long
as the universe lives and grows. To this throwing off
of the husk he applies a term of Whitman's, " exfoliation," and he shows that " the process of evolution or
exfoliation itself is nothing but a continual unclothing of
Nature, by which the perfect human form which is at
the root of it comes nearer and nearer to its manifestation."  (Ib. 36). He gives at the end of his book a
separate essay on Exfoliation, so strongly has the idea
impressed itself upon his imagination. In it he studies
evolution in himself, as the entity best known to him,
and finds that the most important factor in variation
must be sought in an inner law of growth and not in
environment.
Every change begins in the mental region-is felt first
* Dhammapada, chap. XII, v. x6o. " Self is the lord of self, who else could be
the lord?"-Sacred Books of the East.




Poet and Prophet


27


in a desire gradually taking form in thought, passes
down into the bodily region, expresses itself in action
(more or less dependent on conditions), and finally
solidifies itself in organization and structure. The process is not accretive but exfoliatory-a continual movement from within outwards. (Ib. 138.)
So in society today
a dim feeling of discontent pervades all ranks and
classes. A new sense of justice, of fraternity, has descended among us, which is not satisfied with mere
chatter of demand and supply. For a long time this
new sentiment or desire remains vague and unformed,
but at last it resolves itself into shape; it takes intellectual form, books are written, plans formed; then after a
time definite new organizations, for the distinct purpose
of expressing these ideas, begin to exist in the body of
the old society; and before so very long the whole outer
structure of society will have been reorganized by them.
(Ib. 139.)
And all this takes place in the same way as in physical
organisms. Desire is then the motive force in creation.
And   "what then is desire-what is its culmination
and completion in man? Practically it is love. Love
is the sum and solution of all desires in man." (Ib.
14I.)
This love, according to Carpenter, is "a worship of
and desire for the human form. In our bodies it is a
desire for the bodily human form; in our interior selves




28


Edward Carpenter


it is a perception and worship of an ideal human form,
it is the revelation of a Splendor dwelling in others,
which-clouded and dimmed as it inevitably may come
to be-remains after all one of the most real, perhaps
the most real, of the facts of existence." (Ib. 141.) The
ideal which is sought thus becomes the cause of the
forms which precede it. The real motive power in any
series of phenomena is the last in point of time to unfold and reveal itself, and the monkey is not the cause of
the man but the man of the monkey. Carpenter gives
as an example the case of a volcanic eruption in which
the cause of all the commotion, the subterranean fire,
appears last of all. A new idea in like manner may
upheave the surface of society for a long time before it
can take visible shape in a new order of things. " The
work of each age is not to build on the past, but to rise
out of the past and throw it off."  (Ib. 144.) Our
author concludes that the real cause of any given thing
is not to be found so much preceding it as under it and
on another plane, as, for instance, the bricks are not the
cause of the house but rather the idea of the house is
the cause of the bricks made for it. One grouping of
atoms cannot cause another subsequent one, but both
are "determined by a third something which does not
belong to quite the same order of existence as the said
atoms."  (Ib. 142.) To discover the relations of leaves
on a tree to each other, we must go to the root, and a




Poet and Prophet


29


science which sees only the surface is necessarily shallow.
The key to evolution lies in the " ultimate disclosure of
the ideal man," and in him alone, at the end of the unfolding and exfoliations, will be revealed the cause and
explanation of all that went before.
The true development of man consists, then, in a
gradual unfolding, as in the case of a flower; he must
cast off in due time the old customs and institutions
which have ceased to be useful and now only serve to
hamper his progress. In an almost literal sense Carpenter would have him unclothe himself, or at any rate simplify his clothing-for he has little patience with the
garments now dictated by fashion, the top-hat, starched
shirt and collar, and foot-disfiguring boot. He pictures
man as he retires from the simplicity of nature, clothing
himself in apparel "more and more fearfully and wonderfully fashioned, till he ceases to be recognizable
as the man that was once the crown of the animals,
and presents a more ludicrous appearing spectacle
than the monkey that sits on his own barrel-organ."
(Ib. 26.)
Carpenter would persuade man to return to a more natural life, rather out of doors than shut up in the " boxes
with breathing holes which he calls houses, " eating plainer
food, vegetable rather than animal, and preserving the
natural power of his nerves and muscles by the rational
exercise of useful physical labor. Nor does he fear any




30


30           Edward Catypenter


relapse to barbarism from the adoption of such an ideal.
There would be more humanity and sociability, more
true art and beauty, than ever. All the appliances of
civilization must be " reduced to abject subjection to the
real man;" they must no longer be the object of a mere
fetish worship.  Men will at last feel their unity with
each other, with the animals and with the mountains
and streams. He who is conscious of being an integral
part of the living whole will cease to ask the whither and
whence.
For what causes these questions to be asked is simply
the wretched feeling of isolation, actual or prospective,
which man necessarily has when he contemplates himself as a separate atom in this immense universe-the
gulf which lies below seemingly ready to swallow him,
and the anxiety to find some mode of escape. But
when he feels once more that he, that he himself, is absolutely, indivisibly and indestructibly a part of this
great whole-why then there is no gulf into which he
can possibly fall. (lb. 46.)
He will become conscious of the " cosmic self." Carpenter /sees in the society in which he lives two movements which tend to lead towards the new order, at the
same time acting as correctives upon each other, namely,
that towards individual freedom and savagery and that
towards a complex human communi~m. In them he
sees the hope of the world,,




Poet and Prophet


3I


Carpenter criticises most stingingly the scientific temper of the day. He can speak from the book, as he is
a man of scientific attainments and representative of the
best which the scientific education of Great Britain can
afford. In his essays on Modern Science and the Science
of the Future he follows in Stallo's* footsteps in challenging the accuracy of the fundamental formulae of
science. He shows that the theory of the law of gravitation is faulty, that we have no idea of the actual course
of any planet in space, that such conceptions as that of
an atom or of luminiferous ether are nonsense, and that
the undulatory theory of light and the so-called laws of
the conservation of energy and the survival of the fittest
are equally meaningless and absurd. In short, nothing
is less certain than the laws of science, and they only
seem to work at all in those regions with which we are
least familiar.  Thus, astronomy is the most exact
science because we know the least about it, while psychology can hardly be termed a science at all, because we
are face to face with it, see its intricacy and are totally
unable to disentangle its laws.  The radical mistake
which men of science have made consists in their disregard of the human element, of the palpitating life in us
which underlies the whole. Science has confined its
studies to intellectual phenomena.   "She has failed
* Concepts and Theories of Modern Physics. By J. B. Stallo. New York: D,
Appleton & Co., x882.




32


Edward Carpenter


because she has attempted an impossible task; for the
discovery of a permanently valid and purely intellectual
representation of the universe is simply impossible.
Such a thing does not exist."  (Civilization: Its Cause
and Cure, p. 52.) The scientist tries to get away from
man-to get away, in other words, from that which he
knows best in his own consciousness and experience.
But the truth is that " the very facts of Nature, as we
call them, are at least half feeling."  (Ib. 82.)  All
scientific reasoning begins with axioms which are nothing
but feelings, and thought is invariably " the expression,
the outgrowth, the covering of underlying feeling."
(Ib. 86.) True science, when at last it makes its appearance, will not be an irreverent dissection of Nature,
but rather a sympathetic walking with her, " the life of
the open air, and on the land and the waters, the companionship of the animals and the trees and the stars,
the knowledge of their habits at first hand."  (Ib. 92.)
" Science has two alternatives before it-either to be
merely intellectual and to seek for its star-point in some
quite external (and imaginary) thing, like the Atom, or
to be divine and to seek for its absolute in innermost
recesses of humanity."  (Ib. 93-4.) It is in the universal consciousness again that Carpenter would place
the source and object of true science.
But the most interesting results of Carpenter's convictions, the natural consequence of his consciousness of




Poet and Prophet               3


33


universal unity, are to be found in the realm of sociology
and political economy. If he and the criminal are one,
he cannot cast the first stone at the criminal. He demonstrates in fact that in various ages and nations the standard of morals has ranged from pole to pole. The Spartans applauded lying and theft. In one country the enclosure of land is a crime, in another it is the trespasser
upon enclosed land who is the criminal. Polygamy is a
sin here and a virtue there. The prevailing code of
morals is always that of the dominant class, and today
morality hinges upon the sanctity of private property.
It will hinge on something higher in the day of brotherhood and equality. Man will reach a loftier plane of
ethics when " he comes to know and feel himself a part
of society through his inner nature. " The solution
here as in all else lies in the deepening of man's consciousness. Meanwhile the criminal may be performing
a service to society in keeping alive instincts which are
condemned at the present hour, but which may have
been regarded as praiseworthy in other times and which
may be necessary to humanity. The deepening of consciousness means union and love, and " between lovers
there are no duties and rights." (lb. 124.) When we
feel our oneness with society, there can no longer be a
clashing between our interests and those of the whole of
which we form a part.
How different from all this are the aspirations and




34


Edward Carpentcr


practices ot the men who guide society and how skillfully Carpenter punctures the bubbles in which they delight in his England's Ideal! He perceives that "the
pervading aim and effort of personal life, either consciously or unconsciously entertained, is to maintain ourselves at the cost of others-to live at the expense of
other folks' labor, without giving an equivalent of our
own labor in return, and," he adds, "if this is not dishonesty, I don't know what is!" What is England's
ideal, he asks, and what of all civilized peoples? Is it
not to get as much and give as little as you can? (England's Ideal, pp. 3-5.) Here is the ideal of the popular fancy--"to live dependent on others, consuming
much and creating next to nothing-to occupy a spacious house, have servants ministering to you, dividends
converging from various parts of the world towards you,
workmen handing you the best part of their labor as
profits, tenants obsequiously bowing as they disgorge
their rent, and a good balance at the bank." And he
shows how for every man who consumes more than he
creates there must be one at least who has to create more
than he consumes. Undue wealth is balanced by undue
poverty. "As far as the palaces of the rich stretch
through Mayfair and Belgravia and South Kensington,
so far (and farther) must the hovels of the poor inevitably stretch in the opposite direction."  (Ib. 6.) And
he concludes, as every honest observer must conclude,




Poet and Prophket3


35


that the " whole Gentility business is corrupt throughout, and will not bear looking into for a moment. It is
incompatible with Christianity (at least as Christ appears
to have taught it); it gives a constant lie to the doctrine of human brotherhood. The wretched man who
has got into its toils must surrender that most precious of
all things-the human relation to the mass of mankind."
(lb. 7.) What is the meaning of an " independence "
by which a man is enabled to cease from labor and to
become absolutely dependent on the labor of others?
Carpenter explains it.
One man accumulates enough money to bring him in a
substantial income-say 45oo a year. Then that man
is safe. He has escaped from the labor of feeding himself and his children and may fold his arms and amuse
himself as he likes; he has got on the dry land beyond
the flood, and this in perpetuity practically... Presently
another man accumulates the desired amount. He also
"( retires " and is safe. Then a third and fourth. Then
hundreds and thousands, then a considerable portion of
the whole nation-where shall we stop?... What is
happening? This is happening-a vast and ever vaster
proportion of the nation is getting by force of existing
rights and machinery to live on the labor of the rest.
Every day, of those who are harnessed to the car of
national life and prosperity, one or another, by dint of
extra forethought, prudence, miserliness, cunning, or
whatever it may be, gets an advantage over the rest,
leaves them, jumps inside the car, and thenceforth in



36


Edward Carpienter


stead of drawing is drawn. The end is only too obvious.
It is a reductio ad absurdum of national life. It is breakdown, smashup--and the car left in the ditch. (Ib.
26-7.)
Edward Carpenter goes on to prove the wrongfulness
of interest, resulting as it does in the formation of an idle,
useless class in society.  A coat costs naturally the
value of the material and the labor bestowed on it;
whence then comes the profit of the capitalist? It must
be deducted from the cost of material or labor, and if
full price has been paid for the material, it comes from
labor. The result is the overwork and underpay of the
laborer who should be able, according to the best authorities, to support himself with three or four hours'
work a day. Our author investigates the matter of dividends from this point of view. The shareholder is a
new kind of monster among property owners; he has
no duties, no practical supervision-no knowledge often
-of his property; he does nothing but pocket his share
of these unearned "profits."  The fact is that the wage
earner receives but a fraction of what he produces, a
truth which Carpenter establishes at length in his essay
on the Meaning of Dividends, and he explains how commercial crises arise from this.
Since the wage workers, the mass of the people..
receive in wages only a portion (say a half)... of the
value which they actually produce and distribute, it is




Poet and Propihet                 3


37


evident that in any given time, say a year, they will only
be able to buy back one half of the goods they have
thus put on the market during that time. Who then
buys the other half of the goods? Clearly not the capitalist and landlord classes. They-though they receive
the money credits sufficient to enable them to buy the
other half-do not really buy to this amount; for being
few in number they cannot possibly use this enormous
mass of goods; besides we know as a matter of fact
that they save up a large part of their money credits and
reinvest them abroad. Hence at the end of the year
there remains a mass of goods... which is not bought
by the masses or by the classes-by the masses because
they have not the money-by the classes because they
do not want the goods. (England's Ideal 43.)
From this accumulation of unsold goods, increasing
every year, results the discharge of wage earners, the formation of an army of unemployed, and all the industrial
ills which are ascribed to overproduction. If on the
other hand each wage worker received the full value of
his labor, there would be for all the products of labor a
steady demand which would regulate itself. It is that
portion of his earnings which goes to profit, including
rent and interest, that causes hard times, And what is
the permanent result of the "appropriation of balances?' '
an enormous class...living in idleness and luxury,
they and their children and their children's children, till




38


Edward Carpenter


they become quite incapable of doing anything for themselves, or even of thinking rightly about most things,
tormented with incurable ennui and general imbecility
and futility; all art and literature which were the appendage of this class being affected by a kind of St.
Vitus' dance, and the whole thing breaking.out finally
for want of any other occupation into a cuff and collar
cult, called respectability. (Ib. 126.)
And he draws a picture of these respectable people,
living in the " desirable mansions " which we see advertised in the newspapers, shut out from the real life of
the world and everything done for them, calling themselves educated because they know books, but ignorant
of the plainest and most necessary processes of daily
life and unable to exercise their natural human sympathies towards their neighbors except at arm's length.
By the side of the road there stands a little girl crying: she has lost her way. It is very cold, and she
looks pinched and starved. " Come in, my little girl,
and sit by my cottage fire, and you'll soon get warm;
and I'll see if I can't find you a bit of something to eat
before you go on.... Eh, dear! how stupid I am- I
quite forgot. I am sorry I can't ask you in, but I am
living in a desirable mansion now-and though we are
very sorry for you, yet you see we could hardly have
you into our house, for your dirty little boots would
make a dreadful mess of our carpets, and we should
have to dust the chairs after you had sat upon them,
and you see Mrs. Vavasour might happen to come in,




Poet and Prophet


39


and she would think it so very odd; and I know cooks
can't bear beggars, and 0 dear! I'm so sorry for youand here's a penny for you, and I hope you'll get home
safely." (Ib. 79-80.)
Verily it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye
of a needle than for a rich man to enter into those human relations with his fellows which constitute the kingcom of heaven! (Ib. 175.)
The way of escape for the individual lies in simplicity
of life and in sharing the manual labor of the world. This
will fit him better for the larger affairs which he may be
called upon to conduct. What we need is a new ideal
of daily life, "some better conception of human dignity-such as shall scorn to claim anything for its own
which has not been duly earned, and such as shall not
find itself degraded by the doing of any work however
menial, which is useful to society." (Ib. 72.) And how
shall this new ideal be preached? " There is no need
to talk-perhaps the less said about these matters the
better-but if you have such new ideal within you, it is
I believe your clearest duty, as well as your best interest, to act it out in your own life."  (Ib. 72.)
There seems'but one immediate step that the wealthy
despoiler can take-which at the same time is a most
obvious step-and that is at once or as soon as ever he
can, to place his life on the very simplest footing. And
this for several reasons. First, because if he must live




40


Edward Carpenter


by other people's labor-and in some cases doubtless his
" education " will leave him no other alternative-it is
clearly his duty to consume as little of that commodity
as he possibly can...  Secondly, because only by living simply-that is, on a level of simplicity at least equal
to that of the mass of the people-is it possible to know
the people, to become friends with them, to gauge their
wants.... Thirdly, because by such a natural life the
cares and anxieties of a luxurious household-the innumerable fidgets and worries and obstacles to all true life,
together with the dread about being able to maintain it
all in the future-are once and for all got rid of. A
great load drops off, and, the Rubicon once crossed, the
difficulties attending the change are seen to be nothing
compared with the increased happiness which it brings.
Fourthly, because it is only on the knowledge and habits
gained in a hard self-supporting life that the higher
knowledge and the fine arts are really founded. (Ib. 176. )
This is the individual ideal, and the social ideal involves the multiplication of such individuals, cooperating in practical socialism. And he strongly recommends
any course which will further the cause of cooperation
in any way. (Ib. 51.)
Thus it is that Carpenter would lead the race on beyond a civilization dominated by private property, while
recognizing the part that such property has played
in the evolution of the past. (England's Ideal 157.)
And what has private ownership become? It is not so
much the right to use as to prevent others from using.




Poet and Prophet


4V


" It is the power to turn all the inhabitants off your land
and convert it into a deer forest, or to prevent anyone
from tilling any part of your soil. The landlords of
England might starve the English people out." (Ib.
141.) The absurdity of such a "right" is self-evident, and yet the same negative principle is involved in
all private property. It is not the power to use the
property yourself, for you may be quite incapable of
cultivating your acres or of using your telescope, and
yet you may prevent others, who are anxious to render
these things useful to society, from doing so. (Ib. 141.)
Real ownership involves mastery of the thing owned and
ability to make the best possible use of it; but this fact
is ignored by our laws and customs. It is well that this
false ideal of wealth, which Ruskin calls "illth," should
be finally rejected and that men should establish a living
relationship to their material surroundings. Accumulations of mere "things " are a sign of disease, just as is
the accumulation of fat in an over-corpulent man. " It
is only when a man enters into the region of equality
that a solution offers itself. In finding the true Property
of Man he finds the secret of all ownership, and in surrendering all rights of private property, and accepting poverty, he really becomes possessed of all social
wealth, and, for the first time, infinitely rich." (Ib.
154.) Once again Carpenter comes back to his central
truth:




42


Edward Carpenter


To build up the Supreme Life in a people-the life of
Equality-in which each individual passes out of himself along the lives of his fellows, and in return receives
their life into himself with such force that he becomes
far greater as an individual than ever before-partaker
of the supreme power and well nigh irresistible-to build
up this life in a people may well be a task worthy of the
combined efforts of poets, philosophers and statesmen.
The whole of history and all the age-long struggles of the
nations point to its realization. Even now society like
a chrysalis writhes in the birth-throes of the winged
creature within. Equality-the vanishing of the centuries-long conflict between the individual and his fellows-the attainment by each man of a point where all
this war of interests ceases to exist, and the barriers
which divide man from man are thrown down-this is
indeed that Freedom for which all of history has been
one long struggle and preparation. (lb. 164-5.)
Nor will this equality be a state of dreary monotony, but
rather the " equality of the members of the body " fulfilling their various functions in perfect inward harmony.
Does this call to equality require too much selfdenial on the part of those who are invited to give up
their superfluity? Is there too much of asceticism in the
suggestion? Carpenter sees the danger, although he
has perhaps made his own life a little too bare in its externals, if we are to believe those who have visited him.
While he inculcates moderation in eating, he thinks that
"this has to be varied by an occasional orgy.... The




Poet and Prophet


43


orgy should not be omitted. Among other things it
restores the moral tone and prevents-a very important
point-all danger of lapse into pharisaism!" (Ib. 105.)
The same sanity which dictates this unusual advice shows
itself again when he sings the praises of love, but he adds:
"When society becomes so altruistic that everybody
runs to fetch the coal scuttle, we feel sure that something
has gone wrong." (Civilization: Its Cause and Cure 113).
We have already noted that Carpenter has no fear for
the fate of art in the world of his dreams. Our idea of
art as a mere ornament is altogether faulty. "You cannot make your rooms beautiful by buying an expensive
vase and putting it on the mantelshelf, but if you live an
honest life in it, it will grow beautiful in proportion as it
comes to answer to the wants of such a life." (England's Ideal o109-Iio.) We must refer the reader to
his Angels' Wings, the whimsically named volume in
which he treats of art and music, for a full discussion of
this question. "The object of the fine arts," he says
(and he has read Tolstoi's What Is Art? to good purpose), "is to convey an emotion." (Angels' Wings
42.) The proper question to be asked as to a work
of art is, " What contagion of feeling does it communicate from the breast of the author to that of his audience?"  (Ib. 45.) The highest emotion which can be
conveyed in this way is "a sense of harmony or health
of the Soul itself-the stirring within us of some divine




44


Edward Caripenter


and universal Being-to be capable of feeling which is
indeed the most excellent prerogative of Man: a sense
which we endeavor to express by the word Beauty, and
the conveyance of which is the highest message of Art."
(Ib. 78-9.) Carpenter never wanders far from this great
thought; religion as well as art will eventually turn
upon it.
The Religion of the future must come from the bosom
itself of the modern peoples; it must be the recognition
by Humanity as a whole of that Common Life which
has really underlain all the various religions of the past;
it must be the certainty of the organic unity of mankind, of the brotherhood of all sentient creatures, freeing itself from all local doctrine and prejudice, and expressing itself in any and every available form. The
seal and sanction of the Art of the future will be its
dedication to the service of this religion. (Ib. 135-6.)
The function of art "consists in actually drawing
human beings together... To make mankind realize
their unity, to make themfeel it, that will be the inspiration and the province of art." (Ib. 137.)
At the root of Beauty and the art sense Carpenter
finds the sexual instincts, and in Love's Coming of Age
he explains his views of these important matters from
his new standpoint.
Sex is the allegory of Love in the physical world. It
is from this fact that it derives its immense power. The




Poet and Prophet


45


aim of Love is non-differentiation-absolute union of
being; but absolute union can only be found at the center of existence. Therefore whoever has truly found
another has found not only that other and with that other
himself, but has found also a third-who dwells at the
center and holds the plastic material of the universe in
the palm of his hand, and is a creator of sensible forms.
(Love's Coming of Age 20.)
In short, "the prime object of Sex is union," (Ib.
21), physical, mental, spiritual. It is in subordination
to this conception that men should marry and give in
marriage, and it is easy for a writer who takes this high
ground to expose the shams involved in our present conventions, and it is natural that he should express the
hope for a more fluid, less rigid, state of society in the
future. I should not recommend Carpenter (nor any
one else) as an infallible guide in this matter (nor in any
other), but his treatment of it is full of originality and
suggestion.
Carpenter's idea of sex as the basis of universal unity
naturally involves the question of the relationship to
each other of members of the same sex, as well as of
those of opposite sexes. In his group of poems corresponding to the Calamus of Whitman he celebrates comradeship in terms worthy of the ancient Greeks. Such
sentiments are not often spoken of publicly in these days,
but it is irrational to condemn them offhand as inverted




46


46           Edward Carp~enter


and abnormal. All variations from the commonplace
are abnormal, the good as well as the bad. Genius and
philanthropy are abnormal, and the race would come to
a standstill if it did not have such abnormal variations
among which to choose its pathway. If, as Carpenter
supposes-and with a good deal of plausibility-all
affection has its basis in the sexual instincts, there is a
degree of inversion in the love of father for son, of son
for father, and of sisters for each other. Carpenter sees
the drawbacks in our present system of intersexual relations, with its large proportion of unhappy marriages
and the hypocrisy and suffering they entail-the binding
together for life of illassorted pairs upon the false assumption that God has joined them, and the sickening cant
which proscribes all attempts to look the situation in the
face and find some remedy for it. He has manfully
grappled with the problem and he deserves our thanks
for his courage and frankness, but I do not believe that
much is to be expected from close friendships of a romantic nature between persons of the same sex. Such
friendships, as we often see them between young girls,
involve all the jealousies and selfishness of normal courtship and have none of the physiological and domestic
sanctions.
I confess that I feel no call to undertake the settlement
of these troublesome questions of sex. In some future
incarnation I may have them forced upon me, but for the




Poet and Prophet


47


present I see no solution and do not know in which direction to search for one. Where divorce and promiscuity have become common, we see less contentment
and more disorder. Celibacy is sometimes proposed as
the highest ideal, and we are told that to conceive of
Christ, the perfect man, in the marriage relation, is to
derogate from his dignity. At first blush this seems
true, and yet Christendom has refused to accept this
celibate ideal and has provided the master with the
church itself as a bride. In doing so it has been in
harmony with the universal rule of religious history, for
the religious feelings, with their full flower of love to
God and neighbor, seem everywhere grounded in sex.
This, too, implies inversion, or rather development, in
our primary instincts, and their extension from a single
individual to all mankind. It is possible that through
its pioneers the race may advance from ordinary " falling
in love ' to a kindred passion for all life, and Carpenter's
group of poems to which I have referred has a marked
tendency in this direction, for he makes them culminate
in a general, all-embracing love:
Oh, I am greedy of love-all, all are beautiful to me!
You are my deliverers every one-from death, from sin,
from evil.
I float, I dissolve in you!-(Towards Democracy 286.)


And again:




48


Edward Carpenter


So still to allTo those lingering in prison,
To the aged and forsaken, stranded like wrecks on the
bleak shores of life,
To the heartbroken and weary-to the stunned with
despair,...
To you we give our love. (Ib., 290.)
That Carpenter recognizes fully the beauty of the monogamic ideal is shown by his poem The Golden Wedding.
(Ib. 306.)
We have now completed our review of the lifework of
this interesting man. If there is a more significant figure in the England of today, I do not know it. The
power of his character as revealed in his writings lies in
the fact that it is the fruit of a rich experience. He
does not give us booklearning or fancy or speculation or
hypothesis, but like a traveler returning from a far
country he tells what he has seen and investigated. If
he prefers the hard-working classes, it is because he
knows them intimately and finds them more truly men.
It is no imaginary theory a la Rousseau.
The fashionable, the intellectual and the commercial
classes are each narrowed down in their different ways
and along their own lines; that greater class which lives
in more direot contact with Nature and the actual facts
of life seems to me (notwithstanding the specially trying
circumstances of its life at the present day) to be by far




Poet and Prophet


49


the most human; and I shall always be glad that I have
come to know it, as I have done, and to learn some of
the best lessons of my life from it. (England's Ideal
53-4.)
Thus enjoying the sense of universal unity in the
bosom of the " lower " classes, Carpenter is passing his
life, now and again acquainting such part of the world
as may heed him with his discoveries and experiences.
He finds particular pleasure in music, and a piano is
among his few material treasures. He has edited Chants
of Labor, and is the author and composer of the words
and music of the fine socialist national anthem (if this be
not a contradiction in terms) England Arise! His devotion to Beethoven, the democratic prince of musicmen,
and his deep understanding of him, are shown in the
later essays of Angels' Wings. Carpenter has lately
taken up with enthusiasm the cause of his dumb fellow
creatures. Nor does he forget the oppressed peoples
of the earth. In 189o he went to Ceylon, his chief
object being to visit a certain Gniani there, a representative of the ancient Wisdom-religion; and for nearly
two months he conversed with the Indian Sage daily.
Afterwards he travelled widely over India; and his
book of travels, From Adam's Peak to Elephanta, presents the unwonted spectacle of an Englishman actually
regarding his Hindoo fellow subjects as friends and
equals. It is characteristic of him that he finds more to




50


Edward Carpenter


commend in the Salvation Army in India than in any
other British institution there established. The manual
labor with which he sometimes diversifies his other
work-the manufacture of sandals-has as its object the
freeing of the human foot from the stiff, impermeable
leather boxes in which it is at present deformed and
befouled.* The boot is a symbol of the husks of which
mankind must rid itself before it can attain to the
human form divine and blossom into the long-awaited
unity. When that day comes-when at last men's feet
are shod with the winged sandals of Hermes which free
and do not confine them-then we may be sure that the
name of Edward Carpenter will be cherished as that of
one of the guides and benefactors of the race, a true
messenger of the gods and a healer of mankind.
* The main business of sandle-making is now carried on by Mr. G. Adams, of
Holmesfield, near Sheffield.




Poet and Prophet.


5i


The following notes are by J. WILLIAM LLOYD
(author of "Dawn-Thought "), from The Free Comrade
of October, 1902:
"c There is a sort of soul-music in Carpenter, not found to the
same extent, I believe, in any other writer, the constant and
dominant presence of human love. He hardly thinks of expression, he forgets art, he forgets music, he almost finds it
hard to remember Nature, so imperiously is he compelled to
remember men.   No matter how deformed, mistaken, sinning,
disgusting, he must love, love, and    again love everything human. When he hears the wind, it whispers to him
with human voices; when he looks out on his beloved sea, the
waves are white with human faces; the moonlight rebounds,
sparkling, from innumerable wistful, wondering, awed, tearful,
yearning, suffering, loving human eyes.  The animals, the
flowers, are to him only human infants, not yet consciously
born. Everything means man, the hunger for love of man, the
imperious need of man, the coming, becoming destiny of man.
In "Towards Democracy," we have a book only to be classed
with "Leaves of Grass," and to which I can do no justice here.
It is one of the great books of the world, a Bible, a Book
literally written out-of-doors, a book full to bursting with human
love, tender, insistent, compassionate, comprehending, cheering,
consoling, exalting, a book manly and virile, breathing man's
savour and Nature's ozone from every sentence.
In "Love's Coming of Age," the freedom of the sexes, the
majority and adultage of human affection, is voiced with no
uncertain and hesitating words, and a beauty and clearness and
melody of style almost ideal.  No free man should permit his
child to pass the age of puberty without the opportunity to read
this book, so calm and clean and poise-giving.
In "Modern Science" we have a criticism of the science of
the day as merciless, ransacking, iconoclastic, and exposing as
anything that ever infidelity or "higher criticism" did to the
Bible. It is as magnificent a feat of scepticism and destructive
analysis as was ever penned.
In a "Visit to a Gfiani," the possibility of the absolute
spiritual science, this Cosmic Consciousness, which shall finally
illuminate the human darkness, turn human vision from distorted shadows to the contemplation of true objects, and enable
the soul to travel deductively along lines of right relation to all
truth, is trpated with all the charm of a personal narrative and a
beautiful blending of Oriental and Western philosophy.








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/    Edward CarpeerJ
JT  -- death of Edward Carpenter in
SEngland at. the age of 85 removes
an important intellectual figure and a
poet, scientist and Socialist of international reputation, Carpenter was born
in 1844 and studied for the ministry in
which he served for about two years
when he resigned and became a university extension lecturer for about seven
years. In 1877 he visited the United'
States and met Walt Whitman who had
a marked influence on his later work.
A few years later he retired to farm
life somewhat after the idea of Thoreau
and wrote "Towards Democracy" which
appeared in 1883 when he joined the
Socialist movement. His next work was
"Civilization: Its Cause and Cure," a
keen criticism of the shams and hypocrisies of capitalism. He declared that
under the capitalist order "man is the
only animal who, instead of adorning
and beautifying, makes nature hideous
by his presence."
Carpenter was one of the group like
William  Morris and the late H. M.
Hyndman who founded the Social Democratic Federation in the early eighties.
It was Carpenter who privided the
initial sum  which started "Justice," the
official Weekly organ of the Federation
which continues today but as a monthly
since the period of the World War when
the Federation was split into pro-war
and anti-war factions.
Among the other works of Carpenter
besides the two mentioned above were
"England's Ideal," "Chants of Labor,"
and "Love's Coming of Age." He was
also a frequent contributor to various
periodicals.
Carpenter never was conspicuous in
party affairs as his chief work was as
ia lecturer and author. He was a keen
critic, a lovable man, modest in      his
relations with others, and criginal in all
"his work.






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