In the interests of renown the forwardness should lie chiefly in the capacity to handle things.Successful propagandists have succeeded because the doctrine they bring into form is that which their listeners have for some time felt without being able to shape.A man who advocates aesthetic effort and deprecates social effort is only likely to be understood by a class to which social effort has become a stale matter.To argue upon the possibility of culture before luxury to the bucolic world may be to argue truly, but it is an attempt to disturb a sequence to which humanity has been long accustomed.Yeobright preaching to the Egdon eremites that they might rise to a serene comprehensiveness without going through the process of enriching themselves was not unlike arguing to ancient Chaldeans that in ascending from earth to the pure empyrean it was not necessary to pass first into the intervening heaven of ether.
Was Yeobright's mind well-proportioned? No.A well proportioned mind is one which shows no particular bias;one of which we may safely say that it will never cause its owner to be confined as a madman, tortured as a heretic, or crucified as a blasphemer.Also, on the other hand, that it will never cause him to be applauded as a prophet, revered as a priest, or exalted as a king.
Its usual blessings are happiness and mediocrity.
It produces the poetry of Rogers, the paintings of West, the statecraft of North, the spiritual guidance of Tomline;enabling its possessors to find their way to wealth, to wind up well, to step with dignity off the stage, to die comfortably in their beds, and to get the decent monument which, in many cases, they deserve.It never would have allowed Yeobright to do such a ridiculous thing as throw up his business to benefit his fellow-creatures.
He walked along towards home without attending to paths.
If anyone knew the heath well it was Clym.He was permeated with its scenes, with its substance, and with its odours.
He might be said to be its product.His eyes had first opened thereon; with its appearance all the first images , of his memory were mingled, his estimate of life had been coloured by it: his toys had been the flint knives and arrow-heads which he found there, wondering why stones should "grow" to such odd shapes; his flowers, the purple bells and yellow furze: his animal kingdom, the snakes and croppers; his society, its human haunters.
Take all the varying hates felt by Eustacia Vye towards the heath, and translate them into loves, and you have the heart of Clym.He gazed upon the wide prospect as he walked, and was glad.
To many persons this Egdon was a place which had slipped out of its century generations ago, to intrude as an uncouth object into this.It was an obsolete thing, and few cared to study it.How could this be otherwise in the days of square fields, plashed hedges, and meadows watered on a plan so rectangular that on a fine day they looked like silver gridirons? The farmer, in his ride, who could smile at artificial grasses, look with solicitude at the coming corn, and sigh with sadness at the fly-eaten turnips, bestowed upon the distant upland of heath nothing better than a frown.
But as for Yeobright, when he looked from the heights on his way he could not help indulging in a barbarous satisfaction at observing that, in some of the attempts at reclamation from the waste, tillage, after holding on for a year or two, had receded again in despair, the ferns and furze-tufts stubbornly reasserting themselves.
He descended into the valley, and soon reached his home at Blooms-End.His mother was snipping dead leaves from the window-plants.She looked up at him as if she did not understand the meaning of his long stay with her;her face had worn that look for several days.He could perceive that the curiosity which had been shown by the hair-cutting group amounted in his mother to concern.
But she had asked no question with her lips, even when the arrival of his trunk suggested that he was not going to leave her soon.Her silence besought an explanation of him more loudly than words.
"I am not going back to Paris again, Mother," he said.
"At least, in my old capacity.I have given up the business."Mrs.Yeobright turned in pained surprise."I thought something was amiss, because of the boxes.I wonder you did not tell me sooner.""I ought to have done it.But I have been in doubt whether you would be pleased with my plan.I was not quite clear on a few points myself.I am going to take an entirely new course.""I am astonished, Clym.How can you want to do better than you've been doing?""Very easily.But I shall not do better in the way you mean; I suppose it will be called doing worse.
But I hate that business of mine, and I want to do some worthy thing before I die.As a schoolmaster I think to do it--a school-master to the poor and ignorant, to teach them what nobody else will.""After all the trouble that has been taken to give you a start, and when there is nothing to do but to keep straight on towards affluence, you say you will be a poor man's schoolmaster.Your fancies will be your ruin, Clym."Mrs.Yeobright spoke calmly, but the force of feeling behind the words was but too apparent to one who knew her as well as her son did.He did not answer.
There was in his face that hopelessness of being understood which comes when the objector is constitutionally beyond the reach of a logic that, even under favouring conditions, is almost too coarse a vehicle for the subtlety of the argument.
No more was said on the subject till the end of dinner.
His mother then began, as if there had been no interval since the morning."It disturbs me, Clym, to find that you have come home with such thoughts as those.
I hadn't the least idea that you meant to go backward in the world by your own free choice.Of course, I have always supposed you were going to push straight on, as other men do--all who deserve the name--when they have been put in a good way of doing well.""I cannot help it," said Clym, in a troubled tone.