Father Payne | Page 2

life and all its issues. He
taught us to approach it with no preconceived theories, no fears, no
preferences. He had a great mistrust of conventional interpretation and
traditional explanations. At the same time he abhorred controversy and
wrangling. He had no wish to expunge the ideals of others, so long as
they were sincerely formed rather than meekly received. Though I have
come myself to somewhat different conclusions, he at least taught me
to draw my own inferences from my own experiences, without either
deferring to or despising the conclusions of others.
The charm of his personality lay in his independence, his sympathy, his
eager freshness of view, his purity of motive, his perfect simplicity; and
it is all this which I have attempted to depict, rather than to trace his
theories, or to present a philosophy which was always concrete rather
than abstract, and passionate rather than deliberate. To use a homely
proverb, Father Payne was a man who filled his chair!
Of one thing I feel sure, and that is that wherever Father Payne is, and
whatever he may be doing--for I have as absolute a conviction of the
continued existence of his fine spirit as I have of the present existence
of my own--he will value my attempt to depict him as he was. I
remember his telling me a story of Dr. Johnson, how in the course of
his last illness, when he could not open his letters, he asked Boswell to
read them for him. Boswell opened a letter from some person in the
North of England, of a complimentary kind, and thinking it would

fatigue Dr. Johnson to have it read aloud, merely observed that it was
highly in his praise. Dr. Johnson at once desired it to be read to him,
and said with great earnestness, "_The applause of a single human
being is of great consequence._" Father Payne added that it was one of
Johnson's finest sayings, and had no touch of vanity or self-satisfaction
in it, but the vital stuff of humanity. That I believe to be profoundly
true: and that is the spirit in which I have set all this down.
September 30, 1915.

CONTENTS
I. FATHER PAYNE II. AVELEY III. THE SOCIETY IV. THE
SUMMONS V. THE SYSTEM VI. FATHER PAYNE VII. THE MEN
VIII. THE METHOD IX. FATHER PAYNE X. CHARACTERISTICS
XI. CONVERSATION XII. OF GOING TO CHURCH XIII. OF
NEWSPAPERS XIV. OF HATE XV. OF WRITING XVI. OF
MARRIAGE XVII. OF LOVING GOD XVIII. OF FRIENDSHIP XIX.
OF PHYLLIS XX. OF CERTAINTY XXI. OF BEAUTY XXII. OF
WAR XXIII. OF CADS AND PHARISEES XXIV. OF
CONTINUANCE XXV. OF PHILANTHROPY XXVI. OF FEAR
XXVII. OF ARISTOCRACY XXVIII. OF CRYSTALS XXIX.
EARLY LIFE XXX. OF BLOODSUCKERS XXXI. OF INSTINCTS
XXXII. OF HUMILITY XXXIII. OF MEEKNESS XXXIV. OF
CRITICISM XXXV. OF THE SENSE OF BEAUTY XXXVI. OF
BIOGRAPHY XXXVII. OF POSSESSIONS XXXVIII. OF
LONELINESS XXXIX. OF THE WRITER'S LIFE XL. OF WASTE
XLI. OF EDUCATION XLII. OF RELIGION XLIII. OF CRITICS
XLIV. OF WORSHIP XLV. OF A CHANGE OF RELIGION XLVI.
OF AFFECTION XLVII. OF RESPECT OF PERSONS XLVIII. OF
AMBIGUITY XLIX. OF BELIEF L. OF HONOUR LI. OF WORK LII.
OF COMPANIONSHIP LIII. OF MONEY LIV. OF
PEACEABLENESS LV. OF LIFE-FORCE LVI. OF CONSCIENCE
LVII. OF RANK LVIII. OF BIOGRAPHY LIX. OF
EXCLUSIVENESS LX. OF TAKING LIFE LXI. OF BOOKISHNESS
LXII. OF CONSISTENCY LXIII. OF WRENS AND LILIES LXIV.
OF POSE LXV. OF REVENANTS LXVI. OF DISCIPLINE LXVII.
OF INCREASE LXVIII. OF PRAYER LXIX. THE SHADOW LXX.

OF WEAKNESS LXXI. THE BANK OF THE RIVER LXXII. THE
CROSSING LXXIII. AFTER-THOUGHTS LXXIV. DEPARTURE

FATHER PAYNE

I
FATHER PAYNE
It was a good many years ago, soon after I left Oxford, when I was
twenty-three years old, that all this happened. I had taken a degree in
Classics, and I had not given much thought to my future profession.
There was no very obvious opening for me, no family business, no
influence in any particular direction. My father had been in the Army,
but was long dead. My mother and only sister lived quietly in the
country. I had no prosaic and practical uncles to push me into any
particular line; while on coming of age I had inherited a little capital
which brought me in some two hundred a year, so that I could afford to
wait and look round. My only real taste was for literature. I wanted to
write, but I had no very pressing aspirations or inspirations. I may
confess that I was indolent, fond of company, but not afraid of
comparative solitude, and I was moreover an entire dilettante. I read a
good many books, and tried feverishly to write in the style of the
authors who most attracted me, I settled down at