The Henson Journals

[367]

Wednesday, September 1st, 1915.

394th day

A most beautiful autumn morning after the rain: everything filled with water but radiant under the sun–light. How good it would all be if but this hateful back–ground of slaughter were taken away! The paper reports the illness of the Archbishop of Canterbury. If his Grace should be taken away at this juncture, the outlook for the Church of England would be dark indeed. I worked at the sermon on "The Function & Future of National Christianity", and finished it, but it is rather incoherent, & nowise satisfies me. In the course of the morning Mr Armes appeared, & told me that his mother, the widow of the late organist died yesterday. He wanted permission for her burial to take place tomorrow, & for the service to take place in the Cathedral. This I granted.

Janey Fleet sent me a photograph of herself in a nurse's dress. She has been transmuted from a hearty–looking Canadian girl into an anaemic Sister of Mercy:

Alack, Philosophy!

Despite the chop & change, diminished or increased,

Patched–up and plastered–o'er, Religion stands at least

I' the temple–type. But thou? Here gape I, all agog

These thirty years, to learn how tadpole turns to frog;

And thrice at least have gazed with mild astonishment,

As, skyward up and up, some fire–new fabric sent

Its challenge to mankind that, clustered underneath

To hear the word, they straight believe, ay, in the teeth

O' the Past, clap hands and hail triumphant Truth's outbreak –

Tadpole–frog–theory propounded past mistake!

In vain! A something ails the edifice, it bends,

It bows, it buries… Haste! cry "Heads below" to friends –

But have no fear they find, when smother shall subside,

Some substitution perk with unabated pride

I' the predecessor's place!

('Fifine at the Fair'.)

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