The Henson Journals

[210]

Easter Eve, April 19th, 1930.

I vow to thee, my country – all earthly things above –

Entire & whole & perfect, the service of my love,

The love that asks no questions: the love that stands the test,

That lays upon the altar the dearest & the best:

The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,

The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And there's another country, I've heard of long ago –

Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know –

We may not count her armies: we may not see her King –

Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering –

And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,

And her ways are ways of gentleness, and all her paths are peace.

Cecil Spring Rice

(Written Jan 12th 1918, the last night wh. he spent at the British Embassy at Washington, at the end of his service to England, & hardly more than a month before his death.)

[211]

A wet, stormy day, with every promise of bad weather. The cycle–racing competition in the Park on Monday has an ill look.

I wrote a short sermon for the Scout's Service in the Cathedral.

In spite of the wind & rain I walked to Bryden's Cottage, but got so wet I had to bath & change.

I finished reading a short book of sketches by Stephen Gwynn, "Saints and Scholars", which was given me by Canon McCullagh. The description of Mark Pattison interested me particularly. He died in the very year, 1884, in which I was elected at All Souls, & I remember hearing much gossip about him & his wife. He had never been to a public school, & he never seems to have regretted the fact. He was a cynical, self–centred man. Here is a judgement of his which provokes thought, &, perhaps, contradiction:–

"It seems to me one of the marks of greatness that the great man is never represented by his books. Voltaire is a signal instance: what heaps of trash the 75 vols. of his works consist of, nor has he left a single production which taken separately can be said to be worth reading . . . . Yet Voltaire is the greatest figure in the whole of the 18th century."

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