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 Copyright © 2019 Meagan Brandy
Trouble at Brayshaw High
Brayshaw series, book 2
Release date: May 28th, 2019
All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be
reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express
written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the
products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events
is purely coincidental.
No copyright infringement intended. No claims have been made over
songs and/or lyrics written. All credit goes to original owner.

Edited by: Ellie McLove, My Brother's Editor

Proofread by: Rosa Sharon, iScream Proofreading Services
Cover Designer: Jay Aheer, Simply Defined Art
 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Trouble at Brayshaw High
Copyright © 2019 Meagan Brandy
Dedication:
Synopsis:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Quick note from the author
Stay connected
More by Meagan Brandy
Playlist
Acknowledgments
About the Author
 Dedication:

To the one brave enough to be weak for those you love,

your crown is coming.
 Synopsis:
“You don’t belong.”
No words whispered in anger have ever rung more true.
They’re the Kings of Brayshaw with the world at their feet, destined for greatness
and in need of control.
I’m the girl from the ghetto with nothing to offer and as defiant as they come.
They say it doesn’t matter, that I’m one of them now, and nothing could ever
change that.
Not even me, should I dare try.
But they’re wrong.
They underestimate how far I’ll go to protect them.
Trouble is coming...and they have no idea.
 Dear Reader,
Trouble at Brayshaw High is the second book in my Brayshaw series.
In order to follow and enjoy this story, you must have read book
one, Boys of Brayshaw High, as this will pick up where the other left
off. Thank you so much for reading!
Find book one here:
Boys of Brayshaw High (Brayshaw, book one)
I grip the ends of my hair and pull, trying to lessen the pounding at
my temples. My body and mind are exhausted, and my head is
taking the heat from it.
It doesn’t help a damn thing, so I drop onto the bar stool and
look to the clock.
It’s past three a.m. and still, no sign of Raven.
Captain is pacing the fucking house while Royce keeps walking in
and out the front door with his arms crossed over his chest.
I shake my head. Only hours gone, and the three of us are losing
our damn minds. This girl, she’s got us all sorts of fucked up.
She had slipped out front only minutes after coming downstairs,
and I was seconds from following her ass, but didn’t. I kept my feet
planted and gave her the time I convinced myself she needed to
build back the sass or fire she was ready to throw.
When fifteen minutes ticked by and she still hadn’t walked back
in, I knew without looking she took off, pulled a fucking Raven and
made a solo decision.
And a solo decision meant a stupid fucking decision.
That’s the thing about Raven Carver, she does whatever the hell
she wants, makes shitty judgment calls in a snap that you never see
coming, and hopes it’ll all work out in the end, fuck the
consequences.
I can’t fucking stand it.
Her ass has to stop taking off without us when she knows there’s
nothing but trouble waiting in the dark. This is something Bass
fucking Bishop should have thought about before he asked her to
slip away from us and meet him at the warehouses last night where
she ended up getting fucking jumped.
He may be our bookie for all events out at the warehouses and a
damn good one at that, but that’s my fucking girl. He should’ve
known better.
I might talk to my brothers about blacklisting his punk ass for
that move alone – everyone on hand is replaceable, Raven is not. He
should have fucking thought of that.
The second we realized she ran, we tossed him out, called up our
boys, and went searching.
The problem, Raven’s spent the better part of her life sneaking
around others. We knew we’d only find her if she wanted us to.
Going to look was more us hoping her ass was walking around to
clear her mind.
Hours ticked by and she was nowhere in sight, so we came home
to wait her out while our boys kept looking, hitting random house
parties around town in search of her.
“I still think Bass is hiding something,” Royce spits, tilting his
head to look along the porch. “Little bitch is out pretending to hunt
for her, he prolly knows exactly where she’s at.”
Captain shakes his head. “If he does know something, no way
will he give it up now.” He looks to me. “He knows we’d ream his ass
for not talking last night after she got her ass beat on his time.”
My jaw locks at his words, and I grind my teeth.
He’s right, we would. I might for the fuck of it at this point.
My phone dings against the countertop and all our heads snap
toward it. I jerk, quickly grabbing and unlocking it, completely
fucking annoyed when I read my boy Mac’s message on the screen.
I toss it back down.
“Mac got a hold of that Mello chick she went to The Tower with.
She’s in fucking Maui – hasn’t talked to Raven since we dropped her
shit off.”
Cap looks to his phone right then, frowning down at the screen.
“Leo said he just searched the school grounds and park again.” He
stuffs it back in his pocket. “No Raven.”
Fuck. Fuck it.
 I jump to my feet, glancing from Captain to Royce. “I’m going to
look again.”
Royce has his keys in his hand in seconds, but Captain’s features
tighten.
“What?” Royce drags out suspiciously.
“We’ve got a game to play tomorrow, or fuck, today now.” Cap
licks his lips, glancing back our way. “We have to be ready for it.”
Royce’s brows snap together. “Cap. No.” He shakes his head.
“Maddoc, tell him.”
Shit. The game.
When I don’t say anything, Royce slices his eyes to Captain.
“We’re not fucking going if she’s not back!”
Cap is cautious with him. “Royce—”
“Don’t fucking Royce me, man,” he cuts him off. “The fuck you
actin’ like you’re calm, when I know you’re not?!”
Captain glances from him to me. “We watched on the
surveillance cameras, we know nobody took her. She ran. And you
know if it weren’t for the game, I’d be in the damn driver’s seat
already, but we need to be there, and we need to play well.”
“And if she shows up, packs her shit or something while we’re
gone?!” Royce shouts, a frenzied look in his eye. “I’m not fucking
leavin’!”
Fuck.
I rub at my temples. Cap’s right, we have to play well, but damn,
this is Raven we’re talking about.
When we brought her here, we never expected her to fit. We
sure as fuck never imagined wanting to keep her or to be
unaccepting of her leaving.
We were told to make sure she fell in line the way the others my
dad accepted into the houses did, but she fought us at every turn
from the first fucking day.
She was different, and I knew it instantly.
It was in the way she didn’t peek up at us but stared full-on, her
chin held as high as ours if not higher. She gave lip when we
demanded silence. When we pushed, she pushed harder, stepped in
closer and lit our asses on fire in a way nobody ever had. She tested
us more than we have her and without even trying, maybe even
completely unaware.
At the thought, the pulse in my neck throbs harder against my
skin as my anger boils higher with each passing second.
The fucked up part is I know Cap is on the same level we are
right now, but he has more to lose, so he’s in a fucked up position.
I know my brother, he’ll be kicking his own ass later over even
suggesting we stop looking for the night.
Still, with his inner struggles now in our face, Captain nods,
looking between us. He’s ready to ride even though he wishes we’d
listen. “If we play like shit, we lose.”
“Yeah,” Royce mocks, not allowing himself to feel the guilt that’ll
hit later for our being selfish right now. “We lose, we jeopardize the
season and Graven Preps stats raise, and piece of shit Principal
Perkins will cause problems, and Dad will get on our fucking cases
from a five by nine cement cell, and it’ll all fall harder on your
shoulders because of Zoey, man, but— ” His mouth clamps shut
when a click sounds.
Our heads jerk when the front door slowly creeps open and
Raven steps inside.
She’s measured in her motions, taking her sweet ass time to
close and lock the door, prolonging what she’s expecting to come at
her – the fucking firing squad.
I quickly meet my brothers’ frowns with my own before shifting it
back to her.
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to wait until she turns around
and looks at me, but Royce jumps in before she even can.
“What the fuck, Raven?!” He rushes forward.
Captain grips his shoulder to try and calm him, but he jerks free
waiting for her to meet is glare. When she refuses, a sour laugh
leaves him and he kicks over the coffee table, sending shit flying
before storming up the stairs.
“Raven,” I call her eyes to mine, but she only blows out a deep
breath and looks to the left.
“I needed to clear my head,” she rasps. “And in case you forgot, I
don’t have to ask anyone’s permission to do it.”
 “Are you for real right now?” I growl and push toward her. “After
all the shit from the last few days, you wanna play this fucking
game?”
“I’m not playing games.”
“Then fucking talk!” I shout, moving even closer. “You can’t just
run off whenever—”
“I can, and I will!” she yells back, trying for her usual defiant self,
but her voice cracks without permission and her eyes quickly dart to
the floor in a very un-Raven-like move.
Every muscle in my body locks, a sudden sickness spinning in my
gut.
What the hell...
I glance to my brother, hoping for a sign of what he’s thinking,
but his stare is just as wary as mine.
“Raven...” I try again, a little calmer this time and finally her
stormy eyes hit mine.
My lungs constrict as I get a good look.
Her makeup has worn off, eyes are puffy and red, a silent scream
bristling, a flicker of something I can’t quite read sitting at the edge,
ready to burst.
I bite into my cheek to keep my mouth shut, fighting for some
damn restraint when it’s the last thing I want to do.
I had every fucking intention of ripping into her and not letting
up but staring at her now, standing in front of me all beat up and
bruised, emotionally drained from whatever is running through her
mind, and physically from being attacked at our underground ring, I
can’t fucking do it. My shoulders fall.
“I need ... a shower and sleep.” Even though she says it, she
doesn’t move right away.
She doesn’t move at all until I take a half step toward her. That
kicks her into gear and she hustles for the stairs.
Both Cap’s and my eyes follow until her feet are no longer seen
on the steps.
He turns back to me, speaking low. “I knew she was off earlier,
but I can’t convince myself it has anything to do with the fight.”
 “Cap.” My fucking body is weighted, ready to drop. “Tell me it’s
not because we weren’t there to help her. Tell me she doesn’t look at
me and see a man who can’t keep her safe.”
Captain grips my shoulder, looking me dead in the eye. “She left
on her own, man, she purposely stepped away from us. The
question we need to be asking is, was it because she needed a
minute to herself” —he lifts his brows— “or because she needed to
take care of something she didn’t want us to be a part of? And I
don’t know the answer, my man. But what happened to her last
night? That shit wasn’t your fault.”
“What if it was?” I argue. “What if she was jumped because of
what we’ve made her?”
Cap laughs lightly, but it’s defeated. “We didn’t make her
anything, brother. Raven was born who she is. Yeah, we brought her
into our world, but she came in strong and determined. It’s why she
blended instantly. All we can do is try to understand the fucked-up
way she was raised to think. Maybe down the road, she’ll
understand she’s not alone anymore.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “Why do you sound like you know she
pulled some shit tonight?”
He sighs, releasing me. “I don’t know, but I feel like she’s in her
head right now. Last time she was like this was when we tried to
force her hand the day her mom showed up and she purposely tried
to get herself kicked out of the Bray house, all to prove a point. That
she was in control of her own moves.”
“Things are different now,” I all but growl.
We’re not fucking dispensable to her. I know it.
I fucking feel it.
His eyes widen as he lifts his brows. “Exactly. It was all about her
then and she still made a move that would be bad for herself, get
her ass sent back to the hell she lived in, out of spite, but she’s one
of us now. Even if she hasn’t said it out loud, she knows it, and look
what she did for us when she didn’t give a shit who we were...
Pushing the girl in the pool at that Graven party, roping up the chick
who had the video of Coach and his girl, the shit at the warehouses
when she tried to let us get out without being seen, the cabins...”
 When my brows dig in, he nods.
“Now, imagine what she’d do for us now that she cares.”
Fuck. He’s right.
I run my hands down my face and I push past him. “I can’t think
about this shit right now, Cap. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow or
fuck, tonight, after the game.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “That’s probably a better idea.”
He follows behind me, disappearing into his room.
I stop by the bathroom, finding the water still running, so I head
for mine to rinse off real quick.
I don’t know if anything Cap said holds any merit, and I sure as
fuck plan to find out, but right now I’m gonna lay with her, fuck her
if she needs it, hold her if she lets me, and we’ll worry about the shit
that happened tonight tomorrow.

I crawl under the covers, pulling the fluffy comforter up to my chin,

clenching it as armor when the sound of his footsteps pad against
the floor in the hall.
The handle turns, but only as far as a locked knob allows, and I
hold my breath.
What seems like a never-ending beat of silence follows, and I
bite into my cheek, denying the pathetic tears trying to fight their
way to the surface.
It turns again but slower, quieter as he tries one more time ...
just in case.
Angry feet pound against the flooring and a door slams in the
distance.
The second it does, I release a deep breath, pull my knife from
under the blanket and flip it open. I turn it to run my finger over the
blade while reading the inscription.
Family runs deeper than blood.
It’s funny when you think about it.
 Family runs deeper than blood, yet it’s the ones we chose we’ll so
willingly bleed for.
I poke my fingertip until a drop of deep red appears, then run it
across my lips. I rub them together, sliding my tongue along my
teeth, spreading the metallic flavor left behind across my mouth in
self-hate.
I’m sorry, Big Man. For today ... and what’s to come.
I knew after witnessing pre-game warm-ups that tonight would be a
messy battle, but I didn’t expect this. This is just ugly.
For what must be the twentieth time tonight, the ball is passed to
Maddoc in hopes of him adding some points to the board.
Switching up positions, he spins around a guy on the opposing
team but loses his footing and slips. And like the last time the ball
touched his hands, it’s stolen right back.
Maddoc growls, his chest bowing out, but he shakes it off and
keeps down the court.
I pinch my lips to the side, cringing when the visiting team
makes yet another shot, Brayshaw now down by seven.
This entire game they’ve been playing catch up, but they can’t
seem to pull ahead. They’re extremely sloppy, like I’ve never seen
before, and unfortunately, it’s trickled across the entire team.
Captain hasn’t made a single shot he’s attempted tonight, his
frustration etched across his face. He’s pretty much taken himself
out at this point, and Royce is playing angry, which translates into
foul after foul.
Right as I’m thinking it, another whistle sounds.
All heads turn to look down the opposite side of the court in time
to see Royce get in the referee’s face.
“Oh, you’re not gonna call that on his ass, but you wanna call on
me all night? I see how it is, ref.” He bends his shoulders back a
little, shaking his head mockingly. “It’s cool, I know who signs your
paychecks, bitch.”
“Brayshaw!” the coach yells, but Royce ignores him.
 I cut a quick glance at Maddoc and Captain, but they stay back,
letting him do his thing.
“Man, let’s go. We’ve got a game to win,” a guy from the other
team boldly – or stupidly – shouts and Royce whips around, the wild
ass look in his eyes caught from here.
Within seconds he’s shoving the dude in the chest, hard enough
where the guy falls back against his teammates and I sit up straight,
ready for a fucking brawl, but this is Bray’s house, Brayshaw’s town
– nobody dares move closer. Nobody except Royce.
“Get in my face again, motherfucker, and you’ll be eatin’ metal.”
The ref throws his hands out, a cautious look in his eyes as he
officially ejects Royce from the game.
He flips him off with both hands and stomps over to the bench.
He grabs his hoodie and water bottle, throwing it at the other team’s
coach, then slams his way through the gym door leading to their
locker room.
Bass catches my eye and narrows his, but I dismiss him.
He can blame me all he wants for this shit show, he’s just as
guilty and he knows it. All he had to do was go to them with the
news about the video, but he came to me instead.
I mean, I appreciate it, but I won’t take his judgmental bullshit
when he can right his wrong any time he wants. My guess, though,
is he’s not bold enough to know that he already held back
information from the three who trust him with their dealings and
money flow.
Maybe they shouldn’t.
I find Maddoc on the court, who happens to look over right as I
do, but he quickly cuts his eyes back, sliding into position before the
ball is in motion again.
The way they’re playing is completely my fault, I know that. I
stressed them out, kept them up for almost two days now – doubt
any of them slept last night. I know I didn’t.
Maybe they’re having a bad game today, but at least they got to
play in it, right? I mean, if the video of the four of us getting frisky
while also breaking into the Graven cabin was released, they could
have been dropped from the team or be in juvenile hall or
something.
There was no need to risk those outcomes when I was able to
prevent it.
I’m realistic enough to understand my place in the world, and
maybe it wouldn’t have happened today or tomorrow, but the end
game is never the girl from the ghetto ending up in a mansion to
stay. I know that, and I accept it.
I’ll admit though, I didn’t expect the distance to sting so quick.
Maddoc hasn’t spoken a word to me all day, Royce or Captain
either, and they still have no clue what’s in motion.
I can’t even begin to imagine what happens from here, but the
damage is done, and I’d do it again if I had to.
I shake off my thoughts and focus back on the game.
Asshole Leo makes a basket and everyone cheers. With a new
shot of energy now flowing through the room, all eyes trail the
Brayshaw Wolves as they follow the other team down the court.
One of our guys leaps up, blocking the shot attempt, and the ball
falls into our hands. The Brayshaw player heads toward their basket,
faking a throw down court only to toss it back to Maddoc, who
shoots and makes a solid three-pointer.
The crowd jumps to their feet in excitement.
Elbows are thrown around, rougher than should be allowed, but
after Royce’s blow up, the referees seem not to want to call fouls on
either team.
With Maddoc’s new lead, the Wolves are fighting back.
There are seventeen seconds on the clock – a lifetime in
basketball.
Come on, Big Man.
I lift my chin to see over the teammates who hop to their feet in
front of me, jerking my head to the side when Principal Perkins
plants himself directly at my side.
“Hello, Raven.”
Unease washes over me, but I force my eyes back to the court,
and sure as shit, amongst the crazy, Maddoc and Captain both
spotted the piece of shit move my way.
 “What do you want, Perkins?”
“I got a very interesting transfer slip on my desk this morning,
Ms. Carver.”
I freeze, and I’m pretty sure my eyes widen, because Maddoc’s
frown deepens, but he takes off, the ball now in his hand and I shift
to see him better.
In the same second, Perkins lays his hand on my arm, and I spin,
yanking away from him.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I spit through clenched teeth and a
mocking laugh leaves him.
The crowd groans and when my eyes flash back to the court,
Maddoc’s hands are swiping down his face in frustration, the ball
now with the opposing team as the final buzzer sounds.
“Thanks for all your help, Ms. Carver.”
“Don’t get it twisted,” I force through clenched teeth. “I’d never
do a damn thing to purposely help you.”
He steps down, turning back to face me as he does. “You have a
good night. Can’t wait for the next game.” He smirks and walks
away.
I wish I could tackle his ass to the ground.
I look to the scoreboard.
There goes Brayshaw High’s Varsity Basketball team’s perfect
record. The last chance the boys had at a seamless high school
season.
Everyone will assume they simply couldn’t pull it off, they’ll say
they were bound to have an off game at some point during the
season.
Nobody around knows about the events of this weekend.
I had more than a few curious glances in school today, caught
several staring at the cut on my lip and bruise on the side of my face
that started to show even more the longer the day went on. The
concealer I have is cheap, so I couldn’t keep it covered all day.
When you mix my appearance with the way the four of us sat
staring into space at lunch today, the crazy of tonight’s game, and
Perkins’ fake friendly smiles just now, I guarantee the rumor ring’s
firing on all cylinders right now. Not to mention how the three are
known to tune out the world when on the court in uniform and were
seen paying more mind to me than the game tonight. Yeah, people
are gonna talk.
Fuck them.
I don’t even consider moving from my seat as the team exits and
the crowd disperses.
As I expected, Bass attempts to talk to me, but I shake my head
and look away. He knows damn well I’m not interested in his
backward worries – too little too late.
The guys take longer than normal in the locker room this time,
likely getting reamed by their coach, and when they do come out,
they’re the only ones to step through the double doors.
All three sets of eyes zone in on me, making sure I’m still where
they left me.
They slow their steps enough for me to catch up and together we
head for Captain’s Denali.
Once we’re all seated, they take a few deep breaths before
turning the engine over.
My stomach turns as anxiousness begins to grow inside me.
Any time now they’ll start in, demanding answers, and no matter
how many times I’ve played out the conversation in my head,
preparing myself for possible questions and coming up with
preplanned answers, none of them are believable.
I’m not even sure I could flat out lie to their faces when it came
down to it.
Thankfully, they seem just as damn done with the day as me.
Captain heads straight for the house, dinner is skipped, and
everyone moves for their own rooms. They lock themselves inside,
so I do the same.
I throw myself back on the mattress, sucking in a lung full of air.
Perkins said he got a transfer form on his desk today. That
happened so much faster than I anticipated.
My time with them is almost up.
After an hour of sitting on the couch, waiting for at least one of the
boys to come down, it’s clear not one of them plans on going to
school today, all three are likely burnt out after the last few days
with little to no chill time. And I sure as shit couldn’t care less about
going, so I head into the kitchen to try and find some kind of food I
can make on my own.
I scan through all their fresh ingredients and weird worded
foreign shit I’ve never even seen before, let alone tried, digging out
an old pack of Eggos. I’m pretty sure they’re covered in freezer
burn, but I go for it anyway. It’s not like I’ve never eaten old or
expired food that people claim is still good.
Nothing in my house ever lasted long enough to get old, but
everything that came from the church was a solid week or more past
the ‘best by’ or expiration date. The only thing that didn’t come
expired was the milk, when we were lucky enough to get it.
I was always the one to have to go down on donation days.
Being a kid all alone in a line full of mostly adults, their bleeding
hearts felt bad and they’d give me more than the others, something
they thought would brighten my eyes a little. It did. The one extra
box of semi-stale cereal or a jar of canned jelly to go with the cheap
Peter Pan peanut butter would honestly make my day, and
sometimes my month when a spoonful of each was what held me
over at home until the school days where I’d eat free meals in the
cafeteria.
I stopped going to the donation centers though when I saw one
of the other moms from my trailer park, who was there with her
youngest kid, get turned away for lack of goods.
I’d heard my mom try to turn her out once, but she wasn’t one
to run tricks to buy her drugs like my mom. No, she chose to sell her
food stamps instead. So, without the church’s food, her kids simply
didn’t eat. She was never hungry since her drug of choice was meth,
so I doubt she even noticed all the times her kids would make their
way to other neighbors’ houses hoping for an invite to stay and eat
that didn’t always come.
They were only five and seven. I was nine.
I left my box on their steps that day.
I think that was the moment I realized other people had it worse
than me.
If I could go back there and pull all those kids from their homes,
I would.
People think CPS steps in and saves little kids, but that can only
happen if someone cares enough to call. Unfortunately, most around
us don’t. Their situations are usually shitty in some way too, and
they don’t want anyone in their business, so mouths stay shut when
maybe they shouldn’t.
I only remember ever seeing one kid getting removed from his
home, and that was only because his dad overdosed, and the dad’s
girlfriend didn’t want him there. Sucked when he left. He would sit
outside with me at night sometimes, waiting for the louder clients of
my mom’s to leave.
With my plate of slightly soggy waffles in hand, I tiptoe back to
my room. I drop onto the bed and take my time eating, then grab
my stash from the drawer and roll a joint. It’s a pinner, all I have left
is the shake from the bottom of the bag, but it’ll get the job done.
I grab the old water bottle from the bedside table to ash in and
drop in the chair next to the window. I unlatch it and push it open ...
and a piercing ring hits my ears making me cringe.
I slam it shut, but it keeps going.
I growl, jumping when my door is thrown open and Maddoc
appears.
He pushes a button on his phone and the earsplitting alarm –
that they must have had installed or activated today – stops.
 He stands there a minute with hair the perfect kind of fucked-up,
puffy lips and sleepy eyes. Shirtless and in nothing but tight briefs,
his morning wood still very much present, and suddenly I’m hot in
all the right places.
But he gets me in the gut when fire doesn’t fill his eyes, and
instead they slowly drop to my doorknob before purposefully lifting
back to mine and holding.
Anger and cageyness stare back but he blinks them away, a
mask now slipped in their place. He walks away without a word.
I jerk forward, ready to go after him but I force my feet still,
reminding myself the shift in the house is my fault and the way I’m
reacting to it isn’t who I am.
I’m not a frail girl affected by the actions of a broody boy.
So I locked him out twice now, so what?
With a sigh, I toss the weak ass joint to the carpet and drop back
on the mattress where I stay for the remainder of the day.
Yeah, I’m not even fooling myself.
This is gonna suck.
Another random document with
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Christ, we shall learn the full interpretation of that profound word. He
will draw all men, because it is not possible for any human soul to
resist the divine loveliness once it is fairly and fully presented to his
vision.
The sermon on the “Worship of Faith,” sets forth that “to worship
Christ is to bow down with love and wonder and thankfulness, before
the most perfect goodness that the world has ever seen, and to
believe that that goodness was the express image of God the
Father.” All aims and all ideals, that are not the aims and ideals of
Christ, are distinctly opposed to such worship, and the man who
entertains these alien ideals may not call himself a Christian. After
examining that attitude of the spirit towards Christ which belongs to
the worship of faith, the rest of the sermon is very practical. “Work is
Worship,” is the keynote: one longs that a writer who knows so well
how to touch the secret springs had taken this opportunity to move
us to that “heart’s adoration,” which is dearer to God; but, indeed, the
whole volume has this tendency. It is well to be reminded that “the
thorough and willing performance of any duty, however humble or
however exalted, is like the offering of incense to Christ, well-
pleasing and acceptable.”
The sermon on the “Righteousness of Faith,” is extremely
important and instructive. The writer dwells on the “deplorable cant”
with which we pronounce ourselves “miserable sinners,” combining
the “sentiments of the Pharisees in the parable with the expressions
of the publican.”
“Christ’s language about man’s sinfulness is altogether free from
vagueness and hyperbole; when He blames He blames for definite
faults which we can appreciate, and He is so far from declaring that
men can do no good thing, that He assumes always that man in his
proper state of dependence upon God has the power to do
righteousness. ‘Whosoever shall do the will of My Father, which is in
heaven, the same is My brother, and sister, and mother.’... But the
question remains, How, considering our actual shortcomings, can
any of us be spoken of by Christ as righteous here and now? This is
the question in answer to which St. Paul wrote two of his greatest
Epistles. His answer was, that according to Christ, a man is
accounted righteous, not from a consideration of his works, but from
a consideration of his faith in God. Human righteousness is not a
verdict upon the summing up of a life, but it is reckoned to a man at
any moment from a certain disposition of his spirit to the Spirit of
God; a disposition of trust, love, reverence, the disposition of a
dutiful son to a good father.... Righteousness, in the only sense in
which it is possible for men, means believing and trusting God.”
We have not space to take up in detail all the teaching of this
inspiring little volume. We commend it to parents. Who, as they, have
need to nourish the spiritual life in themselves? Who, as they, have
need to examine themselves as to with how firm a grasp they hold
the mysteries of our faith? Who, as they, need to have their ideas as
to the supreme relationship so clear that they can be translated into
baby speech? Besides, we have seen that it is the duty of the
educator to put the first thing foremost, and all things in sequence;
only one thing is needful—that we “have faith in God”; let us deliver
our thoughts from vagueness and our ways from variableness, if we
would help the children towards this higher life. To this end, we
gladly welcome teaching which is rather nourishing than stimulating,
and which should afford real help towards “sober walking in pure
Gospel ways.”

FOOTNOTES:
[11] “The Imitation of Christ” (Rhythmic translation).
[12] Pendennis. Thackeray.
 CHAPTER XIV

THE HEROIC IMPULSE[13]

“To set forth, as only art can, the beauty and the joy of living, the
beauty and the blessedness of death, the glory of battle and
adventure, the nobility of devotion—to a cause, an ideal, a passion
even—the dignity of resistance, the sacred quality of patriotism, that
is my ambition here,” says the editor of “Lyra Heroica” in his preface.
We all feel that some such expression of the “simpler sentiments,
more elemental emotions” should be freely used in the education of
children, that, in fact, heroic poetry contains such inspiration to noble
living as is hardly to be found elsewhere; and also we are aware that
it is only in the youth of peoples that these elemental emotions find
free expression in song. We look at our own ballad literature and find
plenty of the right material, but it is too occasional and too little
connected, and so though we would prefer that the children should
imbibe patriotism and heroism at the one fountain head, we think it
cannot be done. We have no truly English material, we say, for
education in this kind, and we fall back on the Homeric myths in one
or other of the graceful and spirited renderings which have been
made specially for children.
But what if it should turn out that we have our own Homer, our
own Ulysses? Mr. Stopford Brooke has made a great discovery for
us who look at all things from the child standpoint. Possibly he would
not be gratified to know that his “History of Early English Literature,”
invaluable addition as it is to the library of the student and the man of
letters, should be appropriated as food for babes. All the same, here
is what we have long wanted. The elemental emotions and heroic
adventures of the early English put into verse and tale, strange and
eerie as the wildest fairy tale, yet breathing in every line the English
temper and the English virtue that go to the making of heroes. Not
that Beowulf, the hero of the great poem, was precisely English, but
where the English came from, there dwelt he, and Beowulf was early
adopted as the national hero, whose achievements were sung in
every hall.
The poem, says Mr. Stopford Brooke, consisting of three
thousand one hundred and eighty-three lines, is divided into two
parts by an interval of fifty years; the first, containing Beowulf’s great
deeds against the monster Grendel and his dam; the second,
Beowulf’s conquest of the Fire-drake and his death and burial. We
are told that we may fairly claim the poem as English, that it is in our
tongue and in our country alone that it is preserved. The hero
Beowulf comes of brave and noble parents, and mildness and more
than mortal daring meet in him. When he comes to Hrothgar to
conquer Grendel it is of his counsel as much as of his strength that
we hear. The queen begs him to be friendly in council to her sons.
Hrothgar says to him, “Thou holdest thy faith with patience and thy
might with prudence of mind. Thou shalt be a comfort to thy people
and a help to heroes.” None, it is said, could order matters more
wisely than he. When he is dying he looks back on his life, and that
which he thinks of the most is not his great war deeds, but his
patience, his prudence, his power of holding his own well and of
avoiding new enmities. “Each of us must await the close of life,” says
he; “let him who can, gain honour before he die. That is best for a
warrior when he is dead. But do thou throughout this day have
patience of thy woes; I look for that from thee.” Such the philosophy
of this hero, legendary or otherwise, of some early century after
Christ, before His religion had found its way among those northern
tribes. Gentle, like Nelson, he had Nelson’s iron resolution. What he
undertook to do he went through without a thought, save of getting to
the end of it. Fear is wholly unknown to him, and he seems, like
Nelson, to have inspired his captains with his own courage. “I swore
no false oaths,” he said when dying; so also he kept his honour in
faithfulness to his lord. On foot, alone, in front, while life lasted, he
was his king’s defence. He kept it in equal faithfulness when his lord
was dead, and that to his own loss, for when the kingdom was
offered to him he refused, and trained Heardreg, the king’s son, to
war and learning, guarded him kindly with honour, and avenged him
when he was slain. He kept it in generosity, for he gave away all the
gifts that he received; in courtesy, for he gave even to those who had
been rude to him; and he is always gentle and grave with women.
Above all, he kept it in war, for these things are said of him, “so shall
a man do when he thinks to gain praise that shall never end, and
cares not for his life in battle.” “Let us have fame or death,” he cries,
and when Wiglaf comes to help him against the dragon, and Beowulf
is wrapped in the flame, Wiglaf recalls to him the aim of his whole
life:—
“Beowulf, beloved, bear thyself well. Thou wert wont to say in
youth that thou wouldst never let honour go. Now, strong in deeds,
ward thy life, firm-souled prince, with all thy might, I will be thy
helper.” “These,” adds Mr. Stopford Brooke, “are the qualities of the
man and the hero, and I have thought it worth while to dwell on
them, because they represent the ancient English ideal, the
manhood which pleased the English folk even before they came to
Britain, and because in all our histories since Beowulf’s time, for
twelve hundred years or so, they have been repeated in the lives of
the English warriors by land and sea whom we chiefly honour. But it
is not only the idea of a hero which we have in Beowulf, it is also the
idea of a king, the just governor, the wise politician, the builder of
peace, the defender of his own folk at the price of his life, ‘the good
king, the folk king, the beloved king, the war ward of his land, the
winner of treasure for the need of his people, the hero who thinks in
death of those who sail the sea, the gentle and terrible warrior, who
is buried amid the tears of his people.’”
We owe Mr. Stopford Brooke earnest gratitude for bringing this
heroic ideal of the youth of our nation within reach of the unlearned.
But what have we been about to let a thousand years and more go
by without ever drawing on the inspiration of this noble ideal in giving
impulse to our children’s lives. We have many English heroes, it may
be objected: we have no need of this resuscitated great one from a
long buried past. We have indeed heroes galore to be proud of, but
somehow they have not often been put into song in such wise as to
reach the hearts of the children and the unlearned. We have to thank
Tennyson for our Arthur, and Shakespeare for our Henry the Fifth,
but we imagine that parents will find their children’s souls more in
touch with Beowulf than with either of these, because, no doubt, the
legends of a nation’s youth are the pages of history which most
easily reach a child, and Beowulf belongs to a younger stage of
civilisation than even Arthur. We hope the author of “Early English
Literature” will sometime give us the whole of the poem translated
with a special view to children, and interspersed with his own
luminous teaching as we have it here. The quaintness of the metre
employed gives a feeling of eld which carries the reader back, very
successfully, to the long ago of the poem.
We have already quoted largely from this “History of Early English
Literature,” but perhaps a fuller extract will give a better idea of the
work and of its real helpfulness to parents. The cost of the two rather
expensive volumes should be well repaid if a single child were to be
fired with emulation of the heroic qualities therein sung:—
“The action of the poem now begins with the voyage of Beowulf to
the Danish coast. The hero has heard that Hrothgar, the chief of the
Danes, is tormented by Grendel, a man-devouring monster. If
Hrothgar’s warriors sleep in Heorot—the great hall he has built—they
are seized, torn to pieces, and devoured. ‘I will deliver the king,’
thought Beowulf, when he heard the tale from the roving seamen.
‘Over the swan road I will seek Hrothgar; he has need of men.’ His
comrades urged him to the adventure, and fifteen of them were
willing to fight it out with him. Among the rest was a sea-crafty man
who knew the ocean-paths. Their ship lay drawn up on the beach,
under the high cliff. Then—
“There the well-geared heroes
Stepped upon the stem, while the stream of ocean
Whirled the sea against the sand. To the ship, to its breast.
Bright and carved things of cost carried then the heroes
And the armour well-arrayed. So the men outpushed,
On desired adventure, their tight ocean wood.
Swiftly went above the waves, with a wind well-fitted,
Likest to a fowl, the Floater, foam around its neck,
Till about the same time, on the second day,
The up-curvéd prow had come on so far,
That at last the seamen saw the land ahead;
 Shining sea-cliffs, soaring headlands,
Broad sea-nesses. So the Sailor of the Sea
Reached the sea-way’s end.”
Beowulf l. 211.

“This was the voyage, ending in a fiord with two high sea-capes at
its entrance. The same kind of scenery belongs to the land whence
they had set out. When Beowulf returns over the sea the boat groans
as it is pushed forth. It is heavily laden; the hollow, under the single
mast with the single sail, holds eight horses, swords and treasure
and rich armours. The sail is hoisted, the wind drives the foam-
throated bark over the waves, until they see the Geats’ Cliffs—the
well-known sea-nesses. The keel is pressed up by the wind on the
sand, and the ‘harbour-guard, who had looked forth afar o’er the sea
with longing for their return’—one of the many human touches of the
poem—‘fastens the wide-bosomed ship with anchoring chains to the
strand, lest the violence of the waves should sweep away the
winsome boat.’... At the end of the bay into which Beowulf sails is a
low shore, on which he drives his ship, stem on. Planks are pushed
out on either side of the prow; the Weder-folk slipped down on the
shore, tied up their sea-wood; their battle-sarks clanged on them as
they moved. Then they thanked the gods that the war-paths had
been easy to them.... On the ridge of the hill above the landing-place
the ward of the coast of the Scyldings sat on his horse, and saw the
strangers bear their bright shields over the bulwarks of the ship to
the shore. He rode down, wondering, to the sea, and shook mightily
in his hands his heavy spear, and called to the men—”
“Who are ye of men, having arms in hand,
Covered with your coats of mail. Who your keel afoaming
O’er the ocean street thus have urged along.
Hither on the high sea!”
* * * * *
“Never saw I greater
Earl upon this earth than is one of you;
Hero in his harness. He is no home-stayer,
‘Less his looks belie him, lovely with his weapons.
Noble is his air!”
 Beowulf, ll. 237-247.

“Beowulf replies that he is Hrothgar’s friend, and comes to free

him from ‘Grendel, the secret foe on the dark nights.’ He pities
Hrothgar, old and good. Yet, as he speaks, the Teutonic sense of the
inevitable Wyrd passes by in his mind, and he knows not if Hrothgar
can ever escape sorrow. ‘If ever,’ he says, ‘sorrow should cease from
him, release ever come, and the welter of care become cooler.’ The
coast-guard shows them the path, and promises to watch over their
ship. The ground rises from the shore, and they pass on to the hilly
ridge, behind which lies Heorot.”
“The History of the Early English Literature” takes us into other
pleasant places. Here are two or three specimens of the riddles of
the old bards, and in riddle and saga we get most vivid pictures of
the life and thoughts, the ways and words of the forefathers whom
we are too ready to think of as ‘rude,’ but who are here portrayed to
us as gentle, mild, and large of soul; men and women whom we,
their posterity, may well delight to honour.

I. Here is Cynewulf’s Riddle of the Sword.

“I’m a wondrous wight for warstrife shapen;
By my lord beloved, lovelily adorned:
Many coloured is my corslet, and a clasping wire
Glitters round the gem of death which my wielder gave to me:
He who whiles doth urge me, wide-wanderer that I am,
With him to conquest.
Then I carry treasure,
Cold above the garths, through the glittering day;
I of smiths the handiwork! Often do I quell
Breathing men with battle edges! Me bedecks a king
With his hoard and silver; honours me in hall,
Doth withhold no word of praise! Of my ways he boasts
‘Fore the many heroes, where the mead they drink.
In restraint he lulls me, then he lets me loose again,
Far and wide to rush along; me the weary with wayfarings,
Cursed of all weapons.”
Riddle xxi.
 II. The helmet speaks:—
“Wretchedness I bear;
Wheresoe’er he carries me, he who clasps the spear!
On me, still upstanding, smite the streams (of rain);
Hail, the hard grain (helms me), and the hoar-frost covers me;
And the (flying) snow (in flakes) falls all over me.”
Riddle, lxxix. 6-10.

III. The horn speaks:—

“I a weaponed warrior was! now in pride bedecks me
A young serving man all with silver and fine gold,
With the work of waving gyres! Warriors sometimes kiss me.
Sometimes I to strife of battle, summon with my calling
Willing war-companions; whiles, the horse doth carry
Me the march-paths over, or the ocean-stallion
Fares the flood with me, flashing in my jewels—
Often times a bower maiden, all bedecked with armlets,
Filleth up my bosom; whiles, bereft of covers,
I must, hard and headless, (in the houses) lie!
Then, again, hang I, with adornments fretted,
Winsome on the wall where the warriors drink.
Sometimes the folk fighters, as a fair thing on warfaring,
On the back of horses bear me; then bedecked with jewels
Shall I puff with wind from a warrior’s breast.
Then, again, to glee feasts I the guests invite
Haughty heroes to the wine— other whiles shall I
With my shouting, save from foes what is stolen away,
Make the plundering scather flee. Ask what is my name!”
Riddle xv.

We do not say a word about the literary value and importance of

Mr. Stopford Brooke’s great work; that is duly appraised elsewhere.
‘There is nothing like leather,’ and to us here all things present
themselves as they may tell on education. Here is a very treasure-
trove.

FOOTNOTES:
[13] “History of Early English Literature,” by Stopford A.
Brooke, 2 vols. Macmillan & Co.
 CHAPTER XV

IS IT POSSIBLE?

The economic aspects of the great philanthropic scheme[14] which

brought timely relief to the national conscience before the setting in
of the hard winter of 1891, are, perhaps, outside our province, but
there are educational aspects of it which, we are in some measure,
bound to discuss. In the first place, the children in many homes hear,
“I do not believe that”—it is possible for the leopard to change his
spots. ‘General’ Booth’s scheme brings this issue before us with
startling directness, and what the children hear said to-day at the
table and by the fireside will probably influence for all their lives their
attitude towards all philanthropic and all missionary endeavour. Not
only so, but we ourselves, who stand in some measure in loco
parentis to the distressed in mind, body, or estate, are compelled to
examine our own position. How far do we give, and work, for the
ease of our own conscience, and how far do we believe in the
possibility of the instant and utter restoration of the morally
degraded, are questions which, to-day, force themselves upon us.
We must be ready with a yea or a nay; we must take sides, for or
against such possibilities as should exalt philanthropic effort into a
burning passion. The fact is, this great scheme forced a sort of moral
crisis upon us.
Whether or no the scheme commends itself to us for its fitness,
seasonableness, and promise, one thing it has assuredly done: it
has revealed us to ourselves, and that in an agreeable light. It has
been discovered to us that we, too, love our brother; that we, too,
yearn over “the bruised” with something of the tenderness of Christ.
The brotherhood of man is no fancy bred in the brain, and we have
loved our brother all the time—the sick, the poor, the captive, and the
sinner, too; but the fearful, and unbelieving, and slothful amongst us
—that is, the most of us—have turned away our eyes from beholding
evils for which we saw no help. But now that a promise of
deliverance offers, more adequate, conceivably, than any heretofore
proposed, why, the solidarity of humanity asserts itself; our brother
who is bruised is not merely near and dear; he is our very self, and
whoso will ease and revive him is our deliverer too.
The first flush of enthusiasm subsides, and we ask, Are we not,
after all, led away by what Coleridge calls the “Idol of Size”? Wherein
does this scheme differ from ten thousand others, except in the
colossal scale on which the experiment is to be tried? And perhaps
we should concede at the outset that this hope of deliverance is “the
same, only more so,” as is being already worked out effectually in
many an otherwise sunless corner of the great vineyard. Indeed, the
great project has its great risks—risks which the quieter work
escapes. All the same, there are aspects in which the remedy,
because of its vastness and inclusiveness, is new.
Hitherto we have helped the wretched in impossible
circumstances, not out of them. Our help has been as a drop in the
bucket, reaching to hundreds or thousands only of the lost millions.
Even so, we cannot keep it up; we give to-day, and withhold to-
morrow; worse than all, our very giving is an injury, reducing the
power and the inclination for self-help. Or, do we start some small
amateur industry by way of making our people independent? This
pet industry may sometimes be a transparent mask for almsgiving,
and an encroachment upon regular industries and the rights of other
workers.
Now and then is a gleam of hope, now and then a soul and body
snatched into safety; but the hardest workers are glad of the noise of
the wheels to keep the eternal Cui bono? out of their ears. There is
so much to be done, and so little means of doing it. But this scheme
—what with the amplitude of its provisions, what with the
organisation and regimentation it promises, the strong and righteous
government, the moral compulsion to well-doing—considering these,
and the enormous staff of workers already prepared to carry it out,
the dreariest pessimist amongst us concedes that General Booth’s
scheme may be worth trying. “But,” he says, “but——

do we believe in conversion?”
Everything turns on the condition the originator wisely puts first.
There is the crux. Given money enough, land enough, men enough,
fully equip and officer this teeming horde of incapables, and some
sort of mechanical drill may be got through somehow. But, “when a
man’s own character and defects constitute the reasons for his fall,
that character must be changed and that conduct altered if any
permanent beneficial results are to be obtained.” The drunkard must
be made sober; the criminal, honest; the impure, clean. Can this be
done? is the crucial question. Is it possible that a man can emerge
altogether out of his old self and become a new creature, with new
aims, new thoughts, even new habits? That such renovation is
possible is the old contention of Christianity. Here, and not on the
ground of the inspiration of the sacred text, must the battle be fought
out. The answer to the one urgent question of the age, What think ye
of Christ? depends upon the power of the idea of Christ to attract
and compel attention, and of the indwelling of Christ to vivify and
elevate a single debased and torpid human soul.
Many of us believe exultingly that the “All power” which is given
into the hands of our Master includes the power of upright standing,
strength, and beauty for every bruised human reed. That this is so,
we have evidence in plenty, beginning with ourselves. But many
others of us, and those not the less noble, consider with Robert
Elsmere, that “miracles do not happen.” The recorded miracles serve
as pegs for the discussion; the essential miracle is the utter and
immediate renovation of a human being. Upon this possibility the
saving of the world must hang, and this many cannot receive, not
because they are stiff-necked and perverse, but because it is dead
against natural law as they know it. Proofs? Cases without end? The
whole history of the Christian Church in evidence? Yes; but the
history of the Church is a chequered one; and, for individual cases,
we do not doubt the veracity of the details; only, nobody knows the
whole truth; some preparation in the past, some motive in the
present inadvertently kept out of sight, may alter the bearings of any
such case.
This is, roughly, the position of the honest sceptic, who would, if
he could, believe heartily in General Booth’s scheme, and, by
consequence, in the convertibility of the entire human race. To
improve the circumstances, even of millions, is only a question of the
magnitude of the measures taken, the wisdom of the administration.
But human nature itself, depraved human nature, is, to him, the
impossible quantity. Can the leopard change his spots?

the law against us—heredity.

Who are they whom General Booth cheerfully undertakes to re-
fashion and make amenable to the conditions of godly and righteous
and sober living? Let us hear the life history of many of them in his
own words:—
“The rakings of the human cesspool.”
“Little ones, whose parents are habitually drunk.... Whose ideas of
merriment are gained from the familiar spectacle of the nightly
debauch.”
“The obscenity of the talk of many of the children of some of our
public schools could hardly be outdone, even in Sodom and
Gomorrah.”
And the childhood—save the word!—of the children of to-day
reproduces the childhood of their parents, their grand-parents, who
knows? their great-grand-parents. These are, no doubt, the worst;
but the worst must be reckoned with first, for if these slip through the
meshes of the remedial net, the masses more inert than vicious slide
out through the breaks. In the first place, then, the scheme embraces
the vicious by inheritance; proposes to mix up with the rest a class
whose sole heritage is an inconceivable and incalculable
accumulation of vicious inclinations and propensities. And this, in the
face of that conception of heredity which is quietly taking possession
of the public mind, and causing many thoughtful parents to abstain
from very active efforts to mould the characters of their children.
Those of us whose attention has been fixed upon the working of
the law of heredity until it appears to us to run its course, unmodified
and unlimited by other laws, may well be pardoned for regarding with
doubtful eye a scheme which has, for its very first condition, the
regeneration of the vicious; of the vicious by inherited propensity.

the law against us—habit.

Use is second nature, we say. Habit is ten natures; habit begins
as a cobweb, and ends as a cable. “Oh, you’ll get used to it,”
whatever it is. Dare we face the habits in which these people have
their being? It is not only the obscene speech, the unholy acts; that
which signifies is the manner of thoughts we think; speech, act, are
the mere outcome; it is the habitual thought of a man which shapes
that which we call his character. And these, can we reasonably doubt
that every imagination of their heart is only evil continually? We say,
use is second nature, but let us consider what we mean by the
phrase; what is the philosophy of habit so far as it has been
discovered to us. The seat of habit is the brain; the actual grey
nervous matter of the cerebrum. And the history of a habit is shortly
this: “The cerebrum of man grows to those modes of thought in
which it is habitually exercised.” That ‘immaterial’ thought should
mould the ‘material’ brain need not surprise nor scandalise us, for do
we not see with our eyes that immaterial thought moulds the face,
forms what we call countenance, lovely or loathsome according to
the manner of thought it registers. The how of this brain growth is not
yet in evidence, nor is this the time and place to discuss it; but,
bearing in mind this structural adaptation to confirmed habit, what
chance, again, we say, has a scheme which has for its first condition
the regeneration of the vicious, vicious not only by inherited
propensity, but by unbroken inveterate habit?

the law against us—unconscious cerebration.

 Those who are accustomed to write know what it is to sit down
and “reel off” sheet after sheet of matter without plan or
premeditation, clear, coherent, ready for press, hardly needing
revision. We are told of a lawyer who wrote in his sleep a lucid
opinion throwing light on a most difficult case; of a mathematician
who worked out in his sleep a computation which baffled him when
awake. We know that Coleridge dreamed “Kubla Khan” in an after-
dinner nap, line by line, and wrote it down when he awoke. What do
these cases and a thousand like them point to? To no less than this:
that, though the all important ego must, no doubt, “assist” at the
thinking of the initial thought on a given subject, yet, after that first
thought or two, ‘brain’ and ‘mind’ manage the matter between them,
and the thoughts, so to speak, think themselves; not after the fashion
of a pendulum which moves to and fro, to and fro, in the same
interval of space, but in that of a carriage rolling along the same
road, but into ever new developments of the landscape. An amazing
thought—but have we not abundant internal evidence of the fact?
We all know that there are times when we cannot get rid of the
thoughts that will think themselves within us, though they drive away
sleep and peace and joy. In the face of this law, benign as it eases
us of the labour of original thought and decision about the everyday
affairs of life, terrible when it gets beyond our power of control and
diversion, what hope for those in whose debauched brain vile
thoughts, involuntary, automatic, are for ever running with frightful
rapidity in the one well-worn track? Truly, the in-look is appalling.
What hope for these? And what of a scheme whose first condition is
the regeneration of the vicious—vicious, not only by inherited
propensity, and by unbroken inveterate habit, but reduced to that
state of, shall we say, inevitable viciousness—when “unconscious
cerebration,” with untiring activity, goes to the emanation of vicious
imaginations? All these things are against us.

the law for us—limitations to the doctrine of heredity.

But the last word of Science, and she has more and better words
in store, is full of hope. The fathers have eaten sour grapes, but it is
not inevitable that the children’s teeth be set on edge. The soul that
sinneth it shall die, said the prophet of old, and Science is hurrying
up with her, “Even so.” The necessary corollary to the latest
modification of the theory of evolution is—acquired modifications of
structure are not transmitted. All hail to the good news; to realise it,
is like waking up from a hideous nightmare. This is, definitely, our
gain; the man who by the continuous thinking of criminal thoughts
has modified the structure of his brain so as to adapt it to the current
of such thoughts, does not necessarily pass on this modification to
his child. There is no necessary adaptation in the cerebrum of the
new-born child to make place for evil thoughts. In a word, the child of
the vicious may be born as fit and able for good living as the child of
the righteous. Inherent modifications are, it is true, transmitted, and
the line between inherent and acquired modifications may not be
easy to define. But, anyway, there is hope to go on with. The child of
the wicked may have as good a start in life, so far as his birthright
goes, as the child of the just. The child’s future depends not upon his
lineage so much as upon his bringing up, for education is stronger
than nature, and no human being need be given over to despair. We
need not abate our hope of the regeneration of the vicious for the
bugbear of an inheritance of irresistible propensity to evil.

the law for us—“one custom overcometh another.”

But habit! It is bad enough to know that use is second nature, and
that man is a bundle of habits; but how much more hopeless to look
into the rationale of habit, and perceive that the enormous strength
of the habit that binds us connotes a structural modification, a
shaping of the brain tissues to the thought of which the habit is the
outward and visible sign and expression. Once such growth has
taken place, is not the thing done, so that it can’t be undone—has
not the man taken shape for life when his ways of thinking are
registered in the substance of his brain?
Not so; because one habit has been formed and registered in the
brain is no reason at all why another and contrary habit should not
be formed and registered in its turn. To-day is the day of salvation,
physically speaking, because a habit is a thing of now; it may be
begun in a moment, formed in a month, confirmed in three months,
become the character, the very man, in a year. There is growth to the
new thoughts in a new tract of the brain, and “One custom
overcometh another.” Here is the natural preparation for salvation.
The words are very old, the words of Thomas à Kempis, but the
perception that they have a literal physical meaning has been
reserved for us to-day. Only one train of ideas can be active at one
time; the old cell connections are broken, and benign nature is busy
building up the waste places, even be they the waste places of many
generations. NO ROAD is set up in the track where the unholy
thoughts carried on their busy traffic. New tissue is formed; the
wound is healed, and, save, perhaps, for a scar, some little
tenderness, that place is whole and sound as the rest.
This is how one custom overcometh another: there is no conflict,
no contention, no persuasion. Secure for the new idea a weighty
introduction, and it will accomplish all the rest for itself. It will feed
and grow; it will increase and multiply; it will run its course of its own
accord; will issue in that current of automatic unconscious
involuntary thought of the man which shapes his character. Behold, a
new man! Ye must be born again, we are told; and we say, with a
sense of superior knowledge of the laws of nature, How can a man
be born again? Can he enter the second time into his mother’s
womb and be born? This would be a miracle, and we have satisfied
ourselves that “miracles do not happen.” And now, at last, the
miracle of conversion is made plain to our dull understanding. We
perceive that conversion, however sudden, is no miracle at all—
using the word miracle to describe that which takes place in
opposition to natural law. On the contrary, we find that every man
carries in his physical substance the gospel of perpetual, or of
always possible, renovation; and we find how, from the beginning,
Nature was prepared with her response to the demand of Grace. Is
conversion possible? we ask; and the answer is, that it is, so to
speak, a function for which there is latent provision in our physical
constitution, to be called forth by the touch of a potent idea. Truly,
His commandment is exceeding broad, and grows broader day by
day with each new revelation of Science.
 A man may, most men do, undergo this process of renovation
many times in their lives; whenever an idea strong enough to divert
his thoughts (as we most correctly say) from all that went before is
introduced, the man becomes a new creature; when he is “in love,”
for example; when the fascinations of art or of nature take hold of
him; an access of responsibility may bring about a sudden and
complete conversion:—
The breath no sooner left his father’s body
But that his wildness, mortified in him,
Seem’d to die too; yea, at that very moment,
Consideration, like an angel, came
And whipp’d the offending Adam out of him;
Leaving his body as a paradise
To envelop and contain celestial spirits.

Here is a picture—psychologically true, anyway, Shakespeare

makes no mistakes in psychology—of an immediate absolute
conversion. The conversion may be to the worse, alas, and not to
the better, and the value of the conversion must depend upon the
intrinsic worthiness of the idea by whose instrumentality it is brought
about. The point worth securing is, that man carries in his physical
structure the conditions of renovation; conditions, so far as we can
conceive, always in working order, always ready to be put in force.
Wherefore “conversion” in the Biblical sense, in the sense in which
the promoters of this scheme depend upon its efficacy, though a
miracle of divine grace in so far as it is a sign and a marvel, is no
miracle in the popular sense of that which is outside of and opposed
to the workings of “natural law.” Conversion is entirely within the
divine scheme of things, even if we choose to limit our vision of that
scheme to the “few, faint, and feeble” flashes which Science is as yet
able to throw upon the mysteries of being. But is this all? Ah, no; this
is no more than the dim vestibule of nature to the temple of grace;
we are not concerned, however, to say one word here of how “great
is the mystery of godliness;” of the cherishing of the Father, the
saving and the indwelling of the Son, the sanctifying of the Spirit;
neither need we speak of “spiritual wickedness in high places.” The
aim of this slight essay is to examine the assertion that what we call
conversion is contrary to natural law; and we do this with a view, not
to General Booth’s scheme only, but to all efforts of help.
Hope shows an ever stronger case for the regeneration of the
vicious. Not only need we be no more oppressed by the fear of an
inheritance of invincible propensities to evil, but the strength of life-
long habit may be vanquished by the power of an idea, new habits of
thought may be set up on the instant, and these may be fostered and
encouraged until that habit which is ten natures is the habit of the
new life, and the thoughts which, so to speak, think themselves all
day long are thoughts of purity and goodness.

the law for us—potency of an idea.

“Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions?”
In effecting the renovation of a man the external agent is ever an
idea, of such potency as to be seized upon with avidity by the mind,
and, therefore, to make an impression upon the nervous substance
of the cerebrum. The potency of an idea depends upon the fact of its
being complementary to some desire or affection within the man.
Man wants knowledge, for example, and power, and esteem, and
love, and company; also, he has within him capacities for love,
esteem, gratitude, reverence, kindness. He has an unrecognised
craving for an object on which to spend the good that is in him.
The idea which makes a strong appeal to any one of his primal
desires and affections must needs meet with a response. Such idea
and such capacity are made for one another; apart, they are
meaningless as ball and socket; together, they are a joint, effective in
a thousand ways. But the man who is utterly depraved has no
capacity for gratitude, for example? Yes, he has; depravity is a
disease, a morbid condition; beneath is the man, capable of
recovery. This is hardly the place to consider them, but think for a
moment of the fitness of the ideas which are summed up in the
thought of Christ to be presented to the poor degraded soul: divine
aid and compassion for his neglected body; divine love for his
loneliness; divine forgiveness in lieu of the shame of his sin; divine