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Updated: May 22, 2025
Forman was ready, with a clean white handkerchief to kneel upon. "In some sense, perhaps," returned Challis. "I haven't seen him for some months." "Cannot you see the necessity of his attending school?" asked Crashaw, this time with an insinuating suavity; he believed that Challis was coming round. "Oh!" Challis sighed with a note of expostulation. "Oh! the thing's grotesque, ridiculous."
Crashaw was perfunctorily apologetic, and Challis, looking somewhat out of place, smoking a heavy wooden pipe in the disused, bleak drawing-room, waited, almost silent, until his visitor should come to the point. "... and the er matter of some moment, I mentioned," Crashaw mumbled on, "is, I should say, not altogether irrelevant to the work you are at present engaged upon."
"I've 'ardly seen 'im myself; not to speak to, that is." "He might come with his mother," suggested Crashaw. Challis shook his head. "By the way, it is the mother whom you would proceed against?" he asked. "The parent is responsible," said Mr. Forman. "She will be brought before a magistrate and fined for the first offence." "I shan't fine her if she comes before me," replied Challis.
To a large extent he is what the Metaphysical School should have been. That school was a certain kind of poetry trying for a range. Shelley is the range found. Crashaw and Shelley sprang from the same seed; but in the one case the seed was choked with thorns, in the other case it fell on good ground.
Maggie, watching him, remembered that earlier time when he had climbed into just such another desk. She remembered also that day at her aunts' house when he had flirted with Caroline and shown himself quite another Brother Crashaw. He had aged greatly since then. He seemed now to be scarcely a man at all.
Crashaw, indeed, partially anticipated Shelley's success, and yet further did a later poet, so much further that we find it difficult to understand why a generation that worships Shelley should be reviving Gray, yet almost forget the name of Collins. The generality of readers, when they know him at all, usually know him by his Ode on the Passions.
Every one was swimming in an uncertain world; the unreality grew with the heat. Maggie herself, at the end of Mr. Warlock's prayer, felt that her test of a real solid and unimaginative world was leaving her. She was expectant like the rest, as ready to believe anything at all. Out of the mist rose Mr. Crashaw.
Rather too long for my chapter, but I quote it for the sake of the last four lines, characteristic of that period, the age of conceits, of the love of fantasticalness, of Donne, Crashaw, Vaughan. A jump from Ripon of 600 odd miles to the little village of Ludgvan, near Penzance, brings us to a tablet of nearly the same date, 1635, and an inscription conceived in the same style and spirit.
I will, at least, try to prevent his spreading his opinions among the yokels." He smiled grimly. "I quite agree with you that that is a consummation which is not to be desired." "You will see him soon?" asked Crashaw. "To-day," returned Challis. "And you will let me see you again, afterwards?" "Certainly." Crashaw still hesitated for a moment. "I might, perhaps, come with you," he ventured.
"I know," he said, "that these things must seem to you utterly absurd, but you must try to realise that you are an exception to the world about you; that Crashaw or I, or, indeed, the greatest minds of the present day, are not ruled by the fine logic which you are able to exercise. We are children compared to you.
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