to be
found--
That's sillier still: for, if so, the know-nothing books are right,
And you're a mere spiritless cur who can neither run nor fight,
Too great a coward to live and too great a coward to die,
Fit for nothing at all but just to sit down and cry.

. . . . . . . . .

Why, man, we're all in one boat, as everyone can see,
Bishops, and priests, and deacons, and poor little ranters like me.
There's hell in the Church of England and hell in the Church of Rome,
And in all other Christian Churches, abroad as well as at home.
The part of my creed you dislike may be too stern for you,
Many brave men believe it--aye, and enjoy life, too.
The know-nothing books may alarm you; but many a better man
Knows he knows nothing and says so, and lives the best life he can.
If there is a future state, face its hopes and terrors gravely;
The best path to it must be to bear life's burthens bravely.
And even if there be none, why should you not live like a man,
Enjoying whatever you have as much and as long as you can?
In the world in which we are living there's plenty to do and to know;
And there's always something to hope for till it's time for us to go.
'Despair' is the vilest of words, unfit to be said or thought,
Whether there is a God and a future state or not.
If you really are such a wretch, that you're quite unfit to live,
And ask my advice, I'll give you the best that I have to give:
Drown yourself by all means; I was wrong and you were right.
I'll not pull you out any more; but be sure you drown yourself quite.

'Despair is the vilest of words.' That expresses Fitzjames's whole
belief and character. Faiths may be shaken and dogmas fade into
meaningless jumbles of words: science may be unable to supply any firm
ground for conduct. Still we can quit ourselves like men. From doubt and
darkness he can still draw the practical conclusion, 'Be strong and of a
good courage.' And, therefore, Fitzjames could not be a pessimist in the
proper sense; for the true pessimist is one who despairs of the
universe. Such a man can only preach resignation to inevitable evil, and
his best hope is extinction. Sir Alfred Lyall's fine poem describes the
Hindoo ascetic sitting by the bank of the sacred stream and watching the
legions as they pass while cannon roar and bayonets gleam. To him they
are disturbing phantoms, and he longs for the time when they w