But all these books fade into insignificance beside my really great discovery, Barbour’s Bruce15 (XlVth century). This is ‘The’ modern epic: all that Scott’s poems try to recover: chivalrous sentiment, pawky humour, smell of heather, and all the rest of it—only all real, all done while that world was still there, not a ‘revival’. I am afraid the language is just beyond that thin unmistakable line which divides the readable from the unreadable for those who haven’t learned ‘Middle English’ as a school language. A very little ‘modernising’ would make it alright. I wonder could I persuade Dents to let me modernise it for an Everyman. You would think Scotch patriotism would give it a sale: till quite modern times every ‘cottar’ had a copy of it. (Do Scotch patriots buy books?). It contains, among other things, an account of Bruce landing at Rathlin which suggests that the bathing would not be good there. There seems to be some terrific current
‘Like the straight of Morrak in Spaine’
–if that conveys anything to you, which it doesn’t to me. (From Rathlin, Bruce went on to Carrick Fergus).
If your idea of reading Descartes holds, begin with the Discourse on Method.16 This is in biographical form and is on the border-land between philosophy proper and what might be called the ‘history of intellectual manners’. But I’m not at all sure that a man so steeped in the XVIIth century as you would not find his natural starting point in Boethius-I suppose ‘Boece’ is as common in France at that time as he was in England? As he was translated about once a century into every civilised language, you would have no difficulty in finding a well flavoured version. In England he had the remarkable adventure of being rendered successively by K. Alfred, Chaucer, and Q. Elizabeth.
As to Thomas’ rap over the knuckles about going out during the hymn—my case is this. Complete neglect of communicating is not tolerated by any Church nor practised by me. But is it within his rights to make it impossible for you to hear a sermon without communicating? Has anyone laid down the exact proportion of the intellectual and ritual elements—roughly symbolised by sermons and sacraments—which is necessary to membership of the Church of England. That is my ‘case’ as a controversialist: but I bear no malice.
By the bye, what are your views, now, on the question of sacraments? To me that is the most puzzling side of the whole thing. I need hardly say I feel none of the materialistic difficulties: but I feel strongly just the opposite ones—i.e. I see (or think I see) so well a sense in which all wine is the blood of God—or all matter, even, the body of God, that I stumble at the apparently special sense in which this is claimed for the Host when consecrated. George Macdonald observes that the good man should aim at reaching the state of mind in which all meals are sacraments. Now that is the sort of thing I can understand: but I find no connection between it and the explicit ‘sacrament’ proprement dit. The Presbyterian method of sitting at tables munching actual slices of bread is clearly absurd under ordinary conditions: but one can conceive a state of society in which a real meal might be shared by a congregation in such a way as to be a sacrament without ceasing to be also their actual dinner for that day. Possibly this was so in the very early Church. Don’t bother about this if you are not inclined to discuss the question. I trotted it out because it seemed artificial to mention it at all without saying what I was thinking.
How ones range of interests grows! Do you find a sort of double process going on with relation to books—that while the number of subjects one wants to read is increasing, the number of books on each which you find worth reading steadily decreases. Already in your own corner of French history you have reached the point at which you know that most of the books published will be merely re-hashes, but in revenge you are reading Vaughan and thinking of reading Taylor. Ten years ago you would have read eight books on your period (getting only what the one book behind those eight would have given you) and left Vaughan and Taylor out of account. In the same way, on the subject of sacraments, a few years ago I should not have wanted any information, but if I had, shd. have read book after book about it. Now—one knows [in] advance that here in Oxford there are probably 4000 books dealing exclusively with that subject, and that at least 3990 of them would advance your understanding of it precisely nothing. Once the world was full of books that seemed boring because they gave answers to questions one hadn’t asked: every day I find one of these boring books to be really boring for the opposite reason—for failing to answer some question I have asked. Even in things like Anglo Saxon Grammar! ‘Why Sir, the quantity to be known is larger than I supposed; but the quantity of knowledge is less than I had conceived possible.’
Your Cathedral sounds mildly good-architecturally. Now that Maureen is away my week is quite differently arranged in order to give Minto as few solitary nights as possible. I lie here on Sunday and Wednesday: Maureen on Friday and Saturday. I still have the schoolboy’s pleasure in any change of routine and particularly relish the division of my two out nights. I suppose I told you that we have a good maid who really cooks? She doesn’t cook as well as Minto, but that is a bagatelle. What is more serious is the steady reduction in the quantity of meals which she seems to be effecting. If it goes on at the present rate, when you come back it will be a case of ‘I suppose there’s some sort of pot-house in this village where a man could get a biscuit, huh?’17 (This had better not be mentioned in your next letter to Minto. I daresay we shall pull through). I have fewer tutorials this term—the Junto is quiet—my lecture is well attended—and all shapes for a much pleasanter term than usual: the second of the nine, as it is pleasing to note. Why don’t you write that paper on Thomas Browne yourself? I’ve no time for it.
Yours
Jack.
P.S. Minto tells me to tell you I like Troddles the puppy because she says if I don’t mention him you’ll think I don’t like him but I say that is not the masculine way of reading letters nor of writing them but she is not quite convinced so here goes;-I like Troddles. So does Papworth. Cham can’t abide him and cuffs him whenever they meet.
Jack was very afraid that Warnie, who had been in Shanghai since 17 November 1931, was in danger from a Japanese attack on the Chinese part of that city. On 18 September 1931, in violation of its treaty obligations, Japan occupied Manchuria. On 21 September China appealed to the Council of the League of Nations, and on 30 September the Council adopted unanimously a resolution taking note of the Japanese representative’s statement that his Government would continue as rapidly as possible the withdrawal of its troops.
The Japanese Government failed to carry out the assurances given the Council, but adopted the attitude that a preliminary agreement, binding China to recognize Japan’s treaty rights in Manchuria, was an essential element of security and must be a condition precedent to evacuation. After being rebuffed by the League of Nations, Japan announced its withdrawal from the League to take effect in 1935. To consolidate its gains, Japan landed troops in Shanghai on 28 January 1932 to quell an effective Chinese boycott of Japanese goods. By 5 February the whole of the three provinces of Manchuria were occupied. China was unable to resist the superior Japanese forces and in May 1933 it recognized the Japanese conquest by signing a truce.