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國家圖書館出版品預行編目資料

生 命 的 學 問 / 牟宗三箸. 一 一 五 版 一 刷 . 一一臺北市:
三民，2018
面； 公分. 一一 ( 品味經典/ 善）

ISBN 978-957-14-6409-1 (平裝)

1. 言論集

078 107006215

c 生命的學問
著作人 牟宗三
封面繪圖 蔡采穎
發行人 劉振強
著 作 財 產 權 人 三民書局般份有限公司
發行所 三民書局般份有限公司
地址臺北市檀興北路 386號
電話 (02)25006600
郵撥帳號 0009998-5
門市部 (復北店） 臺北市復興北路 386號
(重南店） 臺北市重慶南跆一段61號
出版曰期 初版一刷 1970牟 肖
五版一刷 2018年6月

■
編 號 8 190080
行 政 院 新 聞 局 登1
11^ 字第 0二0 0號
有1 : 侵害
ISBN 978- 111: > 9-1 ( 平裝 )
|1«
卩:/ /霄¥^^3111¥1〖!1,：01111¥¥ 三民網路書店
※ 本書如有缺頁、破損或裝訂錯誤，請 寄 回 本 公 司 更 換。
 縿起

經典， 是經久不衰的典範之作—無畏時光漫長的淘選 ，
始終如新 ， 每每帶給讀者不一樣的閱讀感受。閱讀經典 ， 可以
使心靈更富足 ， 了解過往歷史，並加深思考， 從中獲取知識與
能量；可以追尋自我 ， 反覆探問 ， 發現自己最真實的樣貌。經
典之作不是孤高冷絕 ， 它始終最為貼近人心、溫暖動人。
隨著時代更替 ， 在歷經諸多麈世紛擾、心境跌岩後 ， 是時
候回歸經典， 找尋原初的本心了。本局秉持好書共讀、經典再
現的理念 ， 精選了牟宗三、吳怡深度哲思探討的著作；薩孟武
與傳統經典對話的深刻體悟作品 ; 白萩創造文學新風貌的詩作，
以及林海音、 琦君溫暖美好的懷舊文章；逯耀東、許悼雲、林
富士關注社會、追問過去的研讀。以全新風貌問世 ， 作為品味
經典之作的領航 ， 讓讀者重新閱讀這些美好。期望透過對過往
文化的檢視 ， 從中追尋歷史的真實， 觸及理想的淳善 ， 最終圓
融生活的感性完美。
這些作品 ， 每一本都是值得珍藏的瑰寶 —它們記錄著那
個時代臺灣文化發展的軌跡，以及社會變遷的遞嬗 ； 以文字凝
結了歲月時光 ， 留住了真淳美好。

「品昧經典」 邀請您一起品味經典。
\
I 推薦序 I
走向哲學的大道

苑舉正

在所有我推薦的書籍中，
《生命的學問 》是最特別的一本。
我在大學讀書時，牟宗三先生的大名，已經如雷貫耳。
那時候，在我周遭所有以讀書為抱負的學生，都熱衷於閱讀
以及討論牟先生的思想。我當年也一度附會風雅，想要藉由
牟先生的書籍，知道哲學是什麼。無奈的是，想要讀懂牟先
生學貫中西的著作，於我猶如登天之難，但在這些著作中，
《 生命的學問 》 成了一本非常例外的書籍。
當時我沒有任何哲學訓練，因此對於這本書的愛好，正
好是頭尾兩篇。第一篇〈說 〉
「懷鄉」，牟先生直接了當的說，
他是山東人。基於同鄉的感受，我也莫名其妙地覺得這一篇
與我的生命相連在一起。閱讀之後，我發覺牟先生對 ; 山東
^
的感覺，擴大到對於全中國命運的感受，使得這一篇〈說「懷
〉的文字，並沒有什麼思鄉的情緒；本書的最後一篇，
鄉」
，是我在閱讀這本書的過程中，慼覺到最能夠體
〈水滸世界〉
2 生命的學問

悟的一篇。對於那時剛上大學不久的我而言，〈水滸世界〉中
的第一句話：
「《红樓夢》 是小乘，《 金瓶悔》 是大乘，《 水滸
」
傳》 是禪宗。 就讓我震撼不已 ！ 雖然我並不知道這句話說
的 容究竟為何，但我認為用佛教分類的概念，描述民間最
流行的三本通俗小說，就是高招 ！ 我發覺，哲學家的意境，
比一般人高明許多。一般人讀小說，只注意 容，但牟先生
，則講得痛快漓淋，認為水滸世界的人，已經
評論《水浒傳》
超越了出世與入世的境界，成為另外一種敢做敢當的痛快人。
本書的主要 容，是許多牟先生在雜誌、刊物、演講、
與書評的發表。這些 容好讀、 有料，而且能夠深入人心。
我的哲學啟蒙來自於這本書，但這一本書中所包含的大多數
文章，邡是在我出生前 的。帶著學習哲學三十多年的付出，
重新閱讀這些超過五、六十年前 的文章，讓我得以與牟先
生在精神世界中相遇。以今天的時空條件而言，我終於明白
牟先生在鑽研中西哲學的過程中，想要做的三件事： 第一、
釐清中國哲學的傳統。第二、融合西方哲學的學術。第三、
發展中國的料學、民主與宗教。
在今天看來，這三個題目 然重要，回味牟先生當年的
文字與用心， 心中激起了 一股讚佩之情。牟先生思想犀利，
文筆流暢快捷，讓所有的讀者可以很快的理解，中國自從新
文化運動以來所遭遇的劫難，其實與中國傳統思想的衰敗，
形成正比，互為因果。每當中華文化的道統與學統受到摧殘
之際，就是國體與政體在現代世界被外來文化打得七葷八素
《 生命的學問 》這本書所包含的 容，有很大的一部
的時候。
 走向哲學的大道 3

分，都是對於中國學術道統所做的誠摯呼籲，想要達到振聾
發聩的故果。
牟先生對於中華文化的信心十足，他甚至認為，雖然就
表面上，中華文化沒有開展出科學、 民主與宗教，但在本質
上，中華文化並不反對科學、民主與宗教。因此他認為，中
華文化的傳統思想，不但不應該妄自菲薄，還應該昂首挺胸，
作為西方思想的補強。他堅持我們應該撥釓反正，揚棄清朝
三百年之奴化教育，重回宋明理學之道德意識，作為自我提
升之充分條件。
在重新建構國人的道德意識中，牟先生借用了西方哲學
的優點，尤其是康德連過道德實踐，轉化宗 理性的論述。
在這一部分的發展中，牟先生以希臘哲學傳統為背景，特別
重 柏拉圖與亞里斯多德的智性傳統。牟先生基本上認為，
在這個傳統中，康德哲學的精華之處，在於讓西方哲學的開
展，聯繫了上帝、 靈魂與自由，成就了人倫社會的道德。
牟先生認為，康德的貢獻，為中西哲學會通鋪下一條康
莊大道。中華文化原有的禮樂傳統，其實也是這種聯繫天、
地與人三者之間的核心理念。從這個角度而言，牟先生的哲
學立場很明確，就是中西哲學會通，並且將會通的結果，應
用在現實生活中。
在現實生活中，中國人命運齦困的原因是，缺乏科學、
民主與宗教。本書絶大多數的文章，披露了作者對於中華文
化百年來遭受的屈辱的悲嘆，但更對某些知識分子的自我否
定，戚到無知。我必須承認，今天這種憂國憂民的情懷已不
4 生命的學問

復多見，但我強烈建議所有讀者，以開闊的歷史感閱讀本書。
對於作者離鄉別里的背景而言，牟先生對中華文化那種恨鐵
不成鋼的責難，是可以理解的。
在政治與杜會實踐中，中華文化釐清其理念後，可以成
為發展科學、民主與宗教的基礎，並且藉由它們的發展，讓
中華文化與世界接轨，為融合世界的思想做出積極的貢獻。
牟先生認為，中華文化中有一個兼容並蓄的傳統，可以包容
一切思想，不但能夠繼往聖 學，也能開萬世太平。雖然牟
先生對於中國的現實發展充滿怨言，但是他認為，這些不良
發展其實來自於誤解的結果。
重新閱讀這本書，讓我驀然回首，想到這本書，就是我
人生的一盞明燈，指引我走向哲學這條不歸路。我一直相信，
東西哲學要能夠會通，必須要做好學貫中西的準備，而學習
哲學的成果，一定要實用在杜會之中。今天在國，看到枓學
與民主已經走向正轨的同時，我更期待，大家以一種誠摯的
心情，看待中華文化的整體，並且當作提升自我的思想練習。
我以興奮的心情，謹記我重新閱讀本書的感覺，並向國
人鄭重的推薦本書。希望本書新版面世後，所有的讀者，可
以理解牟先生當年對於中華文化的期許，以及他要為萬世開
太平的抱負。
 自序

本書所集文字乃是三十八年到臺後七八年 在各報刊所
已發表過的文章。我自己亦未後集保存。孫守立君保存無遺，
編成此書，以為有便於青年好學之士，乃商之三民書局印行。
孫君熱忱淑世，處處為青年著想，至為感佩。
此書不是一有系統的著作，但當時 這些文字實在是環
、《政道與治道》、《道德的理想主義》這
繞我的 《歷史哲學》
三部書而 成的，也可以說是以這三部書所表示的觀念為背
景而隨機撰為短章以應各報刊之需要。
這些短篇文字，不管橫說豎說，總有一中心觀念，即在
提高人的歷史文化意識，點醒人的真實生命，開啟人的真實
理想。此與時下一般專注意於科技之平面的， 剖的意識有
。生命總是縱貫的，
所不同。此所以本書名曰《生命的學問 》
立體的。專注意於科技之平面 剖的意識總是走向腐蝕生命
而成為「人」之自我否定。中國文化的核心是生命的學問。
6 生命的學問

由真實生命之覺醒，向外開出建立事業與追求知識之理想，
向 滲速此 理想之真實本源，以使理想真成其為理想，此
是生命的學問之全體大用。
現代人都去追求理想，而卻終無理想。遑急迫躁，不可
終曰。人究竟往哪裡走呢？縱使能登陸月球，又有什麼用呢？
青年人在此不可不端正其最初的心願，正大其基本方向。恣
肆乖戾，虛無邪僻，皆足顛倒其生命，決無關於理想。
青年的朋友若從這些較淺近的文字循序悟入，能於自己
的生命方向有所助益，則你將始而懂憬，終而透徹，必有如
孟子所謂 」
「若決江河，沛然莫之能禦也 。
牟宗三
中華民國五十九年六月
自序於九龍
 夫

緣起

走向哲學的大道 / 苑舉正

自序

說
「懷鄕」
哲學智慧的開發 7

從西方哲學造至儒家學術— 〈王陽明致良知教〉 引言 21

關於 」
「 的學問一 論五十年來的中國思想
生命 •
33

中國數十年 的政治意識 —壽張君勤先生七十大慶 41

尊理性 47

略論道統、學統、政統 61

人文主義輿宗教 73

儒教、耶教輿中西文仆 83

關於宗教的態度輿立場 —酬答澹思先生 89

祀孔輿讀經 101
2 生命的學問

現時中國之宗教趨勢 109

為學輿為人 123

我輿熊十力先生 137

王陽明學行簡，述 161

黑格爾輿王船山 175

論
「凡存在即合理
」 187

人類自救之積極精神 201

自由主義之理想主義的根據 215

論黑格爾的 證法 223

永滸世界 235
 說 「懷鄉」

叫我寫懷鄉， 我是無從寫起的。這不是說我的故鄉無可
懷。乃是我自己主觀方面無有足以起懷的情愫。我愛山東 ，
我也討厭現時的山東。我愛中國 ， 我也討厭現時的中國。我
愛人類 ， 我也討厭現時的人類。
試看，我這種愛憎，完全是一種一般的抽象的，也可以
說是客觀的情緒。（寡頭的客觀情緒。）
我討厭現時的人類，但我的內心不能冷到完全是厭離的
境地。可見我對於人類有內在的愛戀，因為是 「人」，所以我
愛他。這還是孔子 「吾非斯人之徒與而誰與」 的意識。但這
只是抽象地，一般地說。
因為是人，就要真正地是一個「人」，同時就要真正地把
人當人看。因此 ， 我反對一切不把人當人看的理論與行動，
此如共黨之類。「人是人」這一句重複的語句，這一句不把人
下定義， 不還原為另一種動物 ， 或另一種概念的語句 ， 是多
2 生命的學問

麼莊嚴而警策。因為是人，就要真正地是人 ， 這含有多麼崇
高而豐富的意義。這點，我深深地起敬畏之 念。
可是，你知道，這只是一個抽象的 念。落在具體上 ，
無論是山東人、中國人，以及現時風氣中的人類，我都有點
木然。我當然有我所敬愛的知交師友。但是一個人只能說有
幾個知交師友，那也就太孤零，太寡淡而乏陪襯了。雖說人
生得一知己而可以無憾 ， 但是若有陪襯 ， 則以無知己為憾；
若無陪襯 ， 而徒有少數知交，則反以無陪襯為憾。在此，我
可以說 ， 我的情感似乎是受了傷。所謂受傷，不是說受了什
麼挫折或打擊 ， 乃是說先天上根本缺乏了培養，也就是缺乏
了陪襯。
對於鄉、國、人類 ， 不應當只是抽象的愛，還要有具體
的愛。這便須要有陪襯。懷鄉，也須要有陪襯。否則 ， 是無
可懷的。這就是我所說的主觀方面無足以起懷之情愫。
現在的人太苦了。人人都拔了根，掛了空。這點，一般
說來，人人都剝掉了我所說的陪襯。人人都在遊離中。可是，
惟有遊離 ， 才能懷鄉。而要懷鄉， 也必是其生活範圍內，尚
有足以起懷的情愫。自己方面先有起懷的情愫 ， 則可以時時
與客觀方面相感通，相粘貼，而客觀方面始有可懷處。雖一
草一木 ， 亦足興情。君不見 ， 小品文中常有 「此吾幼時之所
遊處、之所憩處」 等類的話頭嗎？不幸，就是這點足以起懷
的引子 ， 我也沒有。我幼時當然有我的遊戲之所 ， 當然有我
的生活痕跡，但是在主觀方面無有足以使我津津有味地去說
之情愫。所以我是這個時代大家都拔根之中的拔根，都掛空
 說
「懷鄉」 3

之中的掛空。這是很悲慘的。
我是一個農家子弟， 又生長於一個多兄弟姐妹的家庭，
而又天天忙於生活的窮困家庭，只有質而無文的家庭，本是
很少枝葉的。兄弟姐妹多了，父母對子女的嬌愛就減少。窮
困則無 多顧念。因此 ， 我自幼就是一個於具體生活方面很
木然生疏的混沌。惟一使我懷念的還是那種暮色蒼然中幾匹
大騾子急急奔野店的情景 ，但這太蒼茫了。又使我常常想起
的 ， 則是在我十三四歲的時候 ， 一個馬戲班子騎在馬上跑的
那個小女孩。我當時莫名其妙地非想去看她不可，這也許就
是所謂愛情了。我一生只有那麼一點羅曼斯的愛苗。但從此
以後 ， 也就斬斷了。就是對那個馬戲班子的小女孩起愛憐，
其情景也未免太流動，太飄忽了。及至在北平讀大學了，暑
假回家的時候 ， 我還是常常睡在村莊的野外 ， 或打麥的廣場
上。到上學了， 也無人過問，說走就走了。只是先父偶爾囑
咐幾句就完了。我現在想想 ， 那還是生命的健旺。各人忙各
人的 ， 很少有離別之情。只是抗戰那一年 ， 我離家時便不同
。我感覺到他老人家
了。先父那時已年老了（先母已先去世）
英雄氣短 ， 兒女情長的神色。
我這麼一個在蒼茫氣氛中混沌流蕩的人 ， 在生活上， 實
在太孤峭乏潤澤了。直到現在，我還是一個幾乎無生活的人。
譬如對於一般人的來來往往， 若有若無 ， 似乎皆不在心上。
凡足以成禮飾情的事，我皆未寄以任何注意。我不往，你因
而不來 ， 亦無所謂。普通都說我傲慢 ， 實則這是不恰當的。
我在謙虛或傲慢方面，實在是沒有什麼意識的。凡不可以談
4 生命的學問

的 ， 我不願談。我也未故示謙虛，也未有意傲慢。凡可以談
的，我就盡量地談 ， 不分晝夜地談。普通說 ， 愛情無條件 ，
無貴賤。性情之交談， 真理之交悟 ， 亦是如此。然須知這不
是日常的具體生活。雖不是傲慢 ， 然這裡的孤哨 ，亦不是人
生之幸福。
我愈孤峭， 愈離現實 ， 我平常寫的那些文章 ， 發的那些
議論，只是興趣之不容已，只是內在的「是非之追求」
。我之
寫文章 ，就好像是一個藝術品之鑄造。鑄造成了 ， 交付出去
就算完了。我沒有必期人懂之意念。我把道理說出來 ， 置諸
天壤間。悟者自悟 ， 迷者自迷。我也沒有據為己有的意思 ，
好像是我創造出來，我就不管了。我也沒有期人稱贊的要求。
我當然不能說完全無好名心。但這方面實在並不強烈。
這種傾向，是我常常感到的。這是一種藝術性的傾向。
但是近來我寫文章的意識又稍有轉進。這與本文的 懷鄉有
關係。我由藝術性的興趣之不容已 ， 轉到道德性的擔負之不
容已。我感覺到現在的人太苦了，連我自己也在內。實在有
使其置根落實的必要。置根是對前面所說的拔了根說。落實
是對前面所說的掛了空說。我近年來很意識到 ： 我所發的那
些思想，完全是想從崩解墮落的時代，湧現出足以安定人生
建立制度的思想系統上的根據。要作這步工作，其心思必須
是綜合的、上提的。因為在這塌下來一切都落了空的時代，
要想重新湧現出一個安定人生建立制度的思想系統，必須是
翻上來而從根上滋生我們的指導觀念。這裡面含有三事 ： 一
是疏導出民主政治的基本精神，以建立政治生活方面的常軌。
 說
「懷鄉」 5

二是疏導出科學的基本精神 ， 以建立知識方面的學問統緒。
三是疏導出道德宗教之轉為文制的基本精神 ， 以建立日常生
活方面的常軌。凡是說到基本精神處 ， 都是說的足以安定人
生建立制度的思想系統。而此思想系統的湧現 ， 又必須從貫
通中西文化發展的脈絡途徑與夫其程度處著眼 ， 始能真實不
謬 ， 確定不疑。這是我個人以及幾位朋友所努力從事的。
我現在已無現實上的鄉國人類之具體的懷念。我只有這
麼一個孤峭的 ， 掛了空的生命 ， 來從事一般的、抽象的、 足
以安定人生建立制度的思想系統之釐清。這只是抽象的懷念，
對於 「人之為人」 的本質之懷念。以前孔子說 ：「老者安之，
少者懷之， 朋友信之。」 了了數語 ， 真是王道之大端。現在
不但是老者少者須要安懷 ， 一切人都須要安懷。這就必須從
新來一個文化的反省，思想系統的聾定。張橫渠說：「為天地
立心，為生民立命 ， 為往聖繼絕學 ， 為萬世開太平。」 這四
句話，在這裡真有其切實的意義 ， 並非是些空洞的大話。我
們往常不解。我現在才真正感到了。試想在這個拔了根 ，落
了空的時代 ， 人類真是沒有命了。這如何能不須要 「為生民
立命」 呢？天地以生物為心。人類沒有命了 ， 天地的心在哪
裡？所以 「為生民立命」， 也就是一個仁心之不容已，也就是

「為天地立心」 了。往聖千言萬語 ， 所念念不忘者，總在此

事 ， 這不是科學所能擔負的。所以在科學以外 ， 必須承認有
道德宗教的聖賢學問。所以為生民立命，為天地立心的大業，
也就是為往聖繼絕學，為萬世開太平了。我以前有詩云 ：「上
蒼有眼痛生民 ， 留取丹心爭剝復。」 我現在也只有這一點丹
6 生命的學問

心，尚未泯滅。
人類有了命，生了根 ， 不掛空，然後才有日常的人生生
活。離別 ， 有黯然消魂之苦；團聚 ， 有遊子歸根之樂。僑居
有懷念之思 ， 家居有天年之養。這時 ， 人易有具體的懷念，
而民德亦歸厚。
「人自覺地要有擔負，無論是哪一
吾友唐君毅先生曾云：
面 ， 總是痛苦的。」 此言甚善。一定要以天下為己任 ， 一定
要以道為己任，其生命中總不免有破裂。即偏傾在某一面，
而有了個沉重的擔負。若是生在太平盛世，則不識不知， 順
帝之則，豈不是好？否則 ， 若只是順藝術性的興趣之鼓舞，
則亦隨時可以起 ， 隨時可以止。此亦是充實飽滿之自娛。再
不然 ， 上上者 「無適也 ， 無莫也 ，義之與比」、「無可無不
可」。此是大聖人之圓盈渾化 ， 若沒有先天的根器 ， 很難至
此。不幸 ， 生在這個崩解的時代，既不能不識不知，順帝之
則， 復不能只是順藝術性的興趣之鼓舞以自娛 ， 更無大聖人
渾化之根器 ， 則其破裂偏傾而有擔負之苦，亦勢所當然。我
以孤峭乏潤澤之生命，只能一往偏傾，求其生命於抽象之域，
指出時代癥結之所在，凸出一思想系統以再造。甘願受此痛
苦而不辭，則亦安之若命也。我們這一代在觀念中受痛苦，
讓他們下一代在具體中過生活。
四十二年二月《人生》雜詰
 哲學智慧的開發

一、 有取之知輿無取之知
人的生物生活，一方面是吃食物，一方面是消化食物。
吃是有取，消化是無取。人的意識生活亦是一方是有取， 一
方是無取。有取於物是明他，無取於物是 「明己」。明己即自
覺也。從學問方面說，明他是科學活動，給我們以 「知識」；
明己是哲學活動，不給我們以知識，而給我們以智慧。人生

「自覺的過程」 即是哲學智慧的開發過程。是以老子說 ：「為

學日益 ， 為道日損。」 為學即是有取，故日益也。為道即是
無取，故日損也。「損之又損，以至于無。」 即表示從明他而
純歸於明己也。
孔子曰 ：「知之為知之 ， 不知為不知， 是知也。」 這個知
就是自知之明，故此是一種智慧語。
《莊子 • 齊物論》篇載：
8 生命的學問

齧缺問乎王倪曰：子知物之所同是乎？曰：吾惡乎知
之。子知子之所不知耶？ 曰：吾惡乎知之。然則物無

知耶？曰：吾惡乎知之。雖然，嘗試言之，庸詎知吾
所謂知之非不知耶？庸詎知吾所謂不知之非知耶？

你知道這個那個嗎？我全不知。你知道你不知嗎？我全不知。
。這個無知就是把一切「有取之知」 停止
我只是一個 「無知」
而歸於一個絕對之無知。這個 「無知」 就是從不斷的超越亦
即是絕對的超越所顯之無知。而無知就是一種自覺之真知，
亦是最高之智慧。此不是科學之知也。故云：「庸詎知吾所謂
知之非不知耶？庸詎知吾所謂不知之非知耶？」 你那些有取
之知，對自知自明言，全不濟事。我這種不知，對自知自明
言， 倒是一種真知。故要返回來而至無取之知，則必須把一
切「有取」打掉，洒脫淨盡，而後歸於照體獨立，四無傍依，
此之謂哲學智慧之開端。
一天，邵堯夫問程伊川曰：你知道雷從何處起？伊川曰：
我知道 ， 你卻不知道。堯夫愕然，問何故？伊川曰：你若知
道 ， 就不必藉數學來推算。求助於數學，可見你不知也。堯
夫曰 你知從何處起？伊川曰 ： 從起處起。堯夫一聽佩服之
：
至。從 「有取之知」 的立場上說，知道 「一定的起處」 才算
是知。現在卻說 「從起處起」， 這等於沒有答覆 ， 如何算得
知？豈不是笑話？至多亦是玩聰明。但是邵堯夫畢竟不同。
他聽見這話，卻佩服程伊川的「智慧」
。這不是玩聰明。這是
從 「有取之知」 轉回來而歸於 「無取之知」 的一種境界。
 哲學智慧的開發 9

大凡從 「有取之知」 的追求 ， 而至於知有無窮無盡， 即

知有一個無限， 不是你的有取之知所能一口吞， 因而轉回來
而歸於謙虛 ， 或歸於 「自己主體」 之自知，這都是一種智慧
的表示。當牛頓晚年說：我只是一個海邊上的小孩在拾貝，
我所知的只是滄海之一粟。這就表示牛頓已進到謙虛的智慧。
當康德晚年說 ： 上而蒼蒼者天， 內而內心的道德律 ， 我越想
它 ， 越有敬畏嚴肅之感。這就表示康德已進到歸於 「自己主
體」 之自知的智慧。
由科學家的追求而歸於謙虛，我這裡且不說。表示無取
之知的哲學活動也是一種學問，此就是哲學。我在這裡要說
一點 ： 藉哲學活動所表示的 「哲學智慧之開發」 之意義。

二 、哲學的氣質
你要作哲學活動 ， 先要預備幾種心境：
第一、現實的照顧必須忘記 ， 名利的牽掛必須不在意。
以前的人說，古之學者為己 ， 今之學者為人。照顧與牽掛都
是為人，不是為己。在日常生活中 ， 如果你照顧的太多，你
必疲於奔命。這時，你的心完全散落在外面的事物上 ， 你不
能集中在一處， 作入微的沉思。我們平常說某人在出神，視
而不見，聽而不聞。完全是個呆子。其實不是個呆子。他現
實上的照顧完全忘卻了。現實的照顧是社交。社交不是哲學
活動。照顧自己與照顧他人 ， 都足以分神。照顧自己的瑣事
是侍奉自己的軀殼 ， 不是侍奉自己的心靈。而侍奉自己的軀
10 生命的學問

亦是為的他人。照顧他人太多，則或者只是好心腸的浪費，
或者只是虛偽。虛偽固不必說。好心腸的浪費亦是於事業於
真理的表現無補的。這只是婆婆媽媽的拖沓。孟子說 「惠而
不知為政」
。這也是表示一個一個的照顧之不行。我們現在尚
說不到政治道理上的是非 ， 只說婆婆媽媽的拖沓不是哲學活
動的心境。這時你必須不要有婆氣，而須有點利落的 「漢子
氣」
。當有四五人在場與你聚談，你這裡敷衍幾句，那裡敷衍
幾句，有性情的人決不能耐，他根本不和你談 ， 他走了。這
時你固不能得到任何真理，你也不能認識任何有肝膽的朋友。
而那個不能耐的人， 卻是個可以作哲學活動的人 ， 他將來也
可能是一個作大事的人，或於任何方面總有所成的人。你可
以罵他沒有禮貌，但在此時 ， 他可以不管這點禮貌。禮貌與
婆心，在經過哲學智慧的開發過程後 ， 將來終要成全的。但
在哲學活動的開始過程中，禮貌與婆氣 ， 一起須丟掉。這不
是故意的傲慢 ， 這是假不來的。我說作哲學活動要預備這種
心境， 假如你終不能有這種心境 ， 則即不能有哲學活動。所
以這種哲學的心境我們也可以叫做哲學的氣質，哲學的氣質
是一個人氣質上先天的氣質。氣質上先天的漢子氣可以作哲
學活動，而婆氣則不能。經過哲學活動的過程，婆氣變為婆
心。成全禮貌與婆心 ， 這將是你的哲學智慧之大成。這是通
過 「無取之知」 的理性的自覺而來的。這是不順你的氣質上
先天的氣質而來，而是順你的心靈上先天的理性而來。你若
沒有經過漢子氣的 「稱心而發」 的哲學活動 ， 你的好心腸只
是婆氣的拖沓 ， 你的禮貌只是世俗的照顧。你不過是在風俗
 哲學智慧的開發 11

習慣中過活的一個一般的人。當然 ， 不能天下人都能有哲學
活動 ， 這自不待言。
我這裡只就「照顧」一點說，至於名利的牽掛更不必說。
第二、要有不為成規成矩乃至一切成套的東西所粘縛的

「逸氣」。直接是原始生命照面， 直接是單純心靈呈露。《莊
子 • 田子方》篇 ：

溫伯雪子適齊，舍于魯。魯人有請見之者。溫伯雪子
曰：不可。吾聞中國之君子，明乎禮義，而陋于知人
心。吾不欲見也。至于齊，反舍于魯。是人也，又請
見。溫伯雪子曰：往也蘄見我，今也又蘄見我，是必
有以振我也。出而見客，入而歎。明日見客，又入而
歎。其僕曰：每見之客也，必入而歎，何耶？ 曰：吾
固告子矣。中國之民，明乎禮義，而陋乎知人心。昔
之見我者 進退一成規、一成矩 從容一若龍、一若
’ ’
虎。其諫我也似子，其道我也似父。是以歎也。

這是藉有道之士的溫伯雪子來反譏落於外在的成套中的鄒魯
之士、縉紳先生 ， 這些縉紳先生， 其所明之禮義都是成為風
俗習慣的 「文制」，亦就是所謂外在的成套。他們並不真能通
過自覺而明乎禮義。他們的明只是習慣地明。他們依照其習
慣之所學 ， 言談舉動，都有成式。故曰：「進退一成規、一成
矩，從容一若龍、 一若虎。」 郭象注曰：「槃辟其步，逶蛇其
跡。」 此如學舞者然。學好步法 ， 以成美妙之姿。此只是外
12 生命的學問

在的好看，而不是心靈之美。其心靈完全為成規成矩所拘繫，
此是殉於規矩而不能自解 ， 故其心靈亦不能透脫而得自在。
有物結之，靈光已滯，故智慧亦不顯也。此即是「明乎禮義，
而陋于知人心」
。一切禮義要成全，但須是耶穌的精神才行，
不是法利賽人的僵滯所能辦。在法利賽人手裡 ， 一切禮義都
死了。所以通過哲學智慧的開發，禮義是要完成的。但那時
是透過形式主義的形式，而不是殉於形式主義的形式。一個
能有哲學活動的人 ， 他開始自然達不到這種境界。但他開始
必須有不在乎一切成套，不注意一切規矩，不殉於一切形式
的氣質。一個人在現實生活中過活，不能不有現竇的套。衣
食住行都有套 ， 自然不必奇裝怪服， 驁世駭俗 ， 但亦不必斤
斤較量 ， 密切注意 ， 而膠著於一定之格。他甚至可以完全不
注意這些。有衣穿就行了，有飯吃就行了。你說他總是穿這
一套，必是他拘在這一套。其實不然。他隨時可以換，無可
無不可。他開始這樣，這不是他的成熟。這只是他的不注意。
而他之如此不注意，只是他的原始生命之充沛 ， 只是他的自
然氣質之洒脫 ， 因而也就只是他的單純心靈之直接披露 ， 而
不陷溺。常有這樣心境的人，可以作哲學活動，此也就是一
種哲學的氣質。此也許是一種浪漫性 ， 但不是否定一切的氾
濫性。我願叫它是 「逸氣」。
第三、對於現象常有不穩之感與陌生之感。羅近溪《盱
壇直詮》載 ：

不肖幼學時，與族兄問一親長疾。此親長亦有些志況，
 哲學智慧的開發 13

頗饒富，凡事如意。逮問疾時，疾已亟。見予弟兄，
數嘆氣。予歸途，謂族兄曰：某俱如意，胡為數嘆氣？
兄試謂我兄弟讀書而及第，仕宦而作相，臨終時還有
氣嘆否？族兄曰：誠恐不免。予曰：如此，我輩須辱
個不嘆氣的事做。予于斯時，便立定志了。

立志就是立志學道，尋個不嘆氣的事做。現實上，凡事如意，
臨終尚不免數嘆氣。此即表示：一切榮華富貴都是不穩的，
都是算不得數的。當你嘆氣的剎那間 ， 你的心靈就從現實榮
辱的圈套中躍躍欲現 ， 從現竇的雲霧中湧出光明的紅輪。此
時你就超越於你所不安的現實而透露一片開朗的氣象。人的
外部生活都是你靠我，我靠你的。相依為命，亦可憐矣。此
即莊子所謂 ：

一受其成形，不化以待盡。與物相刃相靡，其行盡如
驰，而莫之能止。不亦悲乎？終身彳之役，而不見其成
功。錡然疲役，而不知其所歸，可不哀耶？人謂之不
死，奚益？其形化 ，其心與之然，可不謂大哀乎？ 人
之生也，固若是芒乎？其我獨芒，而人亦有不芒者乎？
）
(〈齊物論〉

人在相刃相靡的因果鍊子中打旋轉 ， 就是一種可悲的芒昧。
試想 ： 人立必托足於地 ， 坐必托身於椅， 臥必依賴於床。若
無一支持之者 ， 則由於地心吸力 ， 必一直向下墮落而至於無
14 生命的學問

底之深淵。推之 ， 地球靠太陽， 太陽靠太陽系。此之謂相刃

相靡 ， 其行如馳 ， 而莫之能止。一旦 ， 太陽系崩潰 ， 因果鍊
子解紐，則嗒然無所歸，零落星散，而趨於毀滅。然則現竇，
人間的或自然的 ， 寧有穩定可恃者乎？假若你能感覺到山搖
地動，則你對於這個凍結的現實一大堆即可有通透融化輕鬆
之感。向之以為穩定著實是凍結也。你要從凍結中通透， 就
要靠你的不穩之感。這在叔本華 ， 名曰形而上的要求。一旦
從凍結中通透 ，則一切皆輕鬆活躍， 有本有原 ， 不穩者亦穩
矣。此在古人，名曰覺悟，亦曰為天地立心，為生民立命也。
故羅近溪復云 ：

蓋伏羲當年亦儘將造化著力 覷，所謂仰以觀天，俯
以察地，遠求諸物，近取諸身 。其初也同吾儕之見，
謂天自為天，地自為地，人自為人，物自為物。爭奈
他志力專精，以致天不愛道，忽然靈光爆破，粉碎虛
空。天也無天，地也無地，人也無人，
. 物也無物。渾

作個圓團 光爍爍的東西，描不成，窝不就，不覺信
手禿點一點，元也無名，也無字，後來只得喚他做乾，
喚他做太極也。此便是性命的根源。（
《盱壇直訟》
）

這一段便是由不穩之感而至陌生之感。由不穩而通透 ， 由陌
生而窺破。天是天 ， 地是地 ， 人物是人物，這是不陌生。你
忽然覺到天不是天 ， 地不是地，人物不是人物 ， 這就是陌生
之感起。一有陌生之感 ， 便引你深入一步 ， 而直至造化之原
 哲學智慧的開發 15

也。人到此境界 ， 真是 「骨肉皮毛 ， 渾身透亮 ， 河山草樹 ，

大地回春」
。這是哲學智慧的最高開發。但你必須開始有不穩
之感與陌生之感的心境。這種心境，我願叫它是 「原始的宇
宙悲懷」。
以上 ， 第一點漢子氣是勇 ， 第二點逸氣是智 ， 第三點原
始的宇宙悲懷是仁之根也。哲學的氣質 ， 當然可以說很多。
但這三點是綱領。這三點都表示從 「向外之有取」 而轉回來
歸之於無取。一有取 ， 即落於現實的機括 （圈套） 中。從有
取歸於無取， 即是從陷溺於現實機括中而躍起 ， 把內心的靈
光從雲霧荊棘中直接湧出來。此是無所取 ， 亦是內心靈光之
呈露。故羅近溪又云：

於是能信之真，好之篤，而求之極其敏焉，則此身之
中生生化化一段精神，必有倏然以自動，奮然以自興，
廓然渾然以與天她萬物為一體，而莫知誰之所為者。
是則神明之自來，天機之自應，若就砲之蔡，偶觸星
火，而轟然雷震乎乾坤矣。至此，則七尺之軀，頃刻
而同乎天地，一息之氣，倏乎而塞乎古今。其餘形骸
之念，物欲之私，寧不猶太陽一出而魍魎 消也哉？

此就是哲學生命之開始 ， 亦就是哲學智慧之煥發也。
16 生命的學 問

三、無 取 之 知 的 哲 學 糸 統

哲學生命開始 ， 哲學智慧煥發 ，則順此路，更須作細密

的哲學活動之工夫。這部工夫可從兩面說 ：一面是柏拉圖的
路 ， 一面是康德的路。
哲學活動總是無取的，反省的。但是無取反省 ， 有是從
客體方面表現，有是從主體方面表現。前者是柏拉圖的路，
後者是康德的路。柏拉圖首先指出在變化無常的感覺世界之
外 ， 有肯定理型世界的必要。把握理型， 須靠純淨的心靈 ，
而心靈之為純淨，因而可以把握潔淨空曠圓滿自足的理型，
是由感覺的混雜中陷溺於軀殼中，解脫出來，始成其為純淨。
心之純淨化即心之解放。這一步解放即表示人的生命之客觀
化。此所謂客觀化是以純淨的心靈之理智活動把握普遍性永
恆性的理型而成者。即由心之純智活動而成者。故此步客觀
化是由 「無取之知」 中首先表現 ： 人要成為一真正的人須是
一「理智的存在」。這是希臘人的貢獻。純智活動之把握理型
即成功一 「形式體性學」(Formal ontology )。這不是科學。因
為它雖然講感觸現象之變與永恆理型之不變 ， 它卻不是就一
定的經驗現象實驗出一定的知識系統 ， 如物理或化學。它只
是在思辨中，於變化現象外必須肯定一 「不變者」。否則，變
亦不成其為變 ， 任何對象亦不成其為一對象 ， 而任何名詞與
命題亦無意義。這種思辨是在變之可能 ， 一物形成之可能，
名詞與命題有意義之可能之間進行 ， 進行不變者之肯定。故
 哲學智慧的開發 17

純是一種反省的，辨解的。結果亦是 「無取之知」。這種 「無
取之知」 只在使我們自己明白，堅定理型之信念 ， 洞徹靈魂
之歸宿。這就是內外明白 ： 內面的明白是靈魂的純潔化 ， 有
了寄託與歸宿 ， 外面的明白是在變化混雜的感覺現象外有一
個秩序整然圓滿自足的本原，這就是萬物總有其 「體性」
。因
此 ， 內面的明白是純淨了靈魂 ， 外面的明白是貞定了自然。
這就是無取之知的哲學活動所成功的形式體性學所表現的智
慧。這一種活動就是叫我們能欣賞 「形式」 之美。所以柏拉
圖必叫人讀幾何學。數學幾何都在此種精神下完成。如果你
再對於數學幾何乃至體性學中的理型系統加以反省， 則邏輯
出焉。所以你要作細密的哲學活動之工夫， 你必須首先作無
取之知的邏輯訓練 ， 認識各種的邏輯系統 。（辯證法不在
內。） 這就是柏拉圖一路所開之一支。
但是 ， 柏拉圖一支之反省尚是平列的 ， 其對於心靈之純
淨化只形成為 「純智的認識活動」，即 ， 只把 「主體」 確定為
「認識的心」， 尚不能真正把主體建立起來 。 康德的反省活
動 ， 在科學知識成立之後 ， 由認識主體方面反省科學知識所
以可能之根據， 才真正把主體建立起來 ， 才更恰合於哲學的

「無取」 之義， 而純歸於主體之彰顯。因此 ， 他所彰顯的認

識主體不只是一個純智的了解，而且是一個主動的理性之心。
由其自身之自發性發出一些使經驗知識為可能的超越條件，
因此 ， 主動的理性之心是有內容的。這完全是由反省認識主
體所彰顯出的在「向前有取」的活動背後的一個超越的系統，
由超越條件所形成的一個超越系統。藉這個系統， 始真把認
18 生命的學問

識主體建立起來；而哲學之方向、範圍 ，始真見其不同於科
學；而其為 「無取」 與科學之 「有取」 始真釐然劃得清。
但是，他這樣建立起來的認識主體尚只是理論理性的 ( 或
曰觀解理性），主體尚須再推進一步而被建立，即建立其為實
踐理性的 ， 即由認識主體再轉進一層而至實踐主體。實踐主
體即是「道德的心」，抒發律令指導行為的意志自由之心。主
體 ， 至此始全體透出，整個被建立起來。此真所謂 「海底湧
紅輪」，而以其自身之「系統網」 籠罩整個經驗界或現象界。
至此，中國人所謂 「人極」 始真建立起，而在西方文化生命
的立場上說，上帝與靈魂不滅亦因道德的心之建立而有了意
義 ， 有了著落。這一步開啟， 所關不小。認識主體之建立，
尚只是智的、理論的；竇踐主體之建立，則意與情 有其根，
而且其地位與層次及作用與內容俱卓然被確立 ， 而不只是浮
游無根，全不成其為一客觀之原理者。（如只知科學知識者，
或只是理智主義者 ，以其一刀平之平面 ， 即不能把情與意視
為一客觀之原理，而只是浮游無根者，而亦不予以理會。他
們找不出它的意義來 ， 亦不敢正視它。因此 ， 他們尚未到立
體的境界。）
由認識主體進而實踐主體 ， 智、意 、 情三度立體形之徹
底形成，就是人生宇宙之骨幹。智 、 意、情之客觀性原理性
之徹底透出各正其位， 是無取的反省的而唯是以顯露主體為
，立于禮，
職責的哲學活動之登峰造極。孔子說：「興于《詩》
成于樂。」 這也是意與情之徹底透出之立體形。惟其 「興于
」一語只表示生命靈感之悱啟，相當於「原始的宇宙之
《詩》
 哲學智慧的開發 19

悲懷」（仁之根）。而智一層 ， 即認識主體 ， 則在儒家並未徹

底轉出。吾人現在的哲學活動須補上這一度 ， 以補前人之不
足。惟有一點可說者 ， 即認識主體必是下級的，而實踐主體，
意與情，則是上級的。立體之所以為立體，惟賴此「上級的」
之透出；而若只是智，只是認識主體，則未有不落於平面者。
只知科學知識者 ， 或只是理智主義者 ， 則於 「實踐主體」 完
全不能接觸 ， 視意與情為浮游無根之遊魂，讓其隨風飄流而
漫蕩，故亦不敢正視人生宇宙也。此其所以為乾枯的淺薄的
理智主義 ， 所以流入理智的唯物論之故也。而若知 「認識主
體」 之限度 ， 進至 「實踐主體」 之建立 ， 把意與情之客觀性
原理性徹底樹立起 ， 則向之浮游無根 ， 飄流而漫蕩者 ， 實正
居於人生宇宙之背後而為擎天柱 ， 亦曰 「實現原則」 也。其
為漫蕩者實只自限之智之作繭自縛而封閉以成者。
惟有智意情三度立體形之完成， 始能開出精神生活之認
識 ， 始能開出歷史文化國家政治之為 「精神表現」 之認識。
這一步是黑格爾所開啟，吾名之曰「辯證的綜合系統」
。惟黑
氏學不能盡無弊。吾在這裡大體言之是如此：「辯證的綜合系
統」 必以柏拉圖的邏輯分解系統 ， 與康德的超越分解系統 ，
以及儒家的心性之學仁義之教為底子 ， 而後始可以言之恰當
而無弊 ， 而且正可以見其利也。一個哲學活動貫通了這一整
系 ， 始真可以說 ：「為天地立心 ， 為生民立命 ， 為往聖繼絕
學 ， 為萬世開太平。」（張橫渠語）
對於這一整系 ， 如不能貫通到至精至熟的境地 ， 稍有差
謬 ， 即見其弊。而現竇上已有之矣。如乾枯的淺薄的理智主
生命的學問

義、理智的唯物論，只認科學工業技術一機械系統為真實 ，
則必引出馬克思主義之魔道而毀之。同時，意與情一不得其
正，則必引出尼采、希特勒之瘋狂。此中脈絡 ， 瞭如指掌。
此在善學者之用其誠。
夫一有哲學氣質之心靈乃天地靈秀之所鍾 ， 為任何時代
所必須。此是汙濁混亂呆滯僵化時代中清新俊逸之氣也。惟
賴此清新俊逸之氣始有新鮮活潑之生命 ， 始有周流百代之智
慧。所謂 「握天樞以爭剝復」，其機端在此清新俊逸之氣也。
眾生可悲 ， 有一焉而如此，則亦旦暮遇之也。
四十一年六月《臺灣新生報》專攔
 從西方哲學進至儒家學術
〈王陽明致良知教〉弓 I 言

西方的傳統哲學大體是以邏輯思考為其進路， 邏輯思考
首先表現為邏輯定義。由邏輯定義，把握一物之 「體性」（本
質）， 此即柏拉圖、 亞里士多德等人所說之理型、形式或共
理。由此前進， 即成為 「形式體性學」 (Formal ontology)。但
是邏輯定義所把握之一物之體性或本質，並不函一物之存在：
有一物即有一物之體性，但有一物之體性不必函有一物之存
在。如是 ， 要想 明體性與存在之結合 ， 即必須說明一物之
實現 ， 而此又必須進而講 「實 現 原 理」 (principle of
actualization)。由實現原理的討論所形成的 ， 便可名曰宇宙
論。邏輯定義所把握之 「體性」，吾人可名之曰 「形成之理」
生命的學 問

(principle of formation ) 0 形成之理與實現之理兩者，大體可以

窮盡西方形上學之規模。由此兩種理之討論所成為之形上學，
吾人可名日外在的，觀解的形上學 (theoretical metaphysics)。
(「觀解的」， 普通亦曰 「理論的」。而此詞在拉丁原義 ， 為觀
解。故譯 「觀解的」 為較恰。 「理論的」 則是其引申義。而此
兩詞亦皆與 「實踐的」 為對立。） 即中世紀的神學，亦還是
由此種進路而建立， 即以觀解的形上學為其根據也。進入近
世， 如笛卡爾、來布尼、斯頻諾薩等人的大系統 ， 也還是
此種觀解形上學。此種觀解形上學，雖也可以提出最後的真
實本體、神等概念，然只是理論的，為邏輯圓滿而立的概念，
並不真能印證其真實性。是以此種形上學的責任似乎只在滿
足知識的條件， 而不在滿足 「竇踐」 的條件。
然而即在西方這種傳統中，也有一個例外，那便是康德。
他不從這種觀解的形上學來講最後的本體 ， 如神 ， 他是從實
踐理性上來講。這便是觀解的形上學轉到「道德的形上學」，
亦可曰 「實踐的形上學」。然而康德也只是理論地這樣指點
出 ， 這樣分解出 ，並未能進而再從工夫竇踐上這樣講出。宗
教乃至宗教中的上帝究竟是生活或竇踐中的事 ， 而不只是哲
學理論的事。所以還須扣緊生活或實踐而講學問或理論。此
點 ， 哲學家的康德尚不能作得到。譬如他講實踐理性 ， 他已
充分地指出 ： 要建立道德律 ， 必須假定意志自由；要建立至
善 ， 必須假定靈魂不滅；要綜攝一切圓滿現竇宇宙 ， 必須肯
定上帝存在：這都在實踐理性上得到其意義 ， 得到其客觀妥
實性。然這也只是原則地，理論地如此講，而並未從心性上，
 從西方哲學進至儒家學術 23

經由工夫實踐以全幅呈露、印證或實現此種真實世界也。他
把意志自由，靈魂不滅，上帝存在，都看成是實踐理性上的

「設準」， 即由此 「設準」 一詞 ， 即可看出其並未能從心性

上，經由工夫實踐以全幅呈露、印證或實現此真實世界也。
這就表示西方學術中缺乏了一種工夫實踐上的心性之學。康
德在輪廓上、扭轉上 ，他已由 「觀解的」 轉到 「實踐的」， 由
外在的客體上轉到內在的主體上，但尚未從工夫實踐上實現
此種主體。勿以為只要從原則上理論上這樣分解出即足夠 ，
至於竇際作工夫 ，則不必講矣。因為這工夫實踐中也正有一
套理論過程與原理系統也， 譬如佛教經論之所說 ， 宋明儒者
之所說。此即所謂扣緊工夫實踐而講學問理論， 而透露全幅
真實世界也。若只是理論地、原則地分解出 ， 而未落到工夫
竇踐上 ， 則於竇踐上 ， 於自己之心性中， 仍是一片空虛、黑
暗，而不著邊際。
繼康德後，十九世紀中葉 ， 又有一個特出的人物，那便
•

是契爾克伽德（Kierkegaard，編按：即齊克果）
。他是丹麥的
哲人 ， 稍後於黑格爾。他被埋沒了很久。他的著作直至近十
幾年來才流行。我也是最近才讀到他的書。這是西方學術文
化傳統裡一個最特出的人物，可謂獨一無二。以他這樣獨特
而有真知灼見的心靈，當然要開出一派思想來 ， 那便是近時
流行的「存在主義」（Existentialism)。可惜現在這些存在主義
者無一能繼承契氏的真精神而開出真實的學問。契氏是一個
真能扣緊基督教之為生活或實踐中的事而講學問的人。所以
他在扭轉上 ， 是非常之精采 ， 非常之透徹 ， 非常之警策。他
24 生命的學問

不但從觀解的轉到竇踐的，從客觀的轉到 「主觀的」（即歸於
主體上），而且已從康德之理論地原則地講法、形式地講法，
轉到具體地實際地講法 ， 歸到具體 「存在的」 個人上講。此
即是 存在主義」 一詞之由來。
「 「存在地」 觀人生，即是 「實
踐地」 觀人生 ， 亦即非邏輯地 ， 非觀解地觀人生。他在講宗
教上 ，講真竇的人生上，講歸依於上帝， 講欣趣於 「永恆之
福」 上 ， 力反客觀主義，力反觀解理性的系統主義 ， 即是力
反觀解形上學的老路子。 （這個老路子是希臘的傳統，吾亦名
之曰智的系統。這個路向實只是就滿足知識的條件說話，不
就滿足竇踐的條件說話。） 而他這種新路向倒是真能契合耶
穌的精神 ， 契合宗教的傳統 ， 而不是中世紀以觀解形上學為
底子的那個傳統。所以他說基督教是內在性的東西 ， 所以必
須轉至主體上，而「真理就是主體性」 (truth is subjectivity)。
因為主體才有決斷，才有肯定，才有態度。從這裡才能見真
實的人生 ， 才能保住善與罪惡之辨，是非之辨，因而才能保
住 價值」。宗教即是 「以無限的熱情欣趣於個人的永恆之
「
福」。 這是一個 「無限的成為過程」 (infinite becoming
process)。所以他說：「我不敢自居為基督徒 ， 我只想如何成
為基督徒。」 要把握這種真理 ， 自然非歸到個人自己的主體
上不可，非從具體存在的個人上說不可。他對於這種扭轉是
非常之透徹的 。 請參看他的《非科學的附啟》 ( Concluding
Unscientific Postscript) 0
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 CHAPTER III.
Freda watched the opening of the farmhouse door with dread, as
there peeped out a man’s face, pale, flat, puffy, with light eyes and
colourless light eyelashes. Freda took an instantaneous dislike to
him, and tried to draw her companion back by the sleeve.
“What do you want at this time of night?” asked, the man
pompously.
And Freda knew, by his speech and manner, that he was a man-
servant, and that he was not a Yorkshireman. He now opened the
door wider, and she saw that he was dressed in very shabby livery,
that he was short and stout, and that a lady was standing in the
narrow entrance-hall behind him. Barnabas caught sight of her too,
and he hailed her without ceremony.
“Hey theer, missus,” he cried cheerily, “can Ah have a word with
’ee?”
Rather under than above the middle height, dressed plainly in a
black silk gown, Mrs. Heritage was a woman who had been very
pretty, and who would have been so still but for a certain
discontented, worried look, which seemed to have eaten untimely
furrows into her handsome features.
“Well, Mr. Ugthorpe, and what do you want?”
“Here’s a young gentlewoman without a shelter for her head, an’
Ah thowt ye would be t’ person to give it her.”
“Young gentlewoman—without shelter!” echoed the lady in slow,
solemn, strident tones. “Why, how’s that?”
“I was snowed up in the train, madam, on my way to my father’s.
And we are very sorry to have troubled you. Good-night.”
Very proudly the girl uttered these last words, in the high,
tremulous tones that tell of tears not far off. While Barnabas stopped
at the door to argue and explain, Freda was hopping back through
the snow towards the lane as fast as she could, with bitter
mortification in her heart, and a weary numbness creeping through
her limbs.
 Suddenly through the night air there rang a cry in a deep, full,
man’s voice, a voice that thrilled Freda to the heart, calling to
something within her, stirring her blood.
“Aunt, she’s lame! Don’t you see she’s lame?”
She heard rapid footsteps in the snow. As she turned to see who it
was that was pursuing her, and at the same time raised her hand to
dash away the rising tears and clear her sight, her little crutch fell.
She stooped to grope in the snow, and instantly felt a pair of strong
arms around her. Not Barnabas Ugthorpe’s. There was no
impetuous acting upon impulse about Barnabas. And in the pressure
of these unknown arms there seemed to Freda to be a kindly,
protecting warmth and comfort such as she had never felt before.
“Who is it? Who are you?” she cried tremulously.
“Never mind, I’ve been sent to take care of you,” answered the
voice.
Again it thrilled Freda; and she was silent, rather frightened. She
gave one feeble struggle, seeing nothing through her tears in the
darkness, and her ungloved hand touched a man’s moustache. To
the convent-bred girl this seemed a shocking accident: she was
dumb from that moment with shame and confusion. The good-
humoured remonstrance of the unseen one caused her the keenest
anguish.
“Oh, you ungrateful little thing. You’ve scratched my face most
horribly, and I don’t believe there’s a bit of sticking-plaster in the
house. Next time I shall leave you to sleep in the snow.”
“I—I am sorry. I beg your pardon,” she faltered. “I did not see.”
“All right. I’ll forgive you this once. Not that I think you’ve
apologised half enough.”
At first she took this as a serious reproach, and wondered what
she could say to soothe his wounded feelings. But the next moment,
being quick-witted, she began dimly to understand that she was
being laughed at, and she resolved to hold her peace until she could
see the face of this creature, who was evidently of a kind quite new
to her experience, with puzzling manners and a way of looking at
things which was not that of the nuns of the Sacred Heart.
In a few moments Freda heard the voice of Barnabas thanking
Mrs. Heritage for her good cheer as he came out of the house. Then
she found herself put gently down on her feet inside the doorway,
while she heard the strident tones of the lady of the house, asking
her not unkindly whether she was wet and cold. But even her
kindness grated on Freda; it was hard, perfunctory, she thought.
There was all the time, behind the thoughtful hospitality for her
unexpected guest, some black care sitting, engrossing the best of
her. Mrs. Heritage hurried on, through a labyrinth of rooms and
passages, to an oaken door, old and worm-eaten, studded with rusty
nails.
“This room,” she said, turning back as the door rolled slowly
inwards, “is the one wreck of decent life on which we pride
ourselves. It is the old banqueting-hall of the castle. We took it into
use, after an hundred and fifty years’ neglect, when we were obliged
to come and bury ourselves here.”
It was a long and lofty room with a roof of oak so ancient that
many of the beams were eaten away by age. The walls were of
rough stone, hung, to a height of six feet from the ground, with worn
tapestry, neatly patched and mended. The hall was lighted by six
Gothic windows on each side, all of them ten feet from the ground.
The furniture, of shabby and worm-eaten oak, consisted chiefly of a
number of presses and settles, quaintly shaped and heavy-looking,
which lined the walls. On one end of a long table in the middle,
supper was spread, while at the further end of the hall a log-fire
burned in a large open fireplace.
“Where is Richard?” asked Mrs. Heritage solemnly, just as the
door was pushed open, and three or four dogs bounded in, followed
by a tall young man in knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket, with a
dog-whip sticking out of his pocket. It was Freda’s unknown friend.
“Let me introduce you,” said his aunt. “My nephew, Mr. Richard
Heritage to—— What is your name, child?”
Freda hesitated. Then, with the blood surging in her head, she
answered in a clear voice:
“Freda Mulgrave.”
She had expected to give them a surprise; but she had not
reckoned upon giving such a shock to Mrs. Heritage as the
announcement plainly caused her. Dick, whose careless glance had,
for some reason which she did not understand, pained her, at once
turned to her with interest.
“You know my father. What is he like?” she ventured presently, in a
timid voice, to Mrs. Heritage, when she had explained how she came
to be travelling alone to Presterby.
“He is a tall, dignified-looking gentleman, my dear, with a silver-
grey beard and handsome eyes.”
“And does he live all by himself?”
“I believe his establishment consists of a housekeeper, and her
husband, who was one of his crew.”
“And decidedly a rough-looking customer, as you will say when
you see him, Miss Mulgrave,” chimed in Dick. “This Crispin Bean,
who belonged to Captain Mulgrave’s ship at the time of the—the little
difficulty which ended in his withdrawing from the Navy, has followed
him like a dog ever since. It’s no ordinary man who can inspire such
enthusiasm as that,” he went on, as he stood by the big fireplace,
and kicked one of the burning logs into a fresh blaze. “You must
have noticed,” he said presently, “that the discovery of your being
your father’s daughter had some special interest for us?”
“Yes, I did think so,” said Freda.
“You see,” Dick went on, pulling his moustache and twisting up the
ends ferociously, “we’re very poor, poor as rats. It’s Free Trade has
done it. We—my cousin and I—have to farm our own land; and as
we can’t afford the railway rates, we sell what we produce to our
neighbours. If they left off buying we couldn’t live. Well, my cousin
and your father have had a quarrel, and we’re afraid Captain
Mulgrave won’t buy of us any more. You understand, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Freda slowly, struggling with her sleepy senses.
“He has quarrelled with your cousin, and so you’re afraid he’ll buy
what he wants not from you but from Josiah Kemm.”
Both her hearers started violently, and Freda perceived that she
had let out something he had not known.
“I stayed for an hour at an inn called the ‘Barley Mow,’ ” she
explained, “and I heard something there which I think must have had
some meaning like that. But perhaps I am wrong. I am tired,
confused—I——”
Her voice grew faint and drowsy. Dick glanced at Mrs. Heritage.
 “Don’t trouble your head about it to-night,” said he. “You are tired.
Aunt, take Miss Mulgrave to her room. Good-night.”
And poor Freda, sleepy, contrite, was hurried off to bed.
Next morning she was down early, but she saw nothing of Dick.
The mistress of the house read prayers in a tone of command rather
than of supplication; and, as the servants filed out afterwards, she
called the butler, and asked:
“What is this I hear about Master Richard’s going off on ‘Roan
Mary’ at this time in the morning?”
“It’s a telegram he wants to send to Master Robert; and he has to
ride to Pickering because the snow’s broken down the wires on this
side,” answered Blewitt sullenly. “I saw the message. It said: ‘He is
on with Kemm. Call on your way back.’ ”
Freda caught the name “Kemm.” She felt very uncomfortable, but
nobody noticed her, and she was suddenly startled by an outbreak of
sobs and moans from Mrs. Heritage, who had begun to pace up and
down the room.
“That’ll do,” said Blewitt sullenly, “I’m going to have a talk with you,
ma’am. We’d best have things square before your precious son
Robert comes back. I want to know when I’m to have my wages. I
don’t mean my thirty-five pounds a year for waiting at table, but the
wages I was promised for more important work.”
“I will speak to Mr. Robert as soon as he returns, Blewitt,” said
Mrs. Heritage, who was evidently in a paroxysm of terror. “I am quite
sure——”
“That I shall get no good out of him,” went on Blewitt, doggedly.
“Do you think I don’t know Mr. Robert? Why, miss,” and the man
turned, with a sudden change of manner to deprecating respect, to
Freda, “your father, Captain Mulgrave, knows what Mr. Robert is,
and that’s why he’s made up his mind, like the wise gentleman he is,
not to have anything more to do with him. And I’ve made up my
mind,” he went on with vicious emphasis, heeding neither Mrs.
Heritage’s spasmodic attempts to silence him, nor the young girl’s
timid remonstrances, “either to have my due or to follow his
example.”
Freda had crept up, with her little crutch, to Mrs. Heritage’s side,
and was offering the mute comfort of a sympathetic hand thrust into
that of the lady.
“Run away, my dear child, run away,” whispered the latter eagerly.
The man went on in a brutal tone:
“I’m not such a fool as Master Dick, to stay here and be made a
catspaw of, while your precious son goes off to enjoy himself. Why
should some do all the work, and others——”
The rest of his sentence was lost to Freda, who had got outside
the door into a great bare apartment beyond. Here, lifting the latch of
a little modern door which most inappropriately filled an old Gothic
doorway, she found herself, as she had expected, in the courtyard.
 CHAPTER IV.
Freda crossed the courtyard to one of the ruined corner-towers, and
finding the staircase still practicable, continued her wanderings, with
cautious steps, along the top of the broken castle-wall. She got along
easily as far as the thatched roof of a big barn. But here her crutch
slipped on the snow and went crashing through a tarpaulin-covered
hole in the thatch, carrying its owner with it, into a loft half-filled with
hay. There was no way of escape until somebody came by to rescue
her. Freda therefore could do nothing but look down into the hazy
light of the barn below; and presently, nursed into a comfortable
warmth by the hay, she fell asleep.
She was awakened by being shaken pretty roughly, while a voice
cried close to her ear:
“Now, then, I’ve got you; and if I let you get home with a whole
bone in your little thievish body, you may think yourself jolly lucky, I
can tell you.”
Having recognised the voice as Dick’s, Freda was not alarmed by
the assumed ferocity of his tone. Besides, he had evidently mistaken
her for somebody else. So she shook herself free from the hay, and
sat up and looked at him. By that time he had got used to the gloom
of the loft, and to her surprise, he drew back so quickly that he risked
falling off the ladder. A little more contemplation, and then he
murmured:
“Of course—it’s the hair!”
The net in which, in primitive fashion, she was accustomed to tuck
away her hair, had been lost in her tumble through the roof, and her
red-brown locks, which had a pretty, natural wave, had fallen about
her ears and given to her pale face quite a new character. Dick,
however, was not a young fellow looking idly at a pretty girl, but a
man full of responsibilities and anxieties.
“You said last night,” he began abruptly, “that you had heard
something at the ‘Barley Mow’ about us and your father. What was
it?”
 She answered in a low, modest voice, but without any fear.
“You say my father is quarrelling with you. You wish to find out all
his movements. Then if I tell you about them, I am betraying my own
father!”
“I warn you that your principles won’t agree with his any more than
they do with mine. Do as you would be done by is what you were
taught at the convent, I suppose. Do as you are done by is the motto
we live by here.”
“It seems very dreadful,” whispered Freda, “to do things that are
wrong and not to mind!”
And the young man perceived that she had tears in her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” said he gently. “I shouldn’t have said what I have to
you but that I wanted you to go back to your convent before you hear
anything more to pain you. I want to take you to Presterby this
afternoon, without your seeing my cousin Bob.”
“Ah!” cried Freda with a start. “Your cousin! Tell me, is he good to
you? Are you fond of him?”
“Not particularly. That answer will do to both questions.”
“Then why do you stay here? Would it not be better for you to go
away? They say—do they not say, that he makes you work for his
advantage?”
He paused a few moments, and his face grew graver. Then he
said abruptly: “Supposing I were to tell you that I am content to be
taken advantage of, and that I’d rather live on here anyhow than like
a prince anywhere else. I tell you,” he went on, with the ring of
passion in his voice, “I love every foot of ground about here as you
love your convent and your nuns; the stones of this old place are my
religion. And so I shall live on here in some sort of hole-and-corner
fashion, bringing grist to a mill that gives me neither honour nor
profit, until——”
He stopped short. Freda was deeply moved; but she only asked
him, in a constrained voice, if he would let her come down the
ladder. He ran rapidly down, held the ladder firm for her, and gently
assisted her as she came near the ground, taking her crutch and
returning it to her when her feet touched the floor.
“Poor little lame girl!” said he softly, and the words brought sobs
into her throat. “Why, you’re crying! I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
 “No-o, no,” said Freda, drawing herself away. “Let me go, please.”
“Well, say that we’re friends first.”
Freda raised her eyes, but her glance passed Dick and remained
fixed on a face that appeared at the window beyond. A young man,
with sandy hair and moustache, was looking in with a cynical grin.
Dick turned quickly, when he saw the change on the girl’s face. His
own expression altered also.
“Bob! Back already!” he cried.
The young man had climbed in. Nodding at his cousin, with a
glance at Freda which she found exceedingly offensive, he asked:
“Well, and who is the little girl?”
Perhaps the girl’s mind, having retained a child-like purity, was
able at once to detect the taint in that of Robert Heritage; but
certainly the persistent stare of his small grey eyes, which he
honestly believed to be irresistible, affected her no more than the
gleam of a couple of marbles; while every other feature of his face,
from the obtrusively pointed nose to the thin-lipped mouth, seemed
to her to betray ugly qualities, the names of which she scarcely
knew. He, on his side, regarded her face with a bold, critical stare,
which changed into contempt the moment he caught sight of her
crutch. Dick grew red with anger.
“You didn’t get my telegram then?” he said shortly, interposing his
person to shield the girl from his cousin’s impudent gaze.
“No, I got no telegram. What was it about?”
“Come into the house and I’ll tell you.”
He moved to the door. Robert would not let him open it.
“What! and interrupt your studies of the maim, the halt, and the
blind?” he asked, in a low voice which, however, the girl’s quick ears
caught.
Freda had been reprimanded at the convent for occasional
outbursts of passion. But she had never yet felt the force of such a
torrent of indignation as seemed to sweep through her frame at this,
the first sneer at her infirmity she had ever heard. She scarcely
noticed Dick’s angry remonstrance; but raising her flushed face to
Robert, she said:
“You can sneer at me now. Perhaps you will not when I am in the
house of my father, Captain Mulgrave.”
 “Come, that’s rather strong, little girl,” he said coolly. “To be
Mulgrave’s daughter—which you may be for anything I know—is one
thing, but to live in his house is another. I can assure you he has
made no preparations for your reception.”
His insolent tone stung Freda to a greater heat of passion.
“Perhaps you are not in my father’s confidence,” she said in a
voice which shook a little. “If you had been, you might have known
that he was going to visit Josiah Kemm.”
Without waiting to see the effect of her words, Freda ran out of the
barn, across the court-yard, and up to the room she had slept in.
There she put on her hat and cloak, and after waiting some time in
fear lest she might be hunted out, stole out of the room and came, to
her disgust, face to face with Blewitt. He had on a thick coat and
riding-boots.
“I beg pardon, ma’am, but I was a-coming to inform you that I have
been hordered by Mr. ’Eritage to go to the Abbey with a letter for
your respected father, Captain Mulgrave. Now, ma’am, I should
esteem it a honour to be sent to a gentleman like Captain Mulgrave
on any hordinary errand. But knowing, as I happen to do, the himport
of the letter, I feel it very different, I assure you, ma’am.”
Freda was too unsophisticated to guess by what simple means
Blewitt had arrived at the knowledge he alluded to. But she was
afraid he wanted to tell her something she ought not to hear, and she
interrupted him hurriedly.
“Yes, I’m sure that all you say is quite—quite right,” she said
nervously. “But I—I am going out, and I cannot——”
“You cannot stay under the roof of such people as them. Which I
was sure, ma’am, that such would be your feelings. Barnabas
Ugthorpe, the farmer, has been here with his cart a-inquiring after
you; and I know where he is to be found now, if so be as you would
like me to show you how to get out by a private door.”
“Oh, yes, please show me out,” cried Freda piteously, delighted at
the thought of seeing her rough friend, whom she hoped to persuade
to take her on to the Abbey.
“I will do so, ma’am,” answered Blewitt, who by this promise forced
her to listen to him. “And if you could say a good word to the Captain
for me that would induce him for to take a hard-working man into his
service, why, I could tell him a many little tales about the goings on in
this house which would astonish him, and just show him how he
misplaced his confidence in some people I could name.”
“How can you think my father could listen to such things!” Freda
broke out indignantly.
“Well, ma’am, gentlemen’s ways is not always straight ways, when
they wants pertic’ler to know things,” said Blewitt, drily though
respectfully. “But the Captain’s a ’asty and ’aughty sort of gentleman
as you don’t always quite know where to have him! and when he
gets this letter, which threatens to do for him if he don’t give up all
dealings with Josiah Kemm immediate, why he’ll be in such a taking
that he’ll be more likely to do for me than to listen to anything what I
can say.”
“Why do you take the letter then?”
The fact was that Mr. Blewitt did not wish to be off with the old love
until he was quite sure of being on with the new. He put this to
Freda, however, in a nobler light.
“You see, ma’am,” said he, “so long as I take Mr. ’Eritage’s wages,
I must carry out his horders.”
“Yes, of course, of course,” said Freda, with almost a shriek of
delight as Blewitt opened a little side-door and she found herself out
of the house, standing in the snow under the grey old outer wall.
She found Barnabas just driving off from one of a group of
cottages at the bottom of the lane. At her cry he stopped, waiting for
her to come up.
“Barnabas!” she cried, quivering with anxiety, “won’t you drive me
over to the Abbey? Oh, do, do! You will, won’t you?”
The farmer scratched his ear.
“Happen one o’ t’ young gentlemen ’ll droive ye over.”
“Oh no,” said Freda quickly. “I wouldn’t go back there for anything
in the world!”
The farmer grinned, nodded, helped Freda into his cart, and
started off at a much better pace than they had made with Josiah
Kemm’s old mare the night before.
“Weel, lassie,” he said, as they jogged along, “ye’ve made a better
conquest nor any scapegrace of a Heritage. That theer swell that
was so kind to ye at t’ ‘Barley Mow,’ he’s gone clear creazed about
ye. When Ah left ye at t’ farm last neght, Ah fahnd him on t’ road,
mahnding for to get to Presterby. Ah towd him he couldn’t the neght,
an’ Ah tuck him back; an’ t’ missus, when she’d satisfied herself he
warn’t a woman in disguise, was moighty civil. An’ he said sooch
things abaht yer having a sweet little feace, an’ he said he should
call at t’ Abbey to see ye.”
“Barnabas,” said Freda suddenly, “why did you look so mysterious
last night when I told you that he had something to do with the
government?”
The farmer gave her an alarmed glance, as he had done the night
before, and said in a cautious tone:
“Ye’ve gotten a pair of sharp ears, an’ they hear more’n there’s ony
need. Ye didn’t reeghtly unnerstand, lass.”
After this there came a long pause, during which Freda puzzled
herself as to what the inhabitants of this district had been doing, to
have such a fear of the government. It was getting dark when
Barnabas broke the long silence by saying, as he pointed with his
whip to the summit of a hill they were about to ascend:
“T’ Abbey’s oop top o’ theer.”
Freda was too much agitated to answer except by a long-drawn
breath. The Abbey! Her father’s home! A terrible presentiment,
natural enough after the scant experience she had had of his care,
told her that there was no welcome waiting. She crouched down in
the cart and clung to the farmer’s arm.
“Barnabas,” she whispered, “I’m afraid to go on. Drive slowly; oh,
do drive slowly!”
But the robust farmer only laughed and jogged on at the same
pace. The road, however, grew in a few minutes so steep that they
could only proceed very slowly, and Barnabas got down to lead the
horse and lighten his burden as he ploughed his way up. Traffic
between the little town of Presterby and its neighbours had been so
much hindered by the blockade of snow, that there were no wheel-
marks on the white mass before them.
“Soomun’s been riding oop a horseback, though,” said Barnabas,
as he looked at the print of hoofs.
“Perhaps the man Blewitt from the farm,” suggested Freda. “He
said he was going to ride to the Abbey.”
 “Oh, ay,” said the farmer with interest. “If he was cooming, noa
doubt it’s him. Hey,” he went on, in a different tone, “Ah think Ah hear
his voice oop top theer! He’s fell aht wi’ soomun by t’ sounds, Ah
fancy.”
He stopped the cart a moment to listen. Plainly both Freda and he
could hear the voices of men in angry discussion, the one coarse
and loud, the other lower and less distinguishable.
“My father!” cried Freda, trembling.
“A’ reeght, lass, a’ reeght; doan’t ye be afraid. We’ll be oop wi ’em
in a breace o’ sheakes.”
“Barnabas! Make haste, make haste! They’re quarrelling, fighting
perhaps!” cried the girl in passionate excitement.
“Weel, Ah’ll go and see,” answered the farmer who, knowing more
than his little companion did of the reckless and violent character of
the disputants, was in truth as much excited as she was.
“He’s carrying a letter which he said would enrage my father!”
cried Freda in a tremulous voice to Barnabas, who was already
some paces ahead, running up the hill as fast as he could.
The road lay between stone walls of fair height, and was full of
curves and windings; so that it would have been impossible, even in
broad daylight, for the farmer to see the two men until he was close
upon them. He was not yet out of Freda’s sight when a sharp report,
followed by a second, and then by a hoarse cry, broke upon their
ears. There was silence for a moment, and then the sound of
galloping hoofs upon the snow. A riderless horse, bearing a man’s
saddle, came down the hill, with nostrils dilated and frightened eyes.
Barnabas, who considered a horse as rather more a fellow-creature
than a man, set to work to stop the animal before making his way to
the human beings. This accomplished, he tied the horse to the gate
of a field a few yards higher up, and quickening his pace again,
reached the top of the hill.
Here, in the middle of the road, were two figures, the one prone on
the ground, the other kneeling in the snow beside him.
The kneeling man started and rose to his feet as Barnabas came
up. He held in his left hand an open letter, and in his right a revolver,
which, without resistance, he allowed the farmer to take.
“Captain Mulgrave!”
 The Captain only nodded. Barnabas went down in the snow
beside the second figure. He was on his face, but Barnabas knew,
even before he attempted to raise him, that it was Blewitt, the
servant from Oldcastle Farm.
He was dead.
 CHAPTER V.
The unfortunate Blewitt had never, in his lifetime, excited the liking or
respect of any one. Selfish and mean, he had been tolerated
because he was useful to his employers, who mistrusted him, and
feared and avoided by the rest of his neighbours. But these facts, so
it seemed to Barnabas Ugthorpe, heightened the tragedy of the man-
servant’s death. The honest farmer could not have expressed his
thought in words, he but felt that the poor wretch whose body lay at
his feet had somehow lost his chance forever.
As Barnabas stood there, considering the sight before him,
Captain Mulgrave, who had not uttered a word, turned quickly, and
was about to climb over the stone wall to the right, on his way back
to the Abbey, when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
“Not quite so fast, Capt’n,” said Barnabas drily, “Ah want yer
opinion o’ this metter.”
“My opinion is,” said Captain Mulgrave, shortly, “that this is the
most d—d mysterious thing I ever saw. And I’ve seen a few queer
things in my life too.”
“Aye,” said Barnabas, “it’s a bad job this.”
He continued to stare at the dead man, and never once raised his
eyes to the face of his living companion.
“Well,” said the Captain, after a long silence, “you don’t ask me to
tell you how I found him?”
“Noa, sir, Ah doan’t,” said Barnabas drily.
“Well, why not?”
“Weel,” said the farmer, scratching his ear, “Ah doan’t knaw as Ah
should knaw so mooch more’n Ah did afore.”
“You wouldn’t take my word then?”
“Ah doan’t know as, oonder t’ circumstances, Ah’d tek t’ word o’
any gentleman.”
“You think I had a hand in this man’s death?”
Barnabas paused a long time, still looking at the body, still
scratching his ear.
 “Aye, sir, it dew look like it,” he admitted at last.
“Well, at first sight it, dew,” mimicked Captain Mulgrave in a lighter
tone than the farmer thought becoming. “But I tell you it’s all d—d
nonsense, I was coming down here to see what state the roads were
in, and I heard men’s voices, and then two shots. I was half-way
across that field. I ran, got over the wall, and found the fellow lying
like this, with the revolver in his hand. I took it up, and found that two
chambers had been discharged. I looked up and down the lane, but I
couldn’t see any one.”
“Noa,” said Barnabas with a movement of the head, “Ah should
suppose not.”
He bent down over the body again, examining it.
“He’s shot in t’ back. Did it hissen, most loike.”
“Now what reason have you for supposing I shot him?”
“Weel, sir, asking yer pardon, but to begin with, ye’ve gotten t’
name o’ being free wi’ them things.” And he raised the revolver,
which he still held in his hand. “Then, sir, Ah happen to knaw as he
came to bring ye a letter as were not loike to put ye into a good
humour.”
He glanced at the letter which Captain Mulgrave held.
“I don’t know how you came to hear about this letter, but you’re
quite right as far as that is concerned. Only the man did not give it
me; I found it on his dead body.”
“Ye found it moighty quick then, Capt’n. That’s not t’ weay moast
on us cooms nigh a dead mon, to begin rummaging in ’s pockets
before he’s cawld.”
“As to that, I guessed he’d come on an errand to me and had
some message about him. And why should I have more respect for
the fellow dead than I had for him alive? His carcase has no more
value in my eyes than that of a carrion crow.”
“It’ll have a deal more, though, in t’ eyes of a jury, Capt’n.”
“Do you mean to try to hang me then, honest Barnabas?”
“Ah mean to tell what Ah seen, an’ leave it to joodge an’ jury to
seay what they thinks on it.”
“And knowing me for such a desperate character you dare to tell
me this to my face?”
“Happen Ah shouldn’t be so bold, but Ah gotten t’ revolver mysen.”
 And Barnabas glanced at the weapon in his hand.
Captain Mulgrave laughed a little, and both men stood silent
considering.
“I can’t think who can have had such a grudge against the poor
devil as to shoot him,” he said at last, as if to himself. “It must have
been some one on foot, for there are no hoof-marks about but those
of the horse he was riding.”
Barnabas said nothing. With one steady look at Captain Mulgrave
as if to tell him that he hadn’t done with him yet, the farmer examined
the footprints in the snow round about. There were marks neither of
wheels nor of hoofs further than this point, but there were footprints
both of men and children, for this was the high road between
Presterby and Eastborough, the next important town southwards
along the coast.
“Aye,” said the farmer, when he had finished his inspection, “it mun
ha’ been some one afoot, Capt’n, as you say.”
Captain Mulgrave had been considering the aspect of the affair,
and he looked more serious when Barnabas uttered these words.
“Barnabas,” he said at last, “I begin to see that these devils, with
their confirmed prejudice against me, may make this a serious
business.”
“Aye, so Ah’m thinking too.”
“Give a dog a bad name, you know. Because I shot down four
rascals in self-defence, I’m considered capable of depopulating the
county in cold blood.”
“Aye, that be so. Leastweays we knaw ye doan’t hawd human loife
seacred.”
“Well, and that’s true enough,—I don’t. There are men whom I
should consider it justifiable to exterminate like vermin.”
“Weel, sir, we moast on us thinks that in our seacret hearts, only
we moightn’t knaw wheer to stop if we let ourselves begin. But when
we foind a mon wi’ t’ courage o’ these opinions, we have to put a
stop to his little games pretty quick. It’s not that Ah bear ye any ill-
will, Capt’n, quoite t’ contrary: ye have t’ sympathy of all t’ coontry-
soide, as ye knaw. But we must draw t’ loine soomwheer, an’ Ah
draw it at murder.”
“You won’t take my word?”
 “Can’t, Capt’n.”
“Will you take my money?”
“Noa, sir.”
“What are you going to do then? Go down into the town and set
the police after me?”
Barnabas looked for a few moments puzzled and distressed. He
would have given this high-handed gentleman into custody without a
moment’s hesitation if it had not been for his little daughter, now on
her way to her unknown home all unconscious of the tragedy which
darkened it. On the other hand, he shrank from giving her into the
care of a man whose hands were reeking with the guilt of a most
cowardly murder. After pondering the matter, an idea struck him, and
he raised his head with a clear countenance.
“Ah’ll haud my toongue aboot this business, if so be ye’re ready to
mak’ a bargain.”
“Name your price then.”
“My price is that ye’ll give us yer room in these parts instead of yer
coompany. Ye’ve gotten a yacht, Capt’n, an’ a rich mon’s weays o’
gettin’ aboot an’ makhin’ yerself comfortable. So Ah’m not droiving a
hard bargain. But ye mun be aht of t’ Abbey by to-morrow, an’ all ye
gotten to do is to mak’ soom provision for your little darter.”
Captain Mulgrave was more startled by the three last words than
by all the rest of the farmer’s speech.
“My little daughter!” he repeated in a scoffing tone. “Yes, I’d
forgotten her. But what do you know about her, eh?”
“Ah was bringing her oop t’ Abbey,” answered Barnabas, jerking
his head and his thumb in the direction of the cart, which, however,
was not in sight.
Captain Mulgrave frowned.
“D——d nuisance!” he muttered to himself.
“Eh, but Ah think Ah’ll tak’ her aweay again till ye’re gone, Capt’n,”
said Barnabas drily. “T’ owd stoans will give her a better welcome
home than ye seem loike to.”
“No, you may as well take her up now. I shall not see her. You
don’t want to keep the girl out all day in the cold. I’ll just get across to
the house now and tell Mrs. Bean to make a fire for her. By the time
the cart comes round to the front I—I——” He hesitated, and
Barnabas saw that, under his devil-may-care manner, Captain
Mulgrave was agitated. “By that time,” continued he, recovering
himself, “it will be all ready for her, and—she’ll see nothing of me—I
shall go away—to-night—I shall be glad to. I’m sick of this pestilential
country, where one can only breathe by virtue of a special act of
parliament. Sha’n’t see you again, Barnabas.” He moved away, and
just as he put his hand on the stone wall to vault over, he turned his
head to say, “Thanks for your kindness to the little one.”
Then he disappeared from the farmer’s sight hastily, as he heard
the cart groaning and squeaking up the hill.
Freda had got tired of waiting for Barnabas, and after much
vigorous shaking of the reins, which he had put into her hands, she
had succeeded in starting the horse again.
“Barnabas!” she cried, as soon as she caught sight, in the gloom,
of the farmer’s figure, “is that you?”
“Aye, lassie,” said he, placing himself between the cart and the
dead body on the ground.
“Didn’t I hear you talking?”
“Aye, happen ye did.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Eh, lass?” said he, pretending not to hear her, so that he might
gain time for reflection.
“Who—were—you—talking to?” she asked slowly but querulously,
for she was cold and tired, and full of misgivings.
“Eh, but Ah was talking to a mon as were passing.”
“Passing? He didn’t pass me.”
“Noa, lass, Ah didn’t seay as he did. Ye’re mighty sharp.”
“It’s because I don’t understand you. There’s something different
about your manners. Something’s happened, I believe!”
“Eh, lassie, why, what’s coom over ye?”
“What’s that on the ground?”
She almost shrieked this, guessing something.
“Ye’ve gotten too sharp eyes, lassie. Ye’d better not ask
questions.”
“Barnabas, Oh!—Barnabas, it’s not—not—my father!” whispered
the poor child, clinging, over the side of the cart, to the rough hands
the farmer held out to her.
 “Noa, lass, noa.”
“Who is it? Tell me, quick.”
“Why, lass, it’s a poor mon as—as has been hurt.”
“He’s dead. He wouldn’t be there, so still, like that, if he was not—
dead,” she whispered. “Who is it? Tell me, Barnabas.”
“Weel, Ah have a noetion—that he’s soommet loike servant
Blewitt, oop to Owdcastle Farm.”
“Oh, Barnabas, it’s dreadful! Is he really dead?”
But she wanted no answer. She put her hands before her face,
reproaching herself for having disliked the man, almost feeling that
she had had a share in his tragic death.
“Who did it?” she asked at last, very suddenly.
Now Barnabas meant most strongly that the girl should not have
the least suspicion that her father had a hand in this affair. The
farmer’s soft heart had been touched as soon as Captain Mulgrave
betrayed, by a momentary breaking of the voice, that he was not so
utterly indifferent to his daughter as he wished to appear. Upon that
reassuring sign of human feeling, Barnabas instantly resolved to
hold his tongue for ever as to what he had seen. But unluckily, his
powers of imagination and dissimulation were not great. Feminine
wits saw through him, as they had done many a time before. While
he was slowly preparing an elaborate answer, Freda had jumped at
once to the very conclusion he wished her to avoid.
“Who did it?” she repeated in tones so suddenly tremulous and
passionate that they betrayed her thought even to the somewhat
slow-witted Yorkshireman.
“Lord have mercy on t’ lass!” cried he below his breath. “But Ah
believe she knows.”
“Do you mean to say,” she went on in a low, monotonous voice,
“that you saw my father—kill him?”
Her voice dropped on the last words so that Barnabas could only
guess them.
“Noa, lass, noa,” said he quickly, “Ah didn’t see him do it.”
“Then he didn’t do it!” cried she, with a sudden change to a high
key, and in tones of triumphant conviction. “You can tell me all about
it now, for I’m quite satisfied.”