Produced by Don Lainson and Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. WHERE NO FEAR WAS A BOOK ABOUT FEAR By ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON 1914 CONTENTS I. THE SHADOW II. SHAPES OF FEAR III. THE DARKEST DOUBT IV. VULNERABILITY V. THE USE OF FEAR VI. FEARS OF CHILDHOOD VII. FEARS OF BOYHOOD VIII. FEARS OF YOUTH IX. FEARS OF MIDDLE AGE X. FEARS OF AGE XI. DR. JOHNSON XII. TENNYSON, RUSKIN, CARLYLE XIII. CHARLOTTE BRONTE XIV. JOHN STERLING XV. INSTINCTIVE FEAR XVI. FEAR OF LIFE XVII. SIMPLICITY XVIII. AFFECTION XIX. SIN XX. SERENITY "Thus they went on till they came to about the middle of the Valley, and then Christiana said, 'Methinks I see something yonder on the road before us, a thing of such a shape such as I have not seen.' Then said Joseph, 'Mother, what is it?' 'An ugly thing, Child, an ugly thing,' said she. 'But, Mother, what is it like?' said he. ''Tis like I cannot tell what,' said she. And now it was but a little way off. Then said she, 'It is nigh.'" "Pilgrim's Progress," Part II. Where No Fear Was I THE SHADOW There surely may come a time for each of us, if we have lived with any animation or interest, if we have had any constant or even fitful desire to penetrate and grasp the significance of the strange adventure of life, a time, I say, when we may look back a little, not sentimentally or with any hope of making out an impressive case for ourselves, and interrogate the memory as to what have been the most real, vivid, and intense things that have befallen us by the way. We may try to separate the momentous from the trivial, and the important from the unimportant; to discern where and how and when we might have acted differently; to see and to say what has really mattered, what has made a deep mark on our spirit; what has hampered or wounded or maimed us. Because one of the strangest things about life seems to be our incapacity to decide beforehand, or even at the time, where the real and fruitful joys, and where the dark dangers and distresses lie. The things that at certain times filled all one's mind, kindled hope and aim, seemed so infinitely desirable, so necessary to happiness, have faded, many of them, into the lightest and most worthless of husks and phantoms, like the withered flowers that we find sometimes shut in the pages of our old books, and cannot even remember of what glowing and emotional moment they were the record!