All's for the Best — Background and Themes

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In Category - Science Fiction Utopias

Authors: Arthur, T. S. (Timothy Shay), 1809-1885 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2003 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Christian fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 38,240

Reading time 167 min

Text sections 5

For All's for the Best — Background and Themes, the stored edition analysis reports 38,240 words, 2 hr 47 min estimated reading time, and 5 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 14.5 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Christian fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #4589

T. S. Arthur's 1869 novel uses dialogue-driven scenes to explore faith, doubt, and social responsibility. Through characters like the skeptical Mr. Fanshaw and the seamstress Mary Carson, the author examines internal conviction versus external circumstance, with a focus on the moral implications of everyday choices.

Editorial Edition Score 4.6/5

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Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

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Edition quality

File: pg4589

Read the Text

There was no response to this in Mr. Fanshaw's face.

"We can see with the mind, as well as with the eyes."

"An architect sees the building, in all its fine proportions, with the eyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his bodily eyes."

"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins," said Mr. Fanshaw, his countenance brightening a little.

"In part," was replied. "That he can see the building in his mind, establishes the fact of internal sight."

"Admitted; and what then?"

"Admitted, and we pass into a new world--the world of spirit."

Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and closed his lips tightly.

"I don't believe in spirits," he answered.

"You believe in your own spirit."

"I don't know that I have any spirit."

"You think and feel in a region distinct from the body," said Mr. Wilkins.

"I can't say as to that."

"You can think of justice, of equity, of liberty?"

"As abstract rights; as things essential, and out of the region of simple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul."

"Very well. For argument's sake, let all this be granted. I don't wish to cavil. I am in no mood for that. And now, as to the ground of your faith in God."

"Convictions," answered Mr. Wilkins, "are real things to a man. Impressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are like images on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. The first are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; the latter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily experience and careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith in God;--it is an inwrought conviction. First I had the child's sweet faith transfused into my soul with a mother's love, and unshadowed by a single doubt. Then, on growing older, as I read the Bible, which I believe to be God's word, I saw that its precepts were divine, and so the child's faith was succeeded by rational sight. Afterwards, as I floated off into the world, and met with storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with baffling winds and adverse currents; with perils and disappointments, faith wavered sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and threatening, my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the storm passed, and the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed, with a freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost. I have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from being engulfed, things that I had held to be very precious--thrown them over, weeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took their place--goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my loss, would not have been ventured.

"Always am I seeing the hand of Providence--always proving the divine announcement, 'The very hairs of your head are numbered.' Is there not ground for faith here? If the word of God stand in agreement with reason and experience, shall I not have faith? If my convictions are clear, to disbelieve is impossible."

"We started differently," replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully. "That sweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was never mine."

"The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason and experience," said Mr. Wilkins.

"With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope in the future. All before me is dark."

"Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read your experiences correctly. If you were to do this, light would fall upon your way. You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith in anything. You spoke without due reflection."

"No; I meant just what I said. Is there stability in anything? In what can I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing. My house may be in ruins--burnt to the ground, at daylight. The friend to whom I loaned my money to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in my need. The bank in which I hold stock may break--the ship in which I have an adventure, go down at sea. But why enumerate? I am sure of nothing."

"Not even of the love of your child?"

A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughter twelve years old.

"Dear Alice!" he murmured, in a softer voice. "Yes, I am sure of that. There is no room for doubt. She loves me."

Continue Reading →

T. S. Arthur opens All's for the Best with a philosophical dispute between Mr. Fanshaw, who declares he has "no faith in anything," and Mr. Wilkins, who argues for an "inwrought conviction" born of experience. The dialogue is the novel's primary engine: Arthur stages abstract debates about faith, spirit, and moral duty through characters who embody opposing positions. Later, the seamstress Mary Carson describes her work conditions with a quiet, uncomplaining voice, revealing a social critique embedded in the same conversational structure. Arthur's prose is direct and homiletic, favoring reasoned exchange over dramatic action.

Dialogue as a Vehicle for Doctrine

Arthur builds his argument through extended conversations that feel more like Socratic exchanges than natural speech. In the opening chapter, Mr. Wilkins counters Mr. Fanshaw's skepticism by distinguishing "impressions" from "convictions"—the former fleeting, the latter "slowly wrought in the loom of life." The metaphor is typical of Arthur's method: he uses plain, concrete language to translate theological concepts into accessible terms. The dialogue rarely breaks into monologue; instead, each speaker responds point by point, as if Arthur is modeling how a Christian might reason with a doubter. This technique gives the novel a deliberative, almost courtroom-like rhythm, where every assertion is met with a counterargument.

The Seamstress's Quiet Testimony

In a later section, the seamstress Mary Carson describes her work to Mrs. Wykoff. Her account is a catalogue of small indignities: meals taken at irregular hours, cold food eaten alone, rooms with "little less than poison" air. Arthur lets Mary speak in her own uncomplaining voice—"These differences must always occur"—while Mrs. Wykoff draws the moral conclusion: "There is something wrong here." The scene is notable for its restraint. Arthur does not sensationalize Mary's suffering; he presents it as a series of factual observations about the working conditions of a sewing-girl. The effect is to make the reader feel the weight of systemic neglect through accumulation rather than melodrama.

Recurring Patterns of Adaptation

Mary Carson articulates a rule that governs her life: "My rule is, to adapt myself, as best I can, to the family order, and so not disturb anything by my presence." This principle of silent accommodation recurs throughout the excerpts. Mr. Fanshaw, too, has adapted to disappointment by abandoning faith. Arthur seems interested in how people respond to circumstances beyond their control—whether by withdrawing, enduring, or seeking change. The novel's title, All's for the Best, is thus placed under pressure: the phrase could be a pious acceptance or a hollow consolation. Arthur does not resolve this tension in the excerpts, but he repeatedly stages situations that test the idea.

The Weight of Unspoken Rules

Mrs. Wykoff's growing awareness of Mary's plight illustrates Arthur's interest in the gap between intention and outcome. She admits that "people are indifferent and thoughtless; or worse, too selfish to have any regard for others—especially if they stand, socially, on a plane below them." Yet she also acknowledges that Mary's own reserve—her "natural reserve" or "sensitiveness"—contributes to the problem. Arthur thus complicates the moral landscape: the seamstress's virtue of adaptability becomes a liability. The novel's ethical questions are not simply about right action but about the structures that make certain actions invisible. The dialogue form allows Arthur to explore these nuances without resorting to authorial sermonizing.

Readers attentive to Arthur's craft will notice how he uses the friction between what characters say and what they leave unsaid. The seamstress's quiet compliance and the doubter's blunt denial are both presented as incomplete responses to the world's demands. The novel rewards a careful reading of its conversational rhythms, where the weight of an argument often lies in the pauses and qualifications between speeches.

Reading about Mary Carson’s quiet faith reminded me of my grandmother’s own sewing basket, and how she’d hum hymns through hard winters. Another book once stirred that same hush in me—the way What's Mine's Mine — Volume 1 — Story, Setting & Ideas ponders land and belonging, asking whether our safety ever truly rests in what we hold, or only in what we're willing to release.